Alaric stifled a yawn. He was leaning heavily on Magerie’s railing, his gaze locked onto the spot where Mysteeri was making her final, begrudging descent into the abyss. As the tip of the bow, the last visible fragment of the once formidable vessel, succumbed to the icy waves, the water around where the ship had gone down churned and frothed with a violence that spoke of the ocean’s unforgiving nature. But just as quickly as the turmoil had erupted, a serene calm soon spread across the surface, as if the ocean were smoothing things away.
“The Well of Tears,” he said to himself. Alaric now knew why the cove had gotten its name, for it was filled with the tears of the lost. He pondered the fates of countless other galleys, each with their own stories of valor and tragedy, now lying upon the ocean floor. Storms, battles, unforeseen calamities—so many had met their demise, maybe not here, but somewhere else, swallowed whole by a realm that was as beautiful as it was merciless.
The ocean jealously guarded the graves of those ships, a guardian over the lost and the damned. Alaric stood there, a witness to the sea’s latest claim, contemplating the fleeting nature of glory, mortality, and the eternal grip of the ocean’s dark depths.
Gazing upward, he observed the sun asserting its dominance in the sky, perched almost directly overhead in a clear declaration of midday. Its radiance was unyielding, casting a blanket of warmth over the day that had begun with a promise of heat. The sea beneath mirrored this brilliance, its surface a mosaic of dazzling reflections, each wave capturing and throwing back the sunlight in brilliant, fleeting flashes.
Despite the beauty of the day, Alaric was acutely aware of the weight of exhaustion that hung over him, an unwelcome cloak that seemed to draw tighter with each passing moment. The previous night had offered little rest, with only an hour’s sleep—hardly enough to fend off the tiredness that now gnawed at him.
Though weary to the bone and exhausted from the fight, Alaric and his men, along with Bramwell’s, had worked tirelessly. They had descended upon Mysteeri like a swarm of hungry ants, determined to salvage any item of value from the wreckage. Weapons, supplies, lengths of cordage, longboats, live animals, chests, and the strongboxes from Fina’s quarters, even trinkets and jewelry from the dead that might fetch a price—nothing was overlooked in their thorough scouring of the warship.
Locked fast by the imposing rams of Bramwell’s vessels and buoyed by the structural support of the two larger galleys, Mysteeri stubbornly refused to succumb to the waiting deep and had remained afloat long enough to complete the job. Once both ships had pulled away, she’d begun to sink, and rapidly at that.
Bramwell’s third galley missed the fight. By the time her captain and crew navigated into position for a ram, the outcome was all but decided, particularly sealed by the demise of the warship’s captain. Bramwell had waved her off.
Faced with the grim reality of their defeat and the loss of their leader, the majority of the enemy had opted against surrender—a decision that might have offered them a sliver of hope for survival, as slaves, which wasn’t really an option. They chose instead to abandon ship. One by one, the survivors cast themselves into the sea’s uncertain mercy, swimming desperately toward the distant promise of shore and whatever fate awaited them there along this barren and remote stretch of coastline.
The echoes of the fight still lingered on, manifesting through the agonized screams that permeated the lower decks of Bramwell’s ships. On Magerie, Bramwell’s doctor and Father Ava worked tirelessly, tending to one injured man after another, treating the wounds they could. Alaric had learned that each scream, while the two men worked, marked not just pain, but a chance—an opportunity—for survival.
He had gone to see the wounded and found the experience quite depressing. Below decks where both men, Ava and the doctor, worked to save lives, the air was thick with the metallic scent of blood. It overpowered everything else. The number of injured was nearly overwhelming, requiring as many as twenty assistants to tend to them. Cuts, arrow wounds, burns, broken bones, blunt trauma, and deeper, unseen wounds—they were dealing with it all.
The unmistakable sound of footsteps against the wooden deck pulled Alaric from his grim contemplations, and his gaze shifted from the blue of the sea to the figure approaching him. It was Grayson, his features etched with fatigue, the toll of the day’s events evident in the weary slump of his shoulders and the shadows under his eyes. In the unspoken language of battle-worn comrades, Alaric immediately read the purpose of Grayson’s visit in the man’s gaze, before a word was exchanged.
