Chapter 370:

Caspian

The sky doesn’t just darken. It collapses.

One moment, we’re sailing through calm blue waters, the sun warm on my face, the crew laughing at some joke Smith told. The next, a wall of black clouds rolls over the horizon, moving faster than any storm I’ve ever seen.

Marina sees it first.

"Storm coming!" Her voice cuts through the air like a blade. "All hands on deck! Now!"

The crew erupts into motion. Men scramble up the rigging, bare feet finding holds I can’t even see. Sails are furled, ropes coiled, hatches battened. Marina is everywhere—shouting orders, pointing, shoving men into position.

"Secure the guns!"

"Lower the yards!"

"Brace the masts!"

I’ve seen her give orders before. But this—watching her move through the chaos with calm, certain authority,this is different.

Her red hair whips across her face. Her eyes are fixed on the horizon. She doesn’t flinch when the first raindrop hits her cheek.

I flinch for her.

The rain comes all at once. Not drops—sheets. The sky opens and dumps water like the sea itself is falling on us. I’m soaked in seconds, my fine coat heavy and useless, my hair plastered to my forehead.

"Your Highness!" Smith grabs my arm, shouting to be heard. "Get below!"

I shake him off. "I’m staying."

"Don’t be a fool—"

"I said I’m staying."

The wind hits next.

The ship groans beneath us, wood straining against rope, ropes snapping against masts. Men shout. Thunder cracks. Lightning splits the sky in jagged white fingers.

A wave crashes over the bow.

Water sweeps across the deck, knocking men off their feet. I grab the railing, hold on, feel the wood dig into my palms. Next to me, a sailor slips, slides toward the edge—

Marina catches him. Hauls him back by his collar like he weighs nothing. Shoves him toward the mast.

"Hold fast, you idiot!"

The sailor scrambles to obey.

Another wave. Bigger. The ship tilts—fifteen degrees, twenty, thirty. My feet slide out from under me. I’m hanging off the railing, the sea rushing below, black and hungry—

Marina’s hand closes around my wrist. Hauls me up. Shoves me against the mast.

"Stay there!" she shouts. "Don’t move!"

She’s gone before I can answer.

I watch her fight the wheel. Both hands gripping, arms corded with muscle, her entire body straining against the storm. A wave crashes over her. She doesn’t let go. Lightning illuminates her face—ferocious, unyielding, alive.

God, I think. She’s magnificent.

*

The storm rages for what feels like hours.

Men are thrown across the deck. The ship groans and shudders, timbers screaming. At one point, I’m certain we’re going to capsize—the ship tilts so far the sea spills over the railing, flooding the deck, carrying barrels and ropes and men toward the edge.

Marina doesn’t stop shouting.

"Trim the sails! Trim them!"

"Hard to starboard!"

"Brace—brace—"

The wave passes. The ship rights itself. Men gasp and cough and weep.

Marina stands at the helm, soaked and shaking, her knuckles white on the wheel.

She doesn’t let go.

The storm passes as quickly as it came.

One moment, chaos. The next, silence. The clouds dissolve like they were never there. The sun returns, warm and golden, painting the wet deck in shades of amber.

Men collapse where they stand. Some laugh. Some cry. Some just lie there, staring at the sky, breathing.

Smith sinks to his knees, crossing himself, muttering prayers I can’t hear.

Nancy emerges from below, her face pale, her maps clutched to her chest. She looks around at the wreckage,broken barrels, snapped ropes, a cracked railing and says nothing.

Marina is still at the helm.

Her hair is plastered to her face. Her shirt is soaked through, clinging to her skin. Her chest heaves with each breath.

I walk toward her, trying not to slip on the wet wood. My boots are useless—waterlogged, heavy, squelching with every step. I mean to congratulate her. That’s all. Just a few words of thanks. Well done. You saved us. I owe you.

But when I’m near her, her chest is there. The wet fabric. The rise and fall. The way her skin shows through.

"You should change into something dry," I say.

She looks up at me, confused. Her eyebrows furrow. Her lips part.

"Ah." She glances down at herself, then back at me. "You too, Prince." A tired smile. "You look like a wet kitten."

A wet kitten.

I don’t know whether to be offended or amused.

She turns. Walks toward the stairs leading below deck. Her boots squelch too. Her wet hair drips down her back.

I watch her go.

Then I go to my own cabin.

My room is small, a far cry from my room at the palace. Dark. A cot against the wall, a trunk at the foot, a porthole that leaks when the sea is rough. I sit on the edge of the cot and pull off my boots.

Water spills out. Gallons, it seems. The floor is already wet.

My pants are next. I stand, unlace the fastenings, push them down.

I shake my head. Wring out the pants. Hang them beside the socks.

My shirt is last. I pull it over my head. It clings to my arms, my chest, my everything. The fabric is cold. The cabin is cold. Everything is cold.

I hang the shirt on the back of the door.

I stand there in my underclothes, shivering. The cold seeps into my bones. My teeth chatter.

I reach for my trunk. The clothes inside are dry, at least. I pull out fresh trousers, a fresh shirt, fresh socks. Dress quickly. The fabric is rough against my skin, but warm and most importantly dry.

*

A couple of hours later, the crew is drinking.

They’ve earned it. The storm nearly killed us. Men are still patching rope burns and bandaging cuts. But the rum is flowing, and someone has a fiddle, and the laughter is loud enough to shake the walls.

I stand at the edge of the crowd, a cup in my hand, not drinking.

Across the deck, Marina lifts her metal jug to her lips. Her eyes find mine over the rim.

She doesn’t look away.

Neither do I.

It happens several more times throughout the night. A glance across the deck. A held gaze. A quick look away.

I excuse myself early, citing exhaustion.

I walk below deck. The corridor is dark, lit only by the occasional lantern. My boots echo on the wood.

I reach my cabin. Open the door. Step inside.

The room is dark, save for the lantern on the wall. The flame flickers, casting shadows that dance across the walls.

I close the door.

I hear the lock click.

Not me.

Hands wrap around me from behind. Arms slide around my waist. A body presses against my back.

"Marina," I breathe.

"Shh."

Her lips press against my shoulder. My neck. The space behind my ear.

I close my eyes. 𝗳𝚛𝚎𝚎𝘄𝕖𝕓𝕟𝕠𝚟𝚎𝕝.𝗰𝕠𝐦

The lantern flickers.

The ship rocks.

And I let myself fall.