her maiden voyage, and most of the city’s residents had turned out to catch a glimpse of the girl who’d slain Einar Valdyr and claimed his throne.
All manner of colorful rumor had taken root in the six turns she’d locked herself away in the Hall of Scoundrels, and prowling about Amai’s taverna at night, Eclipse had heard a dozen different tales about how Mia had killed the pirate king. She’d used dark magiks, they said. She’d challenged him to single combat and torn his heart from his ribs with her bare hands. Ripped out his throat with her teeth during a grand feast and eaten his liver raw.* In Mia’s favorite version of the tale, she’d seduced Valdyr and cut off his manhood—which she now apparently wore around her neck for good luck.
Mia had avoided all the fanfare, however, slipping aboard the Banshee beneath her cloak of shadows. Eyeing off the captains and crew of other ships who’d turned out to her farewell, she’d counted at least twenty who’d have cheerfully clipped their own grandmothers’ throats to take a poke at her. It seemed a far more sensible option to simply appear on the deck to the whispered awe of the crowd, tricorn pulled low over her eyes, standing at the prow and looking grim as they set out to sea.
Nevernight was falling on their second turn of sailing, the two remaining suns slipping farther toward their truedark rest. Saan was close to completing its descent entirely, its red glow setting the horizon ablaze. Saii still burned above them—scarlet and azure light collided in the heavens, burning through to pale violet, breathtaking and beautiful. Mia could feel truedark clawing closer. Black light burning in her chest and in the boy standing beside her.
Tric stood his vigil, always within arm’s reach. Standing guard outside her cabin door while she slept. Watching her back in the moments it was turned. Even after their quarrel, he was never more than a word away. But the truth was, they’d shared precious few words since they’d almost …
… almost.
Mia didn’t know how to fix it. Didn’t know what to say to make it right. In her darker moments, it infuriated her to no end that she even had to. She had her own problems to deal with, high enough to touch the fucking sky. But in her softer breaths, she could feel the sorrow in him, burning like that dark flame within, and she couldn’t help but feel it, too. She knew how unfair this all was. How deeply he felt for her.
What she didn’t know was what he’d do, now he knew she’d never be his.
Love often rusted into hate when watered with scorn.
Can I truly trust him anymore?
Can I trust him near Ashlinn?
“There’s no sign of storm clouds,” Sigursson reported, once more scanning the horizon. “Smooth sailing from here to Ashkah, I’d stake my ship on it.”
“It’s not your ship yet, Ulfr,” Mia said. “And I’m assuring you, she’s in for strife. Make sure Iacopo and Reddog have their eyes peeled when they’re up top. Tell Justus to keep those galley fires unlit. Cold meals only until we make shore. The Ladies are coming for us, make no mistake. And they’re bringing the Abyss with them.”
The Vaanian looked his captain up and down, a soft scowl on his handsome brow. “If I might ask, my queen, what exactly did you do to irk them so?”
“THAT’S NOT YOUR CONCERN,” Tric growled. “GETTING US TO LAST HOPE IS.”
“Don’t be telling me my concerns, boy,” Sigursson said.
“DON’T BE CALLING ME BOY, MORTAL,” Tric replied.
Sigursson looked Tric in his eyes. His mouth pressed thin. His shoulders square. The Vaanian was the first mate of one of the most vicious bands to sail the Four Seas—a pack of murderers and brutes who spread terror wherever they went. Now she knew them a little better, Mia could sense what a pack of ruthless bastards Valdyr had crewed his ship with. The kindest among them had probably still raped his way across all Four Seas. The worst of them likely tortured and killed children for sport.
But though the Banshee and her crew seemed birthed from the Abyss itself, Tric had actually been there. The Dweymeri boy was taller than the Vaanian man, pale and hard, one hand forever at the hilt of his gravebone blade. Eyes reflecting the Night he’d seen firsthand. As they squared up, Tric didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch.
If Sigursson had hoped to intimidate him, he ended up