The oars creaked like old bones.
Darion Vane's arms burned with each stroke as the longboat cut through the grey morning sea. A trail of splintered wood and soaked corpses drifted behind them—remnants of the Emberwake. Rain had turned to mist, and now the air hung heavy with brine and something fouler—an unnatural stench, like rotting kelp mixed with rusted iron.
He glanced behind him. Mara Quinn sat at the stern, pale and silent, cradling her wounded leg and the oilskin map. Her pistol rested across her lap, dry powder tucked under her coat, and her eyes—those sea-glass green eyes—stayed locked on the distant shape rising from the horizon.
An island, jagged and cruel-looking, clawing toward the sky like the broken spine of some ancient sea monster.
"Serpent's Tail?" Darion asked, wiping sweat from his brow.
Mara nodded, voice hoarse. "According to the map. One of the last places my father visited before disappearing."
Darion looked again. The island wasn't large, but it had teeth. Sheer cliffs ringed most of its coast, and even from here, he could see wrecks impaled on reefs like warning signs. What little shoreline it had was shrouded in jungle mist. Not welcoming.
"What do we know about it?" he asked.
"Nothing good," Mara muttered. "Slavers. Ruins. Some say it used to be a temple isle for the old gods before pirates buried it in blood."
"Sounds charming."
"Fits right in with the company I keep," she replied dryly.
They reached a cove sheltered by black cliffs as the tide rolled in. Darion stowed the oars and leapt out, boots splashing into knee-high surf. The water was thick with seaweed and scattered bones—animal, he hoped. He pulled the boat in as gently as he could, then turned to lift Mara.
"Don't even think about it," she grunted, trying to stand.
"You're limping worse than a drunk one-legged sailor," Darion said, already scooping her up.
Mara glared at him but didn't resist. "I'm going to shoot you once we reach solid ground."
"You'd miss."
"Not at this range."
The jungle beyond the beach swallowed them almost immediately.
It reeked of moisture, moss, and decay. Vines drooped like nooses from crooked trees. Giant leaves glistened with dew. Somewhere deeper, insects buzzed like grinding gears. Each step squelched beneath their boots, and unseen things slithered through underbrush.
Darion moved cautiously, cutlass drawn. He followed an old trail—barely a footpath now, overgrown but unmistakably shaped by human hands.
Mara limped behind him, dagger in hand, eyes sharp despite the pain.
"The map shows a ruin inland," she said. "My father marked it with the word 'Sheol.'"
"Sounds lovely," Darion muttered. "Any idea what it means?"
She shook her head. "He didn't explain. Just circled it and wrote 'Don't trust the red sails.'"
Darion froze. "Red sails?"
Mara nodded. "Why?"
"I saw a cutter last night before we fled the Emberwake. Black hull, crimson sails. It was watching us… didn't attack."
She frowned. "You think it was following?"
"I think it was hunting."
Thunder rumbled far off. The air thickened, and Darion's every instinct screamed that they were being watched.
They reached the ruin by midday.
Half-sunken into the earth and smothered in vines, it resembled a shrine twisted by time. Serpent carvings slithered across the stone — dozens of them, coiling and interwoven, with mouths wide and eyes like pits. Faded symbols were etched in a circular pattern on the ground. A broken idol stood in the center, cracked in two. Its face had been deliberately erased.
"Charming place," Darion said, scanning the jungle perimeter.
Mara moved to the idol, pulling the map from her coat. "The coordinates match. This is it."
She knelt beside the idol, brushing moss away from the base. "There's something here—"
A twig snapped behind them.
Darion turned, blade raised, just as the first bolt whizzed past his ear.
"Ambush!"
Figures burst from the treeline — six, maybe seven. Tan-skinned, half-naked men in rusted chain and leather, their eyes bloodshot, and brands burned into their chests. Slavers. Their weapons were mismatched: cutlasses, spears, iron hooks. A tall one barked in a harsh tongue, pointing at Mara.
"Alive! She's the prize!"
Darion didn't wait. He rushed the first attacker, knocking the man's spear aside and driving his cutlass through his chest. Blood splattered the moss.
Mara fired her pistol from the ground — a slaver dropped clutching his throat. She rolled behind the idol, reloading with trembling hands.
Darion blocked a hook with his forearm, barely keeping the edge away. Pain flared as the blade scraped leather and skin. He kicked the slaver back and swept low, cutting his legs out from under him.
Another charged, snarling — Darion ducked the wild swing and headbutted the man, then rammed his knee into the slaver's gut and slashed across his neck.
Three down. Four remaining.
One leapt over the altar, knife raised. Mara screamed, too slow to reload.
Darion hurled his cutlass.
The blade hit the attacker mid-air, lodging deep into his side. He dropped like a sack of bricks.
Darion dashed forward, yanking the sword free, then turned in time to parry another attacker's thrust.
The jungle rang with steel and shouting. Darion lost track of time — his world narrowed to strikes and sweat and blood. At some point, Mara joined in with her dagger, slicing at knees and ankles, ducking under swings.
When the last slaver fell gurgling to the moss, silence returned—only broken by their ragged breaths.
Darion dropped to one knee, bloodied and panting.
"Gods," Mara muttered. "What the hell was that?"
"Welcome to Serpent's Tail," he replied.
They bound the least wounded slaver and waited until he stirred. Mara leaned close, pressing her dagger to his throat.
"Who sent you?" she hissed.
The man laughed, lips cracked and bloodied. "You're already dead. She sees you now."
"She?" Darion asked.
The slaver coughed, grinning through broken teeth. "The Drowned Queen. The one beneath. She wakes. You carry her mark."
Darion's blood turned cold. "What mark?"
The man tilted his head. "You'll see. Soon enough."
Without warning, he twisted hard. A sharp crack — the man bit through his own tongue and choked on blood.
He was dead in seconds.
Mara wiped her blade clean on his shirt. "Well, that's not foreboding at all."
Darion stood, heart pounding. The taste of ash was back in his mouth. Not from smoke—something else. Something darker.
He turned to the altar. "Your father found something here. Something that drew attention."
Mara nodded. "And now we've inherited the curse."
From beneath the moss, Darion unearthed a rusted plaque carved in ancient script. One word had not faded.
"Serika."
The name thrummed like thunder in his bones.
That night...
They camped beneath the altar, lighting no fire. Mara cleaned her wound in silence while Darion kept watch.
"You don't have to stay," she said quietly. "I dragged you into this."
He didn't answer immediately. The stars above were dimmed by mist. The sound of waves breaking far away echoed like a heartbeat.
"I left the Empire because I couldn't stand obeying monsters," he said at last. "If I walk away now, what does that make me?"
She looked at him. "You could just be a man trying to survive."
Darion shook his head. "Survival isn't enough anymore."
A silence passed between them, softer than before.
She leaned back against the altar stone. "If you ever decide to die for something again," she said, "try not to make it a cursed island with snake shrines and hallucinating slavers."
Darion managed a weak smile. "No promises."
Far below, in the forgotten tunnels beneath the island, something stirred.
A voice—soft as drowned whispers—echoed through the ruin's deep cracks.
"He carries the mark… the stolen breath… the ash of judgment…"
The jungle shivered.
The tide had turned.