The storm had swallowed the night.

  Rain lashed down in sheets, hammering the Kelpie's deck until every plank bled water. The mast groaned under the strain of the wind, ropes screaming as sailors fought to hold her steady. Each time the ship crested a wave, Zyren found himself staring into the black void of the sea, so close he felt he might tumble into its maw. When the bow plunged again, his stomach dropped as if the ship were falling from the sky. He clung to the slick railing, knuckles white, salt and rain burning his eyes.

  The storm alone was enough to tear them apart. But still, impossibly, the human patrol ship drove after them—its silhouette cutting the waves with unnerving steadiness. It slid between lightning flashes like a predator that refused to yield, somehow maintaining pursuit through conditions that should have sent any reasonable captain running for shelter.

  “Here!” Hisoka’s voice cut through the storm. She was crouched at the rail, one of the pitch barrels braced against her hip. Rain plastered her red hair to her cheeks, but her movements were precise, methodical. She had already positioned the second barrel and was working quickly with rope and flint. “Listen—this is all we’ve got. One chance. If this fails, there’s nothing left.”

  Bruln hauled the rope taut, his huge shoulders straining against the rolling ship. “Tell me when!” he bellowed, understanding the plan immediately.

  The stench of pitch and sulphur filled the air, acrid even through the salt spray. Zyren’s stomach clenched—not just from the ship’s motion, but from memory. He remembered the Swift Breeze, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with humans as pirates swarmed them in chaos and blood. But this was worse—cold, deliberate. The Empire’s patrol moved with mechanical precision, closing the distance despite the storm.

  A deep creak split the air. Not the storm. Something else.

  “Down!” Thaln’s voice rang from the rigging.

  A massive bolt screamed through the dark. It punched into the deck near the quarterdeck with tremendous force, sending splinters flying like daggers. One carved across Zyren’s cheek, leaving a line of fire.

  “Ballista,” Urdan snarled. “They’re trying to sink us.”

  Another whistled past, smashing harmlessly into the sea. A third clanged against the Kelpie’s hull, embedding deep with a shudder that rattled Zyren’s bones.

  “Hold it steady!” Hisoka ordered, her hands quick as she prepared the ignition. The pitch-soaked rope glistened black in the lightning. “Zyren—I need you to shield this flame!”

  He obeyed, cupping his hands around the small brazier she produced. The wind tried to tear the flame away, but the covered design held. Against the shield of his palms, she lit the treated rope. Fire caught and began racing along its length, defying the downpour.

  “Now—both barrels!” she shouted.

  Bruln shoved hard, and both barrels vanished over the side, trailing the burning fuse behind them like a comet’s tail. The rope disappeared beneath the waves, but the fire continued—waterproofed with the same pitch compound, designed to burn even underwater.

  The patrol ship loomed closer, perhaps one hundred yards and closing. Through the rain, Zyren could make out figures scrambling along its deck, officers shouting orders that the storm swallowed.

  For a heartbeat, nothing. Then the sea erupted.

  The explosion tore through the night, sending sheets of flame skyward. The burning pitch spread across the water’s surface in a blazing barrier, climbing higher than seemed possible. Even in the driving rain, the fire held—fed by the sulphur compound, hot enough to resist the storm’s fury.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Zyren stared, chest heaving, as the wall of flame separated them from their pursuers.

  “That’s all I had,” Hisoka said, voice grim. “Pray it’s enough.”

  But even as she spoke, her expression darkened.

  Through the fire and smoke, the patrol ship’s bow emerged. Tongues of burning pitch clung to their hull, but they pressed forward with relentless determination.

  Another iron spear screamed through the air, this one aimed at the mast. It struck the rigging instead, severing lines that snapped back like whips. The mainsail sagged, partially disabled.

  “They’re not slowing down,” Zyren said, voice tight with dread.

  The Empire’s sailors worked frantically to douse the flames while maintaining pursuit—and they were succeeding.

