The crowd pressed tighter along the shoreline, their faces wan and hollow in the dying blaze of the sunset. The orange light cut across the bay like a wound, painting the sea in fire. From the mast of the merchant ship, Pamela hung like a broken banner. Her cries, raw and ragged, tore through the salt-laden wind, a child's voice unraveling against the vast indifference of the ocean.
Lara stood rigid, fists trembling—not with fear, but with fury so sharp it scorched her veins.
"She is bait," Alaric murmured, his hand brushing the pommel of his sword, voice taut as a drawn bowstring. "They want us to come for her."
Lara's jaw hardened. Her eyes burned. "Then we'll give them what they want," she said. "And rip it from their hands."
They withdrew behind the curve of a fisherman's hut, beneath the rows of palms. There, in the shadows, Lara's family and comrades gathered close: Alaric, her father, her brothers, and their allies. and planned their attack.
