"Three… two…"
The pistol's hammer hung in the air—balanced on the breath between life and death.
"One—"
"We're not sure we're in the right place," Darial Kline interrupted, steady but sharp.
His voice filled the heavy silence—calm, like he'd done this before. Like he knew exactly how to talk someone down from pulling the trigger.
"We were sent by Lyric Cairn."
The words hung in the air. A second stretched out—long, heavy. The gun didn't lower.
Erin didn't dare move, his pulse hammering in his ears. He felt the weight of the moment press against him, the chill of the barrel still lingering on his skin. His eyes flicked sideways, finally catching sight of the woman behind him.
The lantern light cast sharp shadows across her face—carved from flint, sharp-jawed, with a streak of ash-gray in her dark hair, tied tight at her nape. Her pale green eyes were hard, unblinking. But in that flicker of a moment, Erin caught something beneath the coldness.
Surprise.
It was gone as quickly as it came. Her grip didn't loosen. The pistol remained raised, steady as stone.
"Lyric sent you," she repeated, her tone flat. There was no disbelief, but neither was there trust. Just an edge—something unreadable beneath the surface.
Darial nodded. "We were told to find a safehouse in Driftmark. And we thought this was it."
A beat.
Then, finally, the pistol lowered. The woman exhaled through her nose, her stance shifting just enough to ease out of the immediate tension.
"If Lyric sent you…" A pause, as if she was considering her next words carefully. Then: "Then that means you're Darial Kline" She pointed at Kline.
Erin let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. The rest of the crew stayed on guard, but the danger—at least for now—had passed.
The woman's eyes narrowed slightly, then flicked to Erin. "You're Thalor, then?" she asked, her voice cool, unbothered.
Erin blinked, caught off guard by the question. "No," he replied quickly, his pulse still racing. "I'm Erin Salore."
"I'm Ivena Cairn, Lyric's sister" Her eyes betrayed a brief moment of surprise, but she quickly masked it, her grip tightening on the pistol. "Lyric never mentioned anything about a crew. I was expecting Kline and the one escorting him."
Cidrin, who had been silent until now, stepped forward, his eyes sharp. "Things got a little messy back in Slum City. But we're all here for the safehouse. To deliver Darial Kline."
The woman stepped back, and they followed her deeper into the safehouse.
But the unease in Erin's gut didn't fade.
Because something was still wrong.
The safehouse was silent.
Not the kind of silence that came with peace, but the kind that stretched too long, like an unanswered question hanging in the air.
Darial Kline sat stiffly on a crate near the center of the room, his fingers tapping idly against his knee. He had been patient at first—silent, waiting—but as the minutes turned to hours, that patience had begun to fray. His foot tapped against the floorboards now, a steady rhythm, restless.
Cidrin leaned against the wall, tinkering absentmindedly with a broken pocket-watch he'd found on the table. Ariya sat on the floor with Fenrick, their heads resting back against a crate, Ariya's eyes drifted shut every so often before snapping open again. Narza stood near the door, back pressed to the wall, daggers still strapped to her belt. She hadn't said a word since they got here, but the way she held herself—rigid, unreadable—made her presence feel like a blade half-drawn.
Erin couldn't rest.
He had tried, shifting against the crates, stretching his legs, folding his arms. But every time he closed his eyes, he just felt the weight of the safehouse pressing in. The waiting gnawed at him.
That was when he noticed the mark.
At first, it was just a scratch on the wooden beam near the entrance—nothing more than a faded engraving, worn by time. But when he squinted, shifting closer, the shape became clear. A curved line, intersected by jagged slashes, half-buried beneath layers of dust and old, peeling paint.
Something about it felt familiar.
"You recognize that?"
Erin glanced back. Ivena was leaning against a table, arms loosely crossed, watching him with a faint smirk. Her pistol was holstered now, but there was still a sharpness in her gaze.
"Not really," Erin admitted. He ran his fingers over the carving. "Just looks… old."
Ivena tilted her head slightly. "That's because it is." She nodded toward the mark. "It's a symbol tied to the Seven Saints."
Erin glanced back at it. "Saints?"