“Did you manage any sleep?” Alaric asked, seeking a brief reprieve for the conversation ahead. He was not ready for that yet.
“I stole maybe two hours. You?”
“Just a short nap deck-side,” Alaric admitted.
“Then, might I suggest you get some?” Grayson jerked his head toward the aft of the ship where their cabin waited.
“I will,” Alaric said, “as soon as we are done with our business here—what you have come to discuss.”
“Good, the cabin is yours, then.” Grayson looked up at the sky. “It is warm enough that I might lie down in the sun for a while myself.” The older man sucked in a deep breath and slowly let it out. “Ever since I was a boy, I’ve always enjoyed napping in the sun, out in the open.”
“Maybe that’s why you ultimately became a soldier,” Alaric suggested.
“That was my father’s doing,” Grayson said. “And your grandfather’s too, now that I think about it. He encouraged and even saw me promoted to a lieutenant in one of his companies. Your father was the one who raised me up to captain before sending me off with you to the holy land.”
Talk of Alaric’s father made him straighten and step back from the railing. Alaric loved his father, but at the same time, had always had a difficult relationship with the man. He never seemed to measure up to the old man’s ideals and expectations. It was one of the reasons why Alaric figured he had been sent away. He grew grave and decided it was time to confront the inevitable. “So, what’s the butcher’s bill?”
“We lost ten men. One was knocked overboard and could not swim,” Grayson began. “The rest were the result of a mix of arrow and sword wounds. Another fifteen were injured, to varying degrees. Two more will not live through the night. One man will be disabled for life and will not walk again—that is, if he survives the amputation. Father Ava gives him a fifty-fifty chance.”
Grayson’s words hit Alaric with the force of a physical blow, a visceral reminder of the price paid in flesh and blood for the decisions he made. He let go an unhappy breath. Twelve more men who would never see Dekar again, their dreams and hopes lost. The injustice of it lay heavy on his heart, a cruel fate for those who had been mere weeks away from the safety and familiarity of home.
This loss, this grievous toll, stirred a deep turmoil within Alaric. It was a burden he knew all too well, one that leadership demanded he bear, yet it did little to ease the personal anguish and guilt that came with the cost of command and ordering his men into battle. The knowledge that these men, these individuals under his care, had paid the ultimate price or faced a future marred by the scars of war, was a weight that, over years, had settled deep in his soul. It was a haunting reality that would linger in his thoughts, robbing him of sleep and peace as he wrestled with the inevitable questions of what might have been done differently, of whether the victory was worth the price paid.
“I will have a detailed accounting for you later today, fully listing and detailing our casualties. Tomorrow, after I am rested, I will adjust the company books to properly reflect our losses.” Grayson paused. “It never gets any easier.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Alaric said, his voice almost a whisper. “Perhaps, when we get home, the company can be discharged, the men allowed to retire and live out their lives in peace.”
“That would be nice,” Grayson said. “I could stand some peace, to see my wife and daughters again. Long has it been since I received news of them. My oldest, Tara, had her first baby last year. I like babies… so innocent…”
Alaric gave a nod. He’d heard Grayson talk about this before, many times. Whenever he brought the subject up, Alaric made a point to listen. Ever since his oldest daughter had married the miller and had a baby, Grayson had been itching to return home. But duty compelled him to remain at Alaric’s side. And Alaric’s duty to the Cardinal King had kept him chained to Hawkani.
“You will see your family again,” Alaric assured the older man.
“This voyage cannot come to its conclusion soon enough,” Grayson said, gazing almost forlornly at the shoreline. A group of perhaps twenty men was huddled there on the beach. All were the enemy, sailors who abandoned the fight and made the long swim to shore. Bramwell did not seem terribly concerned by them. The truth was that everyone was too tired and spent to do much of anything.
