No sails needed.
We hit the wreckage with a shudder. Burning timbers shattered against the bow, bodies twisting in the surf.
A flash of blonde hair surfaced—brief, unmistakable.
“Kallias!” I gasped, leaning over the edge, scanning the burning mess. Smoke curled off scorched beams and shattered hulls. Blood spread in ribbons across the water. “A Draconis!”
A pale body bobbed amid the carnage, blonde hair stark against torn limbs and tangled strands of black. My stomach churned as we sped past, leaving the corpse adrift in reddened waves.
“Can your people summon lightning?” Kallias didn’t flinch. His tone was all steel—calculated, detached. A king assessing damage.
“That’s why the dragons aren’t attacking,” I whispered. Rage pressed tight against my ribs. “We won’t burn our own, even if they’re the ones calling the storm.”
“What’s stopping the Draconis on board from turning on the raiders?” He didn’t waste words. Just followed the logic.
“There’s too much variation.” I tightened my voice, layering it in fury. “Some Vessels barely hold enough magic to light a lantern—others don’t know how to sail or swim to shore without getting harpooned.”
A lump of pale flesh bobbed in the wake. Bone jutted through both ends.
My people.
Galdoni would pay. With his life.
On our ship, the Vessel faltered. His color had drained to ash. I caught him as he collapsed, arms limp, head slumping against my shoulder. His fingers twitched, pouring everything into the spell that carried us home.
“Thank you,” I murmured, brushing sweat-soaked hair from his brow.
Kallias shifted beside me as the ship slowed, his mantle chains clinking with the motion. He stood angled between enemy sails and the dock ahead, unreadable.
The Vessel sagged fully against me.
“Your Majesty, he’s spent,” another sailor said, easing the young man from my grasp.
I pressed a hand to the Vessel’s chest. “When he wakes, bring him to me—or to Queen Nyxaria.”
The man nodded, grunting under the weight as he carried him below deck.
Behind us, the red sails held their distance. They flanked the harbor mouth, watching, waiting—but not attacking.
“Negotiating?” Kallias muttered.
“Father would never.” I spat the words, hiding the tremor beneath them. I couldn’t see Argos. No sign of Father. Only dark clouds, broken sky. Doubt he made it home at all, gnawed at me.
“Your mother would.”
As we approached the dock, four guards waited in full silver plate. The sight jarred me. Draconis summoning the guard? At port? Absurd.
The ship docked in silence. No voices. No commands. Even the water felt still.
Greaves stumbled behind us, boots slapping wet boards. He looked ready to vomit. Hopefully, he’d keep his feet for what came next.
Afigure sprinted from the shadowed city—black leathers flapping, goggles shoved onto his brow. Ronan’s face was carved from stone.
“The dragons are grounded. The island’s surrounded,” he barked. “Mother’s handling talks. That bastard Galdoni has our people—using them as shields.”
“Innaku doesn’t have enough Vessels for every ship,” I snapped, keeping pace as we hurried through the city. “We never gave them that many.”
“No, but he’s hiding them. We don’t know which ships they’re trapped on. It’s chaos without Father.”
