Page 46 of Dark as the Cursed Abyss

War had found them.

And it would not let go.

Chapter Thirty

Farah

The ship had quieted, but it was not the quiet of peace.

It was the kind that came after blood had been spilled—thick, watchful, waiting for something else to go wrong.

The deck above still groaned beneath the weight of repairs, sailors shouting low to one another as they patched torn sails and scrubbed away what the sea had not already claimed. The scent of salt could not mask the iron tang of death that lingered in the wood, soaked deep into the grain. Even below deck, in the narrow corridors lit by swaying lanterns, Farah could feel it pressing in around her.

War had followed them from Hespali.

And now it had found them at sea.

Farah moved through the corridors of the ship with steady steps, though her body still ached from the battle. Smoke and black flame had taken their toll, leaving her limbs heavy, her veins humming faintly with the remnants of magic. Her knuckles were raw, her ribs bruised, and yet none of it slowed her now. Pain was familiar. Predictable.

What waited at the end of the corridor was not.

The captured captain.

A man who had stood on the opposing deck with a blade in hand and a grin too eager for death. A man who had not fled when Kire’s storms tore through his fleet. A man who had watched Farah’s flames crawl across his crew and had not once looked away.

He knew something.

And Farah intended to take it from him.

Two guards stood outside the small brig, their postures rigid as she approached. They straightened further at the sight of her, exchanging a brief glance before stepping aside without question.

“Has he said anything?” Farah asked, her voice low.

“No, Princess,” one of them replied. “Not a word since we bound him.”

Farah nodded once. That would change.

It always did.

She pushed open the door. The room beyond was small, barely more than a storage cell repurposed into a holding space. Chains hung from the walls, rusted from years of salt air, though the ones binding the man in the center were newer, iron biting into his wrists where they were fastened above his head. A single lantern burned on a hook, casting long, warped shadows across the stone floor.

For a moment, Farah simply stood in the doorway, letting her eyes adjust, letting the silence settle. Then something in her chest tightened. The man’s head hung forward, chin nearly to his chest. His dark hair clung damply to his face, obscuring most of his features, but his body—it was too still.

Farah stepped forward slowly, each footfall deliberate against the stone. The faint creak of the ship above seemed louder here, the lantern flame flickering as if disturbed by something unseen.

“Look at me,” she said, voice sharper now.

No response.

Irritation flared, quick and instinctive. She reached out, gripping his jaw and forcing his head back and froze. His eyes were open. Clouded. Empty.

A thin, dark line trailed from the corner of his mouth, cutting down across his chin and disappearing into the collar of his torn shirt. The smell hit her a second later—bitter, acrid, unmistakable. A poison she knew all too well. Not really a poison at all. A viper’s venom.

Farah released him as if he burned, stepping back. Her pulse kicked hard against her ribs, every instinct sharpening at once.

“No,” she muttered, more to herself than anything. This was not possible.

He had been alive when they brought him aboard. Bound. Watched. There had been no moment for weakness, no chance for him to slip something past them—unless he hadn’t brought it himself. Someone had given it to him.