“I will see the men get the land they were promised,” Alaric said, deciding to move the conversation along, “and some funds to set up a farm, maybe even a regular pension for their long and dedicated service.”
“Instruction would be helpful too,” Grayson suggested. “These are soldiers we are talking about. Most likely don’t know how to farm or, if they ever did, forgot how.”
Alaric gave a nod. “That’s something to consider.”
They both fell into silence for several heartbeats, each lost to their own thoughts. Alaric’s gaze returned to the enemy clustered ashore. There had been as many as a hundred an hour ago. He supposed a good number of those had wandered off. Where to, he had no idea.
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“Bramwell did much worse than we did,” Grayson said. “The butcher’s bill for his people was far steeper.”
“They did go into the attack first, and we both know that’s not the best place to be if you wish to keep your casualties down.” A yawn overcame Alaric. “How bad was it for them?”
“Between the two ships, he lost seventy-five men,” Grayson said. “Another hundred injured. I am not sure how many of those will survive their wounds or be crippled for life.”
It was worse than Alaric had thought.
“Caxatarus took a shallow wound to his leg and should survive,” Grayson added. “Father Ava cleaned it with vinegar and sewed the wound up. He’s resting in his cabin—drank himself silly before the good father went to work with the needle and thread.”
Alaric gave a nod but did not speak. He’d known Caxatarus had been injured, seen the man fighting on, blood streaming down his leg. It was good the man would recover. He was a fighter and Alaric liked fighters.
“Bramwell asked if we could spare some men to help operate the ship. I already told him we would.”
“Good,” Alaric said, yawning powerfully. There were tears in his eyes from the exhaustion. “What of the woman, the lumina?”
“Is she really a holy magic user?” Grayson asked curiously. “Thorne said she was…”
“She dropped a man dead by just holding out her hand and speaking magic. Light flew from that hand. It was rather incredible.”
Grayson shook his head as if in disbelief. “I thought there weren’t any luminas left, that they were more legend than anything else.”
“It seems there are.”
“Bramwell gave her a cabin next to ours. She’s recovered and been allowed to bathe and clean up. I understand she is resting. I will make a point of checking in on her later.”
“All right. Is there anything else?”
“We rescued six nobles who were destined to be ransomed, along with thirty common folk who were headed for the blocks.”
“At least we did some good,” Alaric said in an attempt to find solace amid the aftermath of battle. As he surveyed the deck, his gaze captured the efforts to erase the physical reminders of their recent conflict. The sand, once strewn across the wooden planks to soak up the blood and prevent slipping during the fight, had already been swept away, cast into the ocean.
Yet the deck bore the tangible scars of battle. Dark stains, the remnants of bloodshed, marked the places where men had fought, bled, suffered, and died. There were also scorch marks from the enemy’s fire arrows.
Not far off, a solitary figure knelt on the deck, diligently working at one of the darker stains with a scrub brush and bucket. The methodical scrubbing was not just an act of cleaning; it was a ritual of healing, an attempt to return the ship to her former state, to wash away the reminders of suffering and loss. The sight of the man cleaning, the sound of the brush scraping against the wood, was a reminder of how life soldiered on.
“For a change,” Grayson said, “I suppose we ultimately saved more than we lost.”
“What do you mean?” Alaric asked.
“Mysteeri and Captain Fina will no longer be plaguing these waters,” Grayson said plainly, gesturing at the cove with a hand. “Bramwell said she’s taken dozens of ships this year alone. There’s no telling how many more she would have gotten given the chance.”
Alaric thought on that for several moments, then gave a nod. “That does make me feel a tad better.”
“Me as well,” Grayson admitted as Alaric stifled another yawn. “Now, why don’t you go get some sleep.”
“All right. I will grab a few hours’ rest,” Alaric said, the weight of their losses and the day’s toll weighing heavily upon his shoulders. He moved off, leaving Grayson and making his way aft. As he approached the bridge, the figure of Bramwell came into view. The captain offered him a weary nod, then turned away as another officer on the bridge called for his attention.