She gave a small shrug. "Depends on who you ask. Some say they were the only ones who glimpsed Luminark and returned. Others think they were just people who cheated death and came back wrong."
Erin barely heard the second part. The name stuck in his mind, curling around his thoughts.
"Luminark," he repeated quietly. The word felt heavy, important. "What is that?"
Ivena studied him for a second, as if deciding whether to bother answering. Then she leaned back, arms still crossed. "You really don't know?"
He shook his head.
She exhaled. "It's what people call paradise," she said. "Or something close to it. Not the kind you find in stories about golden gates and endless feasts. It's… beyond that. The place where everything makes sense. Where all the questions have answers."
Erin stared at her, the words sinking into him like the pull of the tide. The idea wrapped around his ribs, a whisper of something bigger, something just out of reach.
"Can you go there?" he asked, almost breathless.
Ivena laughed—not cruelly, but like he had asked a childish question she didn't have an answer for. She shook her head. "If you could, I think we'd all be trying."
Erin wasn't satisfied with that. His mind spun with the possibilities, with the idea of a place that held all the answers.
Ivena must have noticed the way he was still thinking about it, because her smirk softened, just barely. "You're not the first person to wonder," she admitted. "That's why the Saints matter. They said they saw it." She nodded toward the mark. "And enough people believed them to turn them into something more."
Erin ran his thumb over the grooves, still lost in thought. "So what were they? Heroes?"
"Not exactly." Ivena shifted, resting her elbow against the table. "Each of them embodied something—perseverance, rebirth, sacrifice, all that. People call them virtues, but they weren't always pretty. Some of them are still out there, you know."
Erin raised a brow. "You've met one?"
"Not personally," she said. "But you hear stories. My favorite was always Lyriel."
Erin blinked. "Why?"
Ivena was quiet for a second, as if picking her words. "She saw things no one else could. The past, the present, the things hiding in between. She could look at you and know you better than you know yourself." She exhaled, shaking her head slightly. "I always thought that'd be a nice thing to have."
Erin hummed. "Sounds exhausting."
Ivena gave a short chuckle. "Maybe."
Their conversation dwindled after that, leaving Erin with his thoughts. He reached for his father's journal—only to remember, with a sinking feeling, that it wasn't there.
He had left it on the Duskvein.
His fingers curled slightly in irritation. He wanted to sketch the mark, to write it down, but he'd have to remember it instead.
Darial Kline's shoulders were tense, jaw set, eyes flicking toward Ivena. "What exactly are we waiting for?" His voice was low, edged with the kind of suspicion that had kept him alive this long.
Ivena didn't answer right away. She sat still, unreadable, the pistol resting in her lap. The flickering lantern light cast uneven shadows across her face.
"We should've moved by now," Darial pressed. "If this is a safehouse, then why are we just sitting here?"
Cidrin straightened from his slouch, rubbing his face. "Maybe Lyric gave the wrong time, yeah? Could be her people are still on their way."
Ivena exhaled, shaking her head slightly. Then she said it.
"Lyric's not coming."
Silence. A cold, dead silence that swallowed the room whole.
Erin's heartbeat pounded against his ribs. He didn't understand, not fully. But he felt it—the shift, the unraveling of something unseen. Cidrin straightened, his exhaustion vanishing in an instant. Even Narza shifted, her stance sharpening.
Darial's entire body stiffened. His gaze bore into her, searching for any sign of a lie. "What?"
Ivena finally met his gaze, and this time there was something different in her expression. Something resigned. "She's not coming," she repeated. "She never was."
Darial inhaled sharply through his nose, his mind piecing together the inevitable conclusion. "Then what the hell are we still doing here?" His voice was different now. Cold. Calculated.
Ivena didn't answer right away. Her eyes flicked toward the crew—Erin, Cidrin, Narza. Something flashed behind them, something that might have been regret. Or hesitation.
"This wasn't how it was supposed to go," she murmured, more to herself than anyone else. She exhaled, jaw tightening. "I was expecting one person to bring you here, Kline. Not a whole damn crew."
Narza moved first.
The instant the words left Ivena's mouth, Narza lunged, daggers flashing in the dim light.
