Zyren's heart hammered against his ribs like a caged animal trying to break free.

  He pressed himself deeper between the crates, his trembling hands clutching his head in a pointless attempt to hold his thoughts together, to keep his mind from racing into the abyss that yawned before him. How had he gotten himself trapped inside an enemy ship? Caught and caged by the humans—even if they didn't know about him yet. His breath came quick and shallow, yet he felt like he was drowning, like the air itself had turned to water in his lungs. Each gasp seemed too loud, echoing in the darkness, surely loud enough for the crew above to hear.

  This was his end. He was certain of it.

  From the moment he'd dropped into the hull, his life had entered a limbo—a suspended moment before the inevitable. He was simply waiting for the instant they discovered him, for the shout that would bring guards running, for the moment he would draw his final breath. And with it, the moment the dark elves would finally cease to exist.

  The ship's gentle sway was growing stronger. The wooden crates and barrels around him began to creak and groan, their voices joining the chorus of the hull's complaints. The cargo had been sitting here for hours, filling the space with the reek of salted fish and something sulfurous—like rotten eggs left to fester in the sun. Zyren's stomach began to turn, and he couldn't tell if it was the smells, the increasing motion, or the stress coursing through his body like poison.

  He forced himself to stand, needing to assess his surroundings, to understand the cage he'd locked himself into. The moment he rose, the deck tilted sharply beneath him. He stumbled, catching himself against a barrel, then lurched sideways as the ship rolled the other direction. They were entering deeper waters. The waves were pushing the ship around now, no longer the gentle harbor swells but something with teeth, something that wanted to shake him loose and send him crashing into the cargo.

  The need to vomit was becoming unbearable.

  Voices drifted down from above—muffled but distinct. Footsteps, heavy and purposeful, moving across the deck overhead. Some of the crew were coming below, heading to their quarters. The sound of boots on the ladder sent ice through Zyren's veins.

  He couldn't stay here. But he couldn't go up. There was nowhere to go.

  It was too dark to see more than a few steps ahead. His urgency grew with each passing second, his stomach clenching, bile rising in his throat. He couldn't be sick here, not in the open where they might find evidence of an intruder. And he couldn't go upstairs. As quietly as possible, he started moving through the cargo hold, almost running, one hand clamped over his mouth, the other reaching out blindly to guide himself between the stacked crates.

  That's when he stumbled.

  His boot caught on something—a rope, a board, he couldn't tell—and he fell forward, his hands shooting out to catch himself. His palm struck something metal. A handle. It banged against a wooden door with a sound like a hammer striking an anvil.

  The noise echoed through the hold, impossibly loud.

  Zyren froze, every muscle locked, his eyes fixed on the ceiling above. He tried to hear past the rushing in his ears, past his own ragged breathing. The voices continued. The footsteps kept moving—closer now, then farther. They would come. They had to have heard that. There was no way they hadn't heard it.

  There was no time to waste.

  His fingers found the handle again, pulled. The hatch opened with a groan of protesting hinges. Without thinking, driven by pure animal panic, Zyren threw himself through the opening and pulled the door shut behind him as quickly and quietly as his shaking hands would allow.

  The stench hit him like a physical blow.

  Stale water. Rot. The accumulated filth of a ship's bilge—the lowest point where everything foul collected and festered. The smell was so thick he could taste it, coating his tongue and throat. It was too much. His stomach, already churning from the ship's motion and his terror, finally rebelled.

  He barely had time to turn before he was retching, his body convulsing, emptying itself into the dark water that came up to his knees. The sound seemed deafening in the confined space. When the spasms finally stopped, he stood there gasping, tears streaming down his face, his own vomit floating around his legs in the stagnant water.

  The water was cold enough to ache, but not cold enough to numb. He could feel everything—the slime coating the walls, the way his boots squelched with each shift of weight, the chunks of something unidentifiable brushing against his calves.

  Now he was here. Standing in filth. In darkness so complete he couldn't see his own hands. Waiting for the footsteps above to stop directly overhead, for the hatch to open, for the crew to discover him.