Then, Alaric was at the stairs. Descending into the ship’s interior, he was enveloped by the pungent fug that clung to the close quarters below deck—a mélange of sweat, salt, and the powerful iron tang of blood. The muffled screams of the wounded crawled through the wood, as the ship’s doctor and Ava worked farther forward. He quickly moved down two flights of stairs, the darkness intermittently pierced by the dim light of lanterns.
As silent and unobtrusive as usual, Ezran followed a few steps behind. At the bottom of the stairs, Jasper stood guard, posted outside Alaric’s cabin. Without a word, Jasper opened the door.
“Thank you,” Alaric said.
Once inside, the door closed with a soft, definitive thunk and click as the latch fell into place, sealing Alaric away from the world outside. This small sanctuary offered a brief respite. Here, in the solitude of his cabin, he could surrender, however briefly, to the exhaustion that clawed at his edges, allowing himself a few precious hours of rest.
Alaric and Grayson’s cabin was defined by its simplicity. The space was compact, dominated by a single hard bunk that stood unadorned, without the comfort—or risk—of a mattress. Their deliberate choice to forego such a basic amenity was the result of prior experience and the hard lessons learned on other ships. A mattress would likely have become ridden with lice and filled with other vermin, the kind that bit and made one itch.
After the battle, Alaric had taken time to wash and clean up. Michael had provided him fresh clothes, taking the soiled ones for cleaning. Each day, he took pains to bathe and wash himself so as not to become infested, which, shipboard, was a real possibility and concern. He had picked up this habit of regularly bathing in the holy land, where staying clean often meant the difference between remaining healthy or growing sick and diseased.
The cabin, though Spartan, was afforded a luxury few others on the ship enjoyed—a good-sized window. Located just under Bramwell’s cabin, this aperture to the world outside was left unlatched and open, a conduit for the fresh air that swept away the stifling closeness of the ship’s interior and much of the stink that came with it.
The breeze that whispered through the opening was a balm to the senses, carrying the briny scent of the ocean and the promise of a world beyond the wooden confines of the ship. Alaric’s cabin was one of the privileged few that boasted such a connection to the outside, allowing natural light to spill into the otherwise dim space.
In this moment of solitude, the absence of the oil lamp’s glow was notable. Its darkened state left the room bathed solely in the soft, diffused light filtering in through the window, casting shadows that danced with the gentle sway of the ship.
Alaric unbuckled Oathbreaker and propped the weapon up in the corner. The warmth of the room, amplified by the enclosed space and the heat of the day, prompted Alaric to shed his tunic, seeking some relief from the oppressive stuffiness that even the open window could not fully dispel. His boots followed. Yet just as he stood, ready to climb into his bunk and surrender to sleep, a knock at the door arrested his motion. It opened a moment later and Jasper stuck his head in.
“Someone to see you, my lord.”
Wondering what problem needed attending, Alaric let go a heavy breath, one filled with resignation. “Send him in.”
As Jasper respectfully made way, the door swung open to reveal Rikka entering the cabin with an air that seemed to command the very space around her. She was attired in the practical garb of a sailor. Her wool tunic and pants spoke more to utility than fashion, yet on her, they almost took on a character of their own. Her hair, brushed straight, framed her face in a simple, unadorned style. She was also barefoot.
Rikka looked meaningfully at Jasper, a silent command. It was enough to convey her wish for privacy, prompting Jasper to retreat back into the corridor and close the door behind him, as if commanded. Once alone with Alaric, Rikka faced him, her dark eyes locking onto his with an intensity that momentarily robbed him of speech.
Bruises marred her cheek and neck, evidence of the recent attack, but they did nothing to diminish her striking appearance or undeniable presence about her, a blend of strength and vulnerability.
For a moment, Alaric found himself caught in the whirlwind of her beauty, a beauty that defied her captivity and the hardship she’d endured. It was a reminder of the complex layers of human resilience, of the ability to emerge from adversity with a dignity that transcended physical and often emotional scars.
“How can I help you, my lady?” Alaric managed, his voice regaining steadiness only after he cleared his throat, an attempt to mask the sudden surge of emotions Rikka’s presence invoked. All sense of weariness and exhaustion had fled.
