Chapter 317
There’s a tension in the water that doesn’t match the atmosphere of Estellis. Not anymore. Not since we left the Nu encampment.
I keep glancing over my shoulder. I don’t know why. It’s not like I see anything. Nothing obvious trails us. No watchers. No creeping figures behind polished spires or the sleek towers that shimmer in the early morning light.
But the feeling’s there.
Wake feels it too. His shoulders are too stiff. He hasn’t said a word in five minutes. Not even to complain about the palace guard—our oh-so-trustworthy chaperone—who trails us like a barnacle that doesn’t know when it’s not welcome.
Our path curls up through one of the quieter residential districts, away from the formal processional routes. It’s a shortcut, one that Wake claims will get us past another of Lovelace’s oh-so-convenient checkpoints meant to “keep the peace.”
“Something’s not right,” I murmur.
Wake draws a blade without looking back. “Stay behind me.”
Too late.
A blur of motion tears past me.
Crack.
The guard doesn’t even get a warning cry out before a blunt strike to the back of his skull drops him. He floats for a second, then crumples like a marionette with its strings cut, sinking toward the glittering cobblestones.
“Ambush!” Wake shouts, spinning to intercept.
I barely twist out of the way as a blade slices through the water where my neck was a moment ago.
Three. Four. Five shadows appear from the shadows between buildings—moving too fast, too coordinated to be thieves. These are trained. Armed. Ready.
Wake’s already in the thick of it, blades a blur, teeth bared. His eyes are glowing faintly in that way they do when something ancient stirs inside him.
One attacker lunges for him and Wake doesn’t dodge—he catches the blade with one weapon and drives the other through the attacker’s gut. Blood swirls in ribbons through the current.
“They’re not here for you!” I shout. “They’re here for you!”
Wake kicks one back with enough force to send them through a decorative archway. “I know!”
Another shadow darts toward me. I whip the orb out from under my coat and light it to full burn, blasting the oncoming attacker with raw force. He tumbles end over end before fleeing into the gloom.
“Don’t kill them if you don’t have to,” I call out, “we need to know who sent them.”
“I don’t care who sent them if they’re dead before I ask!”
That’s when I see it.
One of the attackers drops a strip of dark cloth—faintly patterned. I know that pattern. Every military dress code in the sea knows it.
Cradle sigils.
“Wake!” I shout. “They’re trying to make it look like the Cradle!”
Wake’s already fighting two more—he doesn’t respond, too busy disarming one attacker and using their own blade to threaten the other into retreat.
It’s fast. Messy. They’re not trying to win.
They’re trying to send a message.
Or light a fuse.
The moment they realize we’re not easy prey, they scatter. One by one, darting off into shadows, up into open courtyards, disappearing through coral alleys.
Gone.
Silence rushes in like a tide.
The water is stained with blood and our unconscious babysitter drifts gently, still out cold.
Wake floats there for a second, blades still raised, chest heaving. Then he turns and curses under his breath, stabbing one blade into the seafloor like it’ll keep him from doing something stupid.
I swim to the guard, checking for a pulse. “He’s alive,” I mutter. “But he’s not waking up anytime soon.”
Wake spins on his heel. “This was Shoal.”
I blink. “You’re sure?”
“I know his tactics. Blame the Cradle. Turn everyone against each other. Light the spark. Watch the fire burn.”
He’s shaking with fury, with the restraint it takes not to swim full force toward Shoal’s camp and start something no one can stop.
“Wake,” I say.
He ignores me. He’s already turning.
“Wake!” I grab his wrist, yanking him to face me.
His eyes are glowing brighter now, faint silver ringing the edges of his irises.
“I’m going to kill him,” he says.
“No, you’re not.”
“He sent people to kill me!”
“Exactly. And if you go after him now, it works. He wins. He wants you to lose control.”
Wake jerks his wrist from my grip, but he doesn’t swim away.
“He wants you to go to his camp and throw the first punch,” I say. “So he can frame you, spin it, use it. You’re not a soldier anymore. You’re Dagon’s Heir.”
He growls, frustrated, but I see it land. That truth. He hates it. But he accepts it.
Eventually.
The water is quiet again. In the distance, the city’s waking. I can hear bells ringing. Soft music drifting from a vendor somewhere deeper in the city. Like none of this just happened.
Wake presses the heel of his hand into his eyes. “He won’t stop.”
“I know.”
“We’re running out of time.”
“I know that too.”
We start to swim back toward the palace, dragging the unconscious guard behind us.
And then we hear it.
A soft skitter. A clack of something against coral.
A sound behind us.
We turn, slowly.
Weapons raised.
Eyes scanning.
And I feel it again—the current shift. The same tension from before. But this time it’s colder. Heavier. And it’s not finished with us yet.
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