  Seconds ago, he'd thought it couldn't get worse.

  Yet it had.

  All of this for some intelligence. Intelligence he didn't even know was worth anything. Suddenly he couldn't remember what notes he'd taken, what he'd drawn. The star chart—had he copied it accurately? The strange script from the book—had he gotten enough of it? Would Tasya and Hisoka even understand what he'd sent them?

  That's if they'd even gotten it.

  He'd been sure—absolutely certain—that he'd thrown the dagger in the right direction.

  Now he couldn't even picture it. The warehouse had been... left? Right? Behind the dock?

  The throw had felt strong. Hadn't it? Or had the papers made it too heavy?

  It had to have reached land. Unless the wind caught it. Had there been wind? He couldn't remember wind. But there was always wind at the harbor. Always.

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  The dagger was in the water. He knew it suddenly, with sick certainty. Sunk. Gone. Everything he'd risked, everything he'd copied—at the bottom of Bruma's harbor, ink bleeding into salt water, words dissolving into nothing.

  Or maybe Tasya had it. Maybe she'd caught it, read it, understood. Maybe they were already planning the next move.

  Or maybe they'd left. Assumed he was dead. Sailed away without him.

  He didn't know. Couldn't know. And the not-knowing was worse than any answer.

  His breathing started to speed up again, each gasp shorter and more desperate than the last. His hands were shaking so violently he had to press them against the slimy wall to keep them still. Sweat dripped from his forehead, colder than the foul water he stood in, mixing with the tears that ran down his obsidian cheeks in hot streams.

  He wanted to scream. Needed to scream. But he couldn't make a sound. His throat was locked, his jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached.

  He couldn't even hear the crew anymore. The voices had stopped. The footsteps had faded.

  Was that good? Or was it the silence before they burst through the hatch above him?

  Nothing.

  Just the creak of the ship's timbers. The slosh of water against the hull. His own ragged breathing.

  They would come. It was impossible for them not to know he was here. The noise he'd made—the bang of the metal handle, the sound of him being sick. They had to have heard. They were probably gathering right now, arming themselves, preparing to drag him out of this hole and—

  And what? Kill him? Torture him? Throw him overboard? Take him back to Regismere to face whatever justice the Empire dispensed to spies and infiltrators?

  He remembered the Gnari at Regismere—the way the guards had simply taken him, efficient and emotionless, as if he were cargo. The creature's roar of defiance cut short, his weapon confiscated, his massive body dragged away while the other guards watched with casual indifference.

  No. He wouldn't go down without a fight.

  His hand moved to his belt, fingers closing around the familiar grip of his remaining dagger. The hard feeling of steel, the perfect balance of the blade that had fought beside him in Thornhold—it grounded him. Pulled him back from the edge of complete panic.

  This dagger had tasted Surnai blood. It had been in his hand when he'd faced Bruln.

  He'd survived that encounter. He'd survived the Burned Forest, the Craglings, the pirate attack on the Swift Breeze.

  He wouldn't die here. Not in the bilge of a human ship, standing in his own filth like a cornered rat.

  If they came for him, the humans would have to bring their best. He would make them pay for every inch, would make them remember the dark elf who'd refused to die quietly.

  But still they didn't come.

  The ship kept moving, cutting through the waves, each swell sending him stumbling in the confined space. Up and down. Side to side. The water sloshed around his legs, soaking through his boots, the cold seeping into his bones. He'd been focused on the hatch above his head, every sense straining for the sound of approaching footsteps, but as time passed and nothing happened, his mind began to wander.

  His fingers had gone wrinkled and soft from the water. When he touched his face, he could smell the bilge on his own skin—the rot had seeped into him, become part of him.

  Bruln. How strange that they'd once been enemies. Now Zyren would give anything to have that massive, scarred form standing beside him in this darkness.

  Kaelith. Was she recovered? The fever had been so high, her arm so badly broken. Had Bruln kept his promise to watch over her?

  He couldn't think like that. She was alive. She had to be alive.

  And Rashid. The troubadour who'd smiled and charmed and ultimately abandoned him. Left him here to face this alone.

  The anger that thought sparked was almost welcome. It burned away some of the fear, gave him something to focus on besides the crushing weight of his situation. Rashid had known. Had to have known the ship was about to depart. Had probably planned it that way from the start—get the naive dark elf aboard, let him do the dangerous work of copying the intelligence, then slip away and leave him to whatever fate awaited.

  The questions circled in his mind like carrion birds, but they led nowhere. There were no answers here in the dark.

  The humans had been neutral to him once. The guards in Regismere had been frightening, but they hadn't done him personal wrong.

  Now, they were the enemy. The real enemy.

  Since he'd left Iskareth's cave in Thalpharos, since he'd read the truth in those ancient records, one thing had become crystalline in his mind: The humans were responsible. For the war that had destroyed his people. For the lies that had turned the forest elves against the dark elves. For the systematic erasure of an entire civilization.

  The Empire had orchestrated it all.

  And now he was trapped on one of their ships, sailing toward one of their cities, with nothing but a single dagger and his rage to sustain him.

  How long had he been down here? Minutes? Hours? Time had lost all meaning in the absolute darkness. His legs were going numb from the cold water. His throat was raw from the bile. His eyes ached from straining to see anything, anything at all in the blackness.

  But still no one came.

  For a moment—just a moment—Zyren let himself believe it. That he'd gotten away with it. That the noise hadn't been as loud as he'd thought. That he could hide here until they docked, then slip away in the chaos. That he might actually survive this.

  The ship lurched violently, a wave larger than the others slamming into the hull. Zyren was thrown against the wall, his shoulder striking the slimy wood with bruising force. He barely kept his feet, the water surging around his legs, threatening to knock him down into the filth.

  Maybe they hadn't heard him after all. Maybe the sounds of the ship—the creaking timbers, the rush of water, the snap of sails above—had masked the noise of his entry. Maybe he was safe here, at least for now.

  Or maybe they knew exactly where he was and were simply waiting. Letting him stew in his fear, letting the darkness and the cold and the stench break him down until he was too weak to fight when they finally came for him.

  He couldn't tell anymore where the ship's motion ended and his own dizziness began. The darkness, the cold, the stench—they were eating away at him, dissolving the edges of who he was.

  His grip tightened on the dagger. The blade was all he had left. The blade and his determination not to die quietly.

  "Strength is not brutality," Faelar had said, his green eyes stern but kind. "It is the discipline to control what could destroy."

  His father had taught him well. Had given him the skills to survive.

  He wouldn't let them down. Wouldn't let their sacrifice—taking him in, raising him, enduring the scorn of their own people—be for nothing.

  The ship's motion was becoming more regular now. They'd cleared the harbor, were in open water. The waves had a rhythm to them, a pattern he could almost predict. Up and down. Side to side. His stomach had settled somewhat, or perhaps he simply had nothing left to expel.

  He forced himself to breathe slowly, deeply, despite the stench. To calm his racing heart. To think.

  He was trapped, yes. But he was alive. And as long as he was alive, he could fight. Could survive. Could find a way out of this.

  The humans didn't know he was here. That was his advantage. His only advantage, but it was something. If he could stay hidden, could avoid detection until they reached port—wherever that port was—then maybe he could slip away in the chaos of docking.

  It was a thin hope. A desperate hope. But it was all he had.

  His fingers traced the edge of the dagger's blade in the darkness, feeling the keen edge, the perfect balance. This weapon had been crafted by a human blacksmith in Thornhold, had been given to him to replace the one he'd lost.

  Not all humans were the enemy, he reminded himself. The Empire was the enemy.

  But it didn't matter. He would kill them if he had to. Would do whatever was necessary to survive, to escape, to get back to the Iron Kelpie and the people who'd become his family.

  The darkness pressed in around him, absolute and suffocating. But Zyren stood in it, dagger in hand, and waited.

  He wouldn't go down without a fight.

  The humans would have to bring their best.

  And even then, they might not be enough.

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