The sea had not yet forgiven them.
It heaved and growled beneath the Duskwind like a wounded beast, its waves crashing violently against the reinforced hull. Rain lashed across the deck in needle-thin sheets, and the wind howled with the fury of betrayed gods. The air crackled with the scent of lightning and salt. Thunder echoed like war drums across the open sea, and lightning veined the skies with silver scars.
Mara stood firm at the wheel, her coat soaked through, her eyes narrowed against the stinging gusts. Every sinew in her arms strained to keep the ship aligned against the storm's wrath. She wasn't steering through a tempest—she was wrestling it, commanding the sea to obey. Around her, crew members shouted over the cacophony, scrambling to secure sails, lash cargo, and tend to the wounded who moaned softly beneath canvas covers.
"She's holding!" Abyr shouted from the gunwale, his voice barely audible over the gale. "But the port rudder's half-split. We'll need to run repairs at first light!"
"We'll make for the Teeth of Oshen," Mara called back. "The cove there's deep and hidden. We can patch her up and regroup."
Lightning struck nearby, a white blaze searing the sky, followed by a thunderclap so loud it silenced even the storm for a breath. The crew worked without complaint, their faces grim but determined. They had bled for this moment, and they would not let the sea—or Mallik—take it from them now. The storm wasn't just weather. It was a test.
Below deck, Darion tended to the wounded while Lirien stabilized the injured Driftborn scout they'd recovered from the Iron Tide wreck. His name was Serik, and though he bled from a deep gash in his side, his eyes gleamed with fevered urgency, like a man who had glimpsed something terrible and knew he had only moments to speak of it.
"They're building something," he rasped, gripping Darion's wrist with surprising strength. "A dreadfort. Floating. Mobile. Not just a ship—an armory. An altar. A place of blood."
Darion frowned. "Where?"
Serik gasped for air. "West of the Cursed Shoals. Near the Maw of Sorrow. They call it the Bleeding Citadel."
Lirien's gaze snapped to Darion. "If that's true... it changes everything."
Ash and Saltwater
The Duskwind limped into the cove at the Teeth of Oshen by dawn. The cliffs shielded them from the wind, and the seas calmed just enough to begin repairs. The crew moved like revenants, sleep-deprived and bone-weary, but still driven by the fire that burned in Mara's wake. Driftborn carpenters secured the cracked rudder, while scavengers worked with nets and ropes to harvest storm-swept timber.
Mara stood on a cliff overlooking the shipyard being carved from coral and wreckage. She let the storm's aftermath settle into her bones. Her mother once said the sea speaks clearest after it screams.
She could hear it now: whispers of broken things beneath the surface, promises and oaths long drowned.
Lirien climbed the rocks to join her. "Serik's recovering. He's lucid. And his story checks out."
"The Bleeding Citadel," Mara muttered. "Mallik doesn't just want to rule. He wants to rewrite the laws of the sea. He's building a throne of blood."
"A mobile fortress... he could strike anywhere. No safe ports, no warning. No time to prepare."
"Then we'll bring it down before it's finished," Mara said, eyes hardening. "But we'll need more than luck and courage."
"We'll need the Crimson Accord," Lirien said.
Mara looked at her sharply. "That alliance died with my mother."
"Then revive it. If ever there was a Graveblood cause worth raising the Accord for, it's this."
The Crimson Accord
The Crimson Accord was a pact between pirates, exiles, Driftborn houses, and outlaw mages—a fleeting alliance forged during the last great rebellion two decades prior. When Maria died, the Accord splintered, its leaders retreating into isolation, fear, or bitterness. But now, its memory stirred in whispers across the scattered ports, like embers waiting to be kindled.
Darion and Abyr scouted ahead to reach the island of Karesh Hollow, where two surviving Accord signatories—Captain Yona of the Bladed Mirth and Sorcerer Red Veil—still ruled small but potent fleets.
They returned with both promising and damning news.
"Yona's fleet is still intact," Abyr reported. "But she won't fight unless she sees a reason—something big."
"Red Veil's been... changed," Darion said. "He's consorting with Abyssborn now. He's touched by something beneath the waves. Twisted."
Mara nodded slowly. "Then we show them a storm worth joining."
A Pact in Blood
Three days later, Mara stood in the ruined chapel of Karesh Hollow, its sea-glass windows fractured by time and war. Moss grew between shattered pews, and barnacles clung to the cracked altar. Yona stood across from her, golden coat flashing with pirate medals, one hand on her saber.
"I thought your bloodline was spent," Yona said.
"It's rekindled," Mara replied.
Yona smiled, but it did not reach her eyes. "And why should I risk my fleet for ghosts and salt rites?"
Mara stepped forward. "Because you remember what Mallik did when he rose. What he did to your sister. You remember the chains. The silence. The fear."
Yona flinched.
"I offer you not just revenge, but rebirth," Mara said. "Help me destroy the Citadel. And we'll rewrite the tide together."
Yona extended her hand. "Crimson Accord reborn. One last time."
Their hands clasped. Blood was drawn. The oath sealed.
Salt. Blood. Steel.
Veil of Madness
Red Veil greeted them amid coral altars and chanting followers, his eyes sunken, his fingers marked with abyssal glyphs. Driftborn with glassy eyes knelt in worship around him. The cavern reeked of kelp, incense, and something darker—something foul.
"You walk with your mother's shadow," he whispered. "But you cast a darker one. A storm that drowns legacies."
"You once fought tyranny," Mara said. "Mallik is that tyranny. Worse. He wears power like armor, and he feeds it blood."
"The sea is changing," Red Veil crooned. "New gods stir. I answer to deeper thrones now."
Darion stepped forward. "Then die with your gods. Or rise with the living."
A long silence passed.
Finally, Red Veil laughed. "Very well, child of storms. I will lend you my flames. But when the sea calls, you must answer."
Mara nodded. "Let the tide come. We'll meet it with fire."
The Horizon Burns
With the Accord reforged, their coalition swelled. Smugglers. Sky-reef gliders. Exiles with rusted spears and sharp eyes. The Duskwind became the fleet's heart, pulsing with purpose. They moved from port to port like a living tempest, gathering survivors and kindling rebellion. Rumors spread. Songs were sung. The tide, it seemed, was turning.
Mara stood before them all—pirates and priests, warriors and wanderers—with the wind whipping her cloak and the salt burning her lips.
"The Bleeding Citadel rises. But so do we. Not as broken banners, but as one storm. Let them feel our oaths in every crashing wave. Let the sea remember."
The fleet roared.
The storm was no longer just in the sky.
It was in them.