  “Zyren!” Kaelith’s scream cut through the storm, raw and desperate. “Your bow! Now!”

  A ballista bolt smashed into the deck near her position. She vanished from sight in the spray and splinters.

  Zyren’s heart lurched, but the terror of losing her jolted him back into focus. He sprinted below deck, muscle memory guiding him through the familiar routine. Bow, quiver, steady breathing. When he returned to the stern, his hands were steadier than he expected. Fear remained, sharp and immediate, but underneath it burned something else—the cold anger of someone who had survived Imperial violence before.

  Across the heaving waters, he could see the ballista crew working to reload. The patrol ship had closed to perhaps eighty yards, near enough that individual faces were visible in the lightning flashes. Professional. Determined. Deadly.

  He notched an arrow, drew, and released. The deck pitched beneath him, the storm clawed at his aim. The arrow vanished into the dark, lost to the sea.

  Another miss.

  He loosed again. The shaft skittered harmlessly across the enemy’s wet deck.

  Zyren cursed, frustration building with each wasted shot.

  “Feel the rhythm,” a calm voice said beside him.

  Tasya. Her bow was already drawn, her stance unshaken despite the chaos. “Both ships move with the waves. There’s a pattern. Find it.”

  She loosed an arrow with fluid precision. It cut into a sail, cloth ripping loose.

  Zyren tried to follow her lead. One arrow struck rigging, another tore through the edge of a sail. Small victories—but the patrol kept closing.

  A new bolt hammered into the Kelpie’s flank, water spraying up through splintered wood. Below, someone shouted, “We’re taking on water!”

  “Patch what you can!” Urdan roared from the helm, blood already streaking his back where splinters had struck him. “All hands—keep her afloat!”

  The storm raged. Arrows hissed and vanished. Zyren’s frustration mounted until his breath came ragged. Then lightning split the night—just in time for him to see it.

  A bolt tore through the deck, striking Parvani. One moment, alive—laughing, shouting, as she always did during storms. The next, she was gone in a burst of splinters and blood, her body hurled lifeless across the rain-slick planks.

  "Parvani!" Hisoka screamed, throwing herself toward her fallen crewmate. Yrrig vaulted down beside her, hands shaking as he tried to lift what little was left. Urdan’s roar shook the storm itself, a guttural fury louder than thunder.

  Zyren dropped his bow. His knees struck the planks. A scream tore out of him, but no sound came—only a choked silence, his mouth open, his lungs burning, tears streaming hot down his face. The world blurred.

  "Hey!" Tasya’s voice split the storm like an axe. The Morozari held no sympathy, only survival. "Pick up that bow and keep firing!"

  The words slammed into him like a blow. His hands trembled as he snatched up the weapon, string slick with blood and rain. His breath tore ragged, but his eyes fixed on the enemy through a haze of salt and grief.

  Another arrow loosed, this one driven by fury. He stopped aiming for sails. Stopped caring about patterns. His shots struck at sailors—missed some, hit others. One fell back screaming, his cry swallowed by the storm.

  His stomach twisted, a sick weight in his chest. But he didn’t stop. Arrow after arrow, fuelled by rage and grief, until his quiver was nearly bare.

  Beside him, Tasya shot with surgical calm, cutting down crewmen who dared approach the ballista. “Now they know we bite back,” she said, not looking at him.

  The patrol ship was still closing, though its deck was scattered chaos. Sailors dove for cover, others faltered under the rain of arrows. Their weapon crew scrambled but slower now, hesitant.

  Zyren checked—only a handful of arrows remained.

  “Make them count,” Tasya said, as though reading his thoughts.

  The storm howled around them. The Kelpie bled water. The patrol ship bore down for the kill. Zyren drew again, aimed through the rain and lightning, and loosed another arrow into the storm.

  Thank you for reading this chapter!

  Leaves a comment or follow to support this work!