Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
My eyes pop open, and I take in the small puddle of red blossoming on the ground, reflecting the bold, yellow lantern light—
The vision of my brother’s wide-open stare hacks at me, and a whimper bubbles up my raw throat.
I have to get out.
I pull my hairpin free from my hair, loosening my mane in a drop of matted tangles as I delve the long, sharp piece of metal into the lock, close my eyes, and rest my ear against the door.
Dig ... Flick ... Twist ...
There’s a dull clunk, and I release a breath, pulling my ear from the wood now stamped in blood. With another low curse, I pocket my pin and yank the door wide, stumbling down the stuffy hall lit by a single lantern.
Despite the still, silent sea, my steps are slow and unsteady. I’m forced to use a closed door as a crutch to catch my breath, taking another swipe at the drip from my chin.
A few more paces, and my brain bloats so much I slam my hand against the wall and suck a sharp breath through my teeth, folding forward, eyes squeezed shut ...
I just have to get to the nest before I pass out.
The squeaking sound of a door opening echoes around me, and I look up to see a bleary-eyed sailor shove his head out from one of the dorms—hair mussed and chest bare.
He takes me in, eyes widening as he mutters a curse. “Someone fetch the Captain!”
I groan, kick myself forward again, and amble past, throwing him a side-eye.
Snitch.
By the time I’m hobbling across the upper deck, I’m sweating through my shirt, each humid breath more punishment than reprieve, reeling me toward the inky promise of unconsciousness.
Head resting against the cool grain of the aftermast, I struggle to gather the strength to move again.
Visions of Baze flash on the underside of my lids—of the way he’d punish me whenever I got tired and lazy at the end of a sparring session and failed to protect my vulnerabilities.
Of course he’d haunt me now.
Snarling, I set my foot on the ladder, grip hold of the rung with my bandaged hand, and heave myself up. A fractured cry rips free, but I stamp my lips together and snip it off.
Always shield your weakness.
Bolts of pain ravage me as I battle the rungs, teeth gritted, stare stabbed through the velvet night. My bad arm is useless, so I keep it tucked close to my abdomen, using my chin as a hook whenever I need to alternate my grip.
I’m halfway up when heavy footsteps assault the deck, but I don’t look down when the Captain bellows for me to stop.
I just have to make it to the nest.
The scuff of boots ascending the ladder trails me as another wave of pressure strikes.
My mouth pops open in a silent scream.
I quicken my pace, bruising the underside of my chin while hot tears dash down my cheeks. But I keep going. Keep pushing. Refuse to look down or up, knowing that if I do, my composure will shatter.
I stretch past the snapped rung, rasping a warning between gasping heaves, “Broken ... rung.Don’t ... fall.”
“Orlaith,stop.”
