Yvette drowned herself in mundane chores—sharpening knives, mending gear, anything to avoid stillness. She pushed her body raw, muscles screaming without a flicker of supernatural aid. Better exhaustion than confronting the void within.

  Dawn’s amber light roused her on the beach. Salt crusted her lashes. The campsite fire had died to embers, same as yesterday’s madness.

  In the turtle-shell bath, Ulysses floated like a half-carved saint. Meat and bone knitted beneath coconut-scented waters. His chest rose steady. Soon, he’d wake.

  She reached for a fresh coconut. Something scritched down her back—a nest of desiccated tendrils, crimson as dried viscera. Their touch raised no shudder; the parasites had perished when her skin sealed smooth.

  Memories surfaced—the kill-fever singing in her veins as the Rat Queen fell, divine sapience coursing through neural pathways. A communion severed mid-ascent, crimson tendrils retracting like umbilical cords.

  Gods were storms: some distant, some landfall-bound. Most demanded blood tribute or flesh gateways. Her patron broke rules—no altars, no manifestos. Only endless war against rival deities. A blessing? The black library’s scrolls whispered warnings.

  Miss Sarr once called her righteous. Was that virtue... or some deity’s curated taste?

  Yvette shook off thoughts. She stripped her ragged clothes—melted sleeves from yesterday’s blaze, every stitch reeking of rat ichor. The stream’s embrace washed over burns and doubts alike.

  Weightless, she floated. Mind adrift. Winslow’s face surfaced—that man cradled by abyssal wings. Now she understood his drift. Each step up the Source ladder brought thicker fog.

  What were they? Where bound? Mortal anchors rusting away...

  She surfaced. Shattered reflection danced underfoot.

  ...

  Two mornings later, sails breached the horizon—a lean schooner, shallow-drafted. No merchant would moor here. Reinforcements.

  Ulysses still slept. She carried his cocooned form past jungle ferns, toward the anchored ship.

  A bear of a man descended the gangplank, reeking of cured tobacco. “Oi! Seen two blokes ’round here, lass?”

  "Mister Ordinary’s man?" Yvette’s glare chilled.

  The brute’s smirk faltered. "Aye. Suppose you’re the package?"

  "One. The other’s wounded."

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  His eyes raked her shirt—too-tight across unbound curves. "Papa sent me for gentlemen."

  Ice crackled her words: "Shall I report your... diligent inquiry?"

  ‘Papa’—godfather to New World’s Italian mobs. The ‘Faceless’ legend made toughs piss themselves.

  De Luca backtracked fast. “Japes! Name’s De Luca. Our sort, eh?” He tapped his temple—subtlety wasted here. “Need hocus-pocus arrangements? This ain’t starchy Albion. We shoot first here!”

  Lawless frontier indeed.

  She demanded sugar, a bathing cask, and a locked cabin. Sailors jeered at the shrouded bundle in her arms—until Yvette trod the rocking gangplank with a corpse’s equilibrium. Their catcalls died mid-breath.

  Unseen beneath wraps, Ulysses’ regenerating flesh pulsed.

  “The cabin,” Yvette ordered. “No disturbances.”

  De Luca swallowed his smirk. Dead girls shouldn’t glare like executioners.

  Yvette drowned herself in mundane chores—sharpening knives, mending gear, anything to avoid stillness. She pushed her body raw, muscles screaming without a flicker of supernatural aid. Better exhaustion than confronting the void within.

  Dawn’s amber light roused her on the beach. Salt crusted her lashes. The campsite fire had died to embers, same as yesterday’s madness.

  In the turtle-shell bath, Ulysses floated like a half-carved saint. Meat and bone knitted beneath coconut-scented waters. His chest rose steady. Soon, he’d wake.

  She reached for a fresh coconut. Something scritched down her back—a nest of desiccated tendrils, crimson as dried viscera. Their touch raised no shudder; the parasites had perished when her skin sealed smooth.

  Memories surfaced—the kill-fever singing in her veins as the Rat Queen fell, divine sapience coursing through neural pathways. A communion severed mid-ascent, crimson tendrils retracting like umbilical cords.

  Gods were storms: some distant, some landfall-bound. Most demanded blood tribute or flesh gateways. Her patron broke rules—no altars, no manifestos. Only endless war against rival deities. A blessing? The black library’s scrolls whispered warnings.

  Miss Sarr once called her righteous. Was that virtue... or some deity’s curated taste?

  Yvette shook off thoughts. She stripped her ragged clothes—melted sleeves from yesterday’s blaze, every stitch reeking of rat ichor. The stream’s embrace washed over burns and doubts alike.

  Weightless, she floated. Mind adrift. Winslow’s face surfaced—that man cradled by abyssal wings. Now she understood his drift. Each step up the Source ladder brought thicker fog.

  What were they? Where bound? Mortal anchors rusting away...

  She surfaced. Shattered reflection danced underfoot.

  ...

  Two mornings later, sails breached the horizon—a lean schooner, shallow-drafted. No merchant would moor here. Reinforcements.

  Ulysses still slept. She carried his cocooned form past jungle ferns, toward the anchored ship.

  A bear of a man descended the gangplank, reeking of cured tobacco. “Oi! Seen two blokes ’round here, lass?”

  "Mister Ordinary’s man?" Yvette’s glare chilled.

  The brute’s smirk faltered. "Aye. Suppose you’re the package?"

  "One. The other’s wounded."

  His eyes raked her shirt—too-tight across unbound curves. "Papa sent me for gentlemen."

  Ice crackled her words: "Shall I report your... diligent inquiry?"

  ‘Papa’—godfather to New World’s Italian mobs. The ‘Faceless’ legend made toughs piss themselves.

  De Luca backtracked fast. “Japes! Name’s De Luca. Our sort, eh?” He tapped his temple—subtlety wasted here. “Need hocus-pocus arrangements? This ain’t starchy Albion. We shoot first here!”

  Lawless frontier indeed.

  She demanded sugar, a bathing cask, and a locked cabin. Sailors jeered at the shrouded bundle in her arms—until Yvette trod the rocking gangplank with a corpse’s equilibrium. Their catcalls died mid-breath.

  Unseen beneath wraps, Ulysses’ regenerating flesh pulsed.

  “The cabin,” Yvette ordered. “No disturbances.”

  De Luca swallowed his smirk. Dead girls shouldn’t glare like executioners.