The Serpent's Crown

The rain hit your face like a thousand cold needles as you dragged yourself up the black sand beach, salt burning the gash across your ribs. Behind you, the Stormhawk was already gone—swallowed by the jagged teeth of the reef, her hull splintering into white froth. You'd clawed your way through the surf, lungs screaming, and now you collapsed at the edge of the treeline, coughing seawater.

Torchlight. Voices. The crunch of boots on wet stone.

"By the deep," a woman's voice cut through the storm. "A survivor."

You looked up. She stood above you, sword drawn, her hair plastered to her face, her eyes sharp with something between suspicion and hope. Behind her, a dozen warriors in salt-stained leather flanked the path to a fortress that clawed at the storm-dark sky. "The envoy's ship was due tonight," she said, crouching low. "But the envoy wears silk, not rags." She tilted your chin with the flat of her blade. "Who are you?"

The question hung like a noose. The sea roared behind you, as if it knew a secret you couldn't speak.