Beneath the Serpent's Deck

***Isabella***

The sea never slept. It groaned beneath the hull like some ancient creature, restless in its depths. Every time the ship tilted, water hissed against the wood, whispering secrets through the cracks in the brig. The sound was constant, like breathing, a reminder that I was still alive when I wished I weren’t. The iron cuff around my wrist burned where it bit into the skin. My arm throbbed from pulling at the chain, testing its strength, though I already knew it was useless. The metal was thick, forged for monsters, not for me.

The lantern outside the bars flickered low, its light too weak to chase the dark from the corners. Shadows stretched across the floor, shifting with the ship’s sway. Sometimes I thought I saw James in them, standing there the way he had when he told me not to be afraid. Fear was all that was left now. The cell smelled of salt and rust, the air damp and heavy. My dress clung to my skin, still soaked from the rain when Blackthorn dragged me below. I could still feel the imprint of his hand on my arm, not just the pain, but the anger behind it. That fury had weight. It filled the air, the walls, the very wood beneath me.

I pulled my knees to my chest, shivering. Every creak above made me flinch, every footstep sent my heart racing. I didn’t know where my daughter was. He’d given her to Mauve, told me as much before locking me away. I had seen the way Mauve looked at me once, not with cruelty, but with pity. Maybe that pity would save my child. My hand drifted to my stomach out of habit, a hollow motion I didn’t even realize I was making until the emptiness hit. There was no warmth there anymore. No heartbeat beside mine. Just silence. I’d seen James fall. I saw the way his eyes searched for me one last time, even when his voice failed him. I could still hear the sound, the blade, the gasp, the way the world seemed to go still in that single moment. He had died in my arms. A quiet sob broke from my throat, muffled by the sound of the sea. I pressed my hand to my mouth, as if I could stop the sound from escaping, but it was no use. The grief was too large, too consuming. It tore through me like the storm itself.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered into the dark, my voice trembling. “I should’ve never let you fight him. I should’ve...”

My voice caught. I swallowed hard, tasting salt, not from the sea this time, but from tears I couldn’t stop. I thought of Nicholas, his confusion, his bravery. My son. The king now, though he’d never wanted to be. I prayed he was still alive. That somehow, Blackthorn hadn’t taken from me everything in one breath. The chain rattled as I shifted, lying back against the cold wall. The wood was damp beneath me, the chill sinking deep into my bones. Above, I heard muffled voices, the crew. Laughter. Someone sang a low, rough tune about the sea’s hunger and the souls she kept. It made my skin crawl. I closed my eyes, but sleep didn’t come. Every time I blinked, I saw James again. The way he reached for me, blood on his hands. The way Blackthorn looked at him, not with triumph, but something colder. Disgust.

He’d never loved me. He’d told me once that love was for men who could afford to lose. He only ever wanted to own. To possess. I had been a prize, a name, a symbol of victory he could display and then discard when I failed to please him. I had escaped. I had built a life away from him, and that was the crime he could never forgive.
Now I was here again, on this ship that reeked of ghosts. I could almost hear them, the echoes of the crew he’d sacrificed for his ambition. The walls remembered. The floorboards beneath me whispered their names with every groan.

“Don’t do this,” I murmured into the dark, though there was no one to hear. “Please, not again.”

I thought of my daughter then, her tiny hands, her warm cheek pressed against my shoulder when she slept. She had James’s eyes. That’s what frightened me most. If Blackthorn saw it, if he saw too much of James in her, he’d never let her live. I sat up, tugging at the chain again, ignoring the sting as the iron scraped my skin raw. There had to be a way out. There always was. Every pull, every twist, only made the links groan and hold tighter, as if mocking me. Somewhere above, footsteps passed, slow, deliberate. The sound drew nearer, then stopped just beyond the door. I held my breath. The lantern outside flickered, casting a brief shadow that moved across the wall.
It wasn’t Blackthorn. The shape was too small, the movement too uncertain. Then a whisper.

“Isabella?”

Mauve’s voice.

My heart leapt. I scrambled toward the bars, the chain clinking. “Mauve, please, my child, where is she? Tell me she’s all right.”
There was hesitation, then a soft answer. “She’s safe. For now. He told me to keep her in my cabin. She’s asleep.”
Relief hit so sharp it hurt. I pressed my forehead to the bars, tears spilling freely now. “Thank you,” I breathed. “Please don’t let him...”
“I won’t,” Mauve said quickly, though her voice trembled. “You have to stay quiet. If he knows I’m here...”
I nodded, though she couldn’t see. “I understand.”

For a moment, silence filled the space between us. I could hear the distant crash of waves, the low hum of the crew above deck. Then Mauve spoke again, lower this time.

“He’s not the same man, Isabella. There’s something in him now, something dark. He doesn’t sleep. He talks to the shadows.”
I closed my eyes. “He was always darkness. The shadows just finally learned his name.”
Mauve didn’t answer. A soft shuffle followed, and then her voice once more, barely above a breath. “I’ll come back when I can. Try to rest.”

The light dimmed as her figure moved away, leaving me alone again. The silence returned, thicker now, pressing against my chest. Rest. How could I rest when the man who murdered my husband slept above me? When my daughter lay in the care of a woman who might not be able to protect her if he changed his mind?

I curled on the cold floor, drawing my knees close, listening to the rain beat against the hull. My tears dried on my skin, leaving salt in their wake. I didn’t pray. Not anymore.
The gods had abandoned the sea long ago. As the night stretched on, I found myself whispering to James anyway, words meant for no one else.

“I’ll protect her,” I said softly. “No matter what it costs me. I’ll keep her safe. I promise.”

Outside, thunder rolled, low and distant, like an answer. The lantern flickered one last time before dying altogether, plunging me into darkness. In that darkness, the ship groaned again, deep and slow, as though the sea itself had heard me swear.