Rikka’s response was not immediate. Instead, she chose to close the distance between them, her steps measured and deliberate, shrinking the realm of personal space to a mere whisper. Her gaze, intense and probing, seemed to traverse the contours of his face, seeking, perhaps, an understanding deeper than words could afford. It was in this proximity, with her almost within arm’s reach, that Alaric felt an undeniable acceleration in his heartbeat.
She glanced down at his naked chest, her gaze lingering on an old scar along his right side. She then drew even closer, a bold encroachment that heightened Alaric’s senses to a keen edge. His pulse raced as if preparing for battle, yet this was a confrontation of an entirely different nature. She reached out and, with a finger, traced the scar. Her touch felt like fire against his skin. Looking up into his eyes, Rikka exuded an aura that was at once mesmerizing, disarming, and intoxicating. Her exotic appearance, coupled with the air of mystery that surrounded her, painted her as a figure not entirely of this world—a perception further reinforced by the whispers of holy magic that she wielded. This was a power Alaric found both intriguing and unfathomable, a force that transcended the martial prowess and strategy with which he was familiar. He also found it more than a little unsettling.
“As were you—I was drawn, led to this moment, to our meeting,” Rikka breathed, her voice slightly husky. “At first, I did not know why Eldanar wished me to voyage to the holy land. Now, I do.”
“What?” Alaric asked, not understanding.
“Are you a good man, Alaric of Dekar?”
Alaric was thoroughly confused by what was happening. “What?”
“I asked if you are a good man,” Rikka pressed, her voice hardening slightly. “This is important. Do not make me repeat myself again. So, are you?”
“I try to be,” Alaric admitted.
“And where are you going? Why are you on this ship?”
The question surprised him. “Right now, I am just trying to get my people home.”
“Home?”
“Dekar. I chartered Bramwell’s three ships to bring my people home.”
She gave a slow nod. “And that’s how Bramwell found Mysteeri and you rescued me—saved me from that animal, one of my captors?”
“Yes,” Alaric answered.
“Then it is as HE wills… destiny’s done.” She eyed him a moment more, then abruptly reached up, grabbed his face with both hands, and pulled him down to her. He found himself powerless to resist. She kissed him, pressing her soft lips firmly against his, her tongue exploring. The kiss was passionate, intense. It was a connection that went beyond the physical, a melding of souls that had traversed their own journeys to find this point of convergence. The ring on Alaric’s hand grew warm to the point of hotness, but he did not notice… not much.
After all that had happened in the last day, Alaric found himself responding with an unexpected hunger, wrapping his arms around this exotic and beautiful woman, and kissing her back. He felt her hard and erect nipples beneath her tunic press against his chest, and with it, a powerful stirring rose within him, his body responding.
She gently withdrew, pushing him back and away. With a tender yet determined grasp, she took his hand, directing his gaze toward the bunk with a look that conveyed volumes. Alaric, understanding the silent cue, swiftly gathered her into his arms as he had once before. The world around them seemed to blur into insignificance, their focus narrowing to the connection sparking between them.
As he carried Rikka, her eyes, deep and captivating, never strayed from his. Gently, he laid her down upon the bunk. She scooted over to make room. Climbing in beside her, he captured her lips in a kiss, profound and consuming. She responded with equal fervor, her arms winding around him in an impassioned embrace, pulling him closer, as if trying to merge their very souls.
In that moment, Alaric lost himself completely to the sensation, the emotion, and the overwhelming presence of her. The world outside their embrace ceased to exist, even the occasional muffled scream of a wounded man receiving treatment, leaving only the profound connection that thrummed through them with every heartbeat. It was a moment of unguarded vulnerability, of giving and receiving, a dance as old as time itself, yet as fresh and thrilling as if they were the first to discover its steps. Under the dim light, within the confines of that small bunk, they found an oasis of intimacy, a haven from the tumult of the world outside, where only the moment mattered, fierce and unyielding.