Too late.
Ivena pulled the trigger.
The gunshot shattered the air.
Blood sprayed. Darial staggered back—then crumpled.
His skull split open.
No last words. No final gasp. Just the wet, lifeless sound of his body hitting the ground.
Narza's blades came down, but Ivena twisted at the last second, parrying one dagger with the barrel of her pistol, knocking it wide. The second blade grazed her arm, slicing through fabric, drawing blood—
Then Ivena was already moving, breaking away.
Narza didn't hesitate—she went after Ivena like a phantom, her daggers flashing as she pursued her through the crumbling doorway and into the open air.
The safehouse exploded into motion.
Cidrin swore, scrambling backward as Erin stumbled, his ears still ringing from the gunshot. He barely registered the heavy weight of Darial's body sprawled on the floor—the blood pooling fast, dark, final.
It didn't feel real.
It had happened too fast.
One second, Darial had been standing there, demanding answers. The next—
Erin's breath caught, his hands trembling.
Ivena was gone, but Narza was right behind her, a streak of motion vanishing through the door.
Erin's body moved before his mind caught up. He pushed forward, legs unsteady, heart hammering in his chest as he bolted after them.
Cidrin cursed again. "Erin—damn it—" But Erin was already gone. Ivena ran like a woman with hell on her heels.
Her boots pounded against the stone streets of Driftmark, her breath ragged, chest heaving. She didn't dare look back—she didn't have to. She could hear Narza behind her, her footsteps relentless, cutting through the chaos of the waking city like a blade.
The gun in Ivena's hand shook as she lifted it, twisting just enough to fire over her shoulder. The shot cracked through the air, sharp and deafening.
Narza dodged without breaking stride.
Ivena cursed and fired again—once, twice. Each shot sent townsfolk scattering, cries of panic rising in the streets. Merchants ducked behind stalls, fishermen abandoned their morning hauls, and stray dogs yelped, bolting for cover.
But Narza didn't slow.
She wove through the chaos with terrifying precision, each bullet missing her by a breath, each step closing the distance between them.
Ivena's lungs burned. Her legs ached. The sun was rising, the streets growing brighter, but all she could see was the shadow chasing her down.
She vaulted over a stack of crates, nearly slipping on the damp stone, and burst out of the alleyway onto the main street. The docks were too far. She had nowhere to go.
The moment she hesitated, Narza was on her.
She tackled Ivena hard, slamming into her with enough force to send them both crashing onto the rough cobblestone. The pistol was wrenched from Ivena's grasp, skidding across the ground.
Pain exploded through Ivena's ribs, but she barely had time to process it before she was flipped onto her back, a dagger pressing into her throat.
Narza straddled her, face unreadable, her breath steady despite the chase. Her autumn-colored hair clung to her face, strands damp with sweat, but her grip on the blade was unwavering.
The street around them was deadly silent. Townsfolk stared from the edges of the street, some peering out from windows, others frozen in place.
Ivena swallowed against the blade at her throat. Her vision swam, her body aching, her pulse roaring in her ears.
She exhaled. "Saints." A bitter chuckle left her lips. "This got messy."
Narza didn't say a word.
Footsteps approached—Erin, Cidrin. The others weren't far behind.
Ivena closed her eyes briefly, then opened them again, staring up at Narza with something exhausted.
"I wasn't supposed to kill all of you," she muttered. "Just Darial Kline."
Erin and Cidrin caught up, skidding to a halt a few steps away. Erin was breathless, his chest rising and falling, sweat beading on his forehead. Cidrin's jaw was tight, his hands curled into fists.
"She's got nowhere left to go," Cidrin muttered. "No more tricks."
Ivena's gaze flicked between them, something unreadable in her pale green eyes. Then, slowly, her lips curled into something almost wry. "You sure about that?"
Narza's grip on the dagger didn't waver, but Erin saw it—the way Ivena's fingers twitched against the cobblestone, subtle, like she was waiting for an opening. Even now, with a blade at her throat, she was still calculating.
Erin swallowed hard. "Why?" The word came out raw, barely above a breath.
Ivena turned her gaze toward him. "Why what?"
