Syrena's arms ached, her muscles screaming with every kick, every drag of water against Sawyer's weight. But she didn't stop.
Not when the crew needed him.
Not when she still heard the Spaniards' ships echoing in her mind.
She spotted the shadow of land at last — a narrow, rocky island jutting from the waves like a broken tooth. Smoke curled in the distance from shipwreck fires. The smell of burning wood and salt filled the air.
The moment her feet scraped sand beneath the surf, she hauled Sawyer over her shoulder, stumbling as waves battered her legs. