Dawn broke in smoldering hues over Skullshore, painting the jagged coast in rust-red light. Mist slithered over the waves like a living thing, and seabirds circled overhead, their shrill cries echoing against the cliffs. The ocean breathed its slow, eternal rhythm—vast and cruel.
Darion Vane stood at the cliff's edge just outside the village, shirt damp with morning dew, boots slick with moss. He stared out at the horizon as if he could will a ship to rise from the sea. His jaw tightened.
Still nothing.
Three days had passed since the wreck. His body still ached, but he'd healed enough to stand, walk, and think. And that was dangerous—thinking. It led to remembering.
The iron taste of betrayal still lingered on his tongue.
His fists clenched.
He wasn't ready to talk about it yet. Not to Seraphina. Not to anyone. But the memories never stayed buried.
"You're up early," came Seraphina's voice behind him.
Darion didn't turn.
"Couldn't sleep. Too quiet."
She walked up beside him, arms crossed, her coat flapping slightly in the breeze. "You call this quiet? The jungle's been groaning like it's about to vomit a monster."
He managed a small smile. "I've learned to appreciate small mercies."
She glanced at him sideways. "You always talk like a poet?"
"Only when I'm not dodging bullets."
He caught the flicker of amusement on her lips before it disappeared. Progress, maybe.
They stood in silence for a moment, watching a trio of long-necked seabirds dive into the water and vanish.
"I checked the beach again," she said eventually. "More wreckage came in with the tide. You might find something useful."
Darion nodded. "Supplies?"
"Some crates. Rope. A broken crossbow. A corpse."
He raised an eyebrow.
"Missing its head," she added. "Probably better that way. Smelled like it'd been stewing in the sea for weeks."
Darion grimaced. "Lovely."
"You want to come, or stay here and sulk?"
"I'm not sulking."
"You've got the look of a kicked dog with a grudge."
He turned to her with a dry expression. "I'm building character."
Seraphina smirked, then turned toward the path down to the beach. "Come on, hero. Time to scavenge."
The descent to the beach was a twisting path flanked by thick jungle and slick stone. Vines draped down like grasping fingers, and colorful lizards skittered across their boots. The humidity was stifling, even in the early hours, and the air buzzed with the sound of distant insects.
Darion kept his eyes moving.
He didn't trust this island. Every rustle felt like a threat.
As they stepped onto the sands, he paused. The wreckage had shifted since yesterday. The skeletal remains of his prison barge—once a proud ironclad named The Righteous Spear—was now reduced to splinters and twisted iron, scattered like bones. Its insignia, a cracked brass compass rose, was half-buried in the sand.
"Gods," Darion muttered. "I hated that ship, but this…"
Seraphina crouched by a torn sail and cut it into strips. "She's not your prison anymore."
"No," he said quietly. "She's a tomb."
He spotted a dark shape further up the beach—half-buried in the tide line.
Moving closer, he knelt and began to dig.
It was a chest, iron-banded and waterlogged. It took both of them to pry it open. Inside were the remains of a soaked officer's coat, some shattered rum bottles, and—tucked beneath—a leather-bound journal.
Darion pulled it out, flipping through the pages.
"Anything good?" Seraphina asked.
"It belonged to a lieutenant. Notes. Maps. Roster logs…" His eyes narrowed. "Look here."
He pointed at an entry scrawled in a shaky hand:
"Captain Kael has ordered the transfer of Artifact X-47B to Blackreach. Claims it's safer than keeping it on Skullshore. Says it 'whispers.' I don't like it. The damn thing glows sometimes. Gives me nightmares."
Seraphina frowned. "Blackreach?"
"A fortress prison," Darion said grimly. "Hidden somewhere out past the Isles of Mourning. No one gets out."
"Why would they take an artifact there?"
"Because they were afraid of it," he said. "And I was getting too close to figuring out why."
He tucked the journal into his coat.
"Wait," Seraphina said, eyes narrowed. "What kind of artifact are we talking about?"
Before he could answer, a sharp whistle split the air.
They both ducked instinctively as a crossbow bolt thunked into the sand inches from Darion's foot.
"Ambush!" Seraphina hissed.
From the dunes, four figures emerged—scavenger raiders. Gaunt men with rotting teeth and rusted cutlasses, faces smeared with tar, eyes burning with greed. One wore a necklace of ears.
"Leave the chest," the leader barked. "And the woman."
Seraphina's pistol was in her hand before he finished the sentence.
"Come take me, piss-breath."
Darion drew the curved knife she'd let him keep. It felt small, but he wasn't new to fighting dirty.
The raiders charged.
Darion dodged the first wild swing, stepped in, and slammed his elbow into the man's throat. The scavenger dropped with a gurgle.
Seraphina fired once—boom—and a second raider spun backward, blood spraying from his shoulder. She didn't hesitate, drawing her saber and slashing low, cutting into the leg of another who howled in pain.
Darion ducked a blade, rolled across the sand, and came up inside the guard of the biggest one—necklace guy. They grappled, crashing into the surf. Darion stabbed once, twice into his ribs, but the bastard wouldn't fall.
With a roar, the man punched him square in the face, sending him sprawling.
Vision blurred.
He barely saw Seraphina leap in, her saber flashing. She carved a deep X into the raider's back. He staggered, tried to turn—Darion buried his knife in the man's throat.
Silence.
Waves lapped around their boots. Blood darkened the tide.
Seraphina bent over, breathing hard, sweat glistening on her forehead.
Darion wiped his blade on a dead man's sleeve. "So… not locals, I take it?"
"Scavs," she spat. "Desperate island trash. They comb wrecks, kill anything that moves."
She nudged one corpse with her boot. "They don't come this close to the village normally. Something's stirring them up."
Darion looked around warily. "Maybe they were after this."
He pointed to something poking out of the chest beneath the waterlogged clothes—an orb-shaped object wrapped in tattered silk.
Seraphina lifted it gently.
The orb pulsed once—soft orange light radiating from veins that glowed like molten gold.
Both of them froze.
"…That's not normal," Darion said.
"No," she whispered. "It's not."
She turned it over, revealing strange etchings—runic script like nothing either had seen before.
"It's warm," she murmured. "Almost… breathing."
Darion suddenly felt a pulling sensation in his gut. Not fear—something deeper. A hum in his bones, like a song half-remembered.
Then he saw something in the jungle. A shape—tall, twisted, too fast to catch clearly—slipping between the trees.
He grabbed Seraphina's arm.
"We need to go. Now."
She didn't argue.
They returned to the village as the sun rose higher, casting long shadows across the beach behind them. The orb was wrapped tightly and hidden in Seraphina's satchel. Neither of them spoke much.
Back in the safety of her hut, they finally sat down.
Darion broke the silence.
"That artifact… it's tied to all this. I don't know how yet, but it is."
Seraphina sat across from him, fingers drumming the wood table.
"You think the navy was smuggling it? Experimenting with it?"
"I think they were scared of it. And they were hiding it somewhere no one would find it."
Seraphina's eyes darkened. "Except it found its way back."
Darion nodded slowly.
They shared a look—uneasy, reluctant alliance forming between them.
She poured two glasses of rum from a dusty bottle.
"Here," she said, pushing one toward him. "You'll need this."
He took it. "To survival?"
She lifted hers. "To vengeance. And maybe some damn answers."
They drank.
And outside, unseen in the jungle, glowing eyes watched the hut from the shadows.