"Why kill Darial?" Erin's voice was hoarse. "You didn't have to."
Ivena held his stare for a long moment. Then she exhaled, slow and deliberate. "Ironshadow bounty," she murmured. "A high one."
Something in Erin twisted.
"That's it?" Cidrin snapped. His voice was sharp, but his fists were shaking. "Money?"
Ivena closed her eyes for a brief moment. When she opened them again, she looked tired. "You think I want to stay here on Chastrow?" She let out a short, breathless laugh. "It's a goddamn prison. I wasn't gonna die here, rotting away like everyone else. I had my way out. That bounty was my ticket off this island. A clean slate. A chance to disappear. Me and Lyric planned this whole thing out"
Narza didn't move. Her blade stayed firm against Ivena's throat, her expression unreadable.
Ivena met her eyes, something resigned in her gaze. "Go on, then," she said, voice quiet. "Do what you're gonna do."
For a second, the world held still.
Then, without a word, Narza moved. The dagger sliced through the air with a precise, deadly arc, and Ivena crumpled to the ground. Her face twisted, a mixture of disbelief and pain, as the tip of the blade drove into her chest. Her mouth parted, but no words escaped—only a choked gasp of air, the last breath she would ever take.
Narza stood over her, chest rising and falling, breath shaky, but her eyes were empty. The fury had drained from her, replaced with the cold weight of inevitability. She wiped the blood from her blade on the edge of Ivena's coat, the world around them stretching in an agonizing quiet.
The sun had risen fully now, casting a bright, unforgiving light across Driftmark. The soft hum of the island's distant life continued—people walking down the streets, boats creaking as they docked—but in this small space by the edge of the beach, everything felt surreal, detached from reality. The crew stood frozen in place, their eyes wide, the shock of the moment still gripping them. Darial Kline lay lifeless on the cold floor inside the safehouse, and now Ivena, the one who had deceived them all, was gone.
Erin's chest ached as if someone had driven a blade right through him too. His mind refused to process it, but the cold truth remained inescapable. They had failed. Darial Kline was dead. And with him, a part of them—maybe the only part that still had hope of escaping this nightmare—was gone. He wasn't sure how long he stood there, unable to move, his body still locked in place. The world felt so… distant. Like the sounds of Driftmark, the waves crashing against the shore, even the warmth of the sun, were all happening on another plane of existence. They had lost so much more than Darial tonight. They had lost trust. They had lost faith. And, in some ways, they had lost themselves.
No one spoke. No one moved. The weight of what had just happened lingered between them, thick and suffocating. Erin's breath felt heavy in his chest. He wasn't sure if it was the shock of it all or something deeper—the realization that nothing about this had gone the way they expected.
And yet, around them, the people of Driftmark simply moved on. Those who had gathered to watch the commotion barely spared a second glance before returning to their routines. Vendors resumed their haggling. Workers carried on like nothing had changed. No one cared. No one even seemed surprised.
Erin clenched his jaw. It shouldn't have shocked him, but it did. For a moment, he felt sick—like something was deeply wrong. Then, the memory of Chastrow crept in. The way death was treated like a passing inconvenience rather than a tragedy. This was no different. Here, just like there, a life ending meant nothing.
A few moments passed before anyone spoke. "What now?" Erin finally muttered, his voice breaking the heavy silence. He didn't look directly at anyone in particular, his gaze lost in the unfeeling bustle around them.
No one had an answer. Narza was still standing where she had struck Ivena down, unreadable as ever. Fenrick shifted uncomfortably, his arms crossed tight over his chest, but he said nothing.
No plan. No next step. Just loss.
Without a word, they started walking, as if moving forward was the only thing they could do. The beach stretched ahead of them, the salty breeze filling the spaces their voices should have.
Then Erin saw it—a ship in the distance, cutting through the water toward Driftmark's docks. He squinted, his pulse quickening as recognition clicked into place. The shape of the sails. The way it moved.
The Duskvein.
Thalor had found them.
Erin exhaled, the first real breath he had taken in what felt like hours. For the first time since stepping into that safehouse, something like hope flickered in his chest.
They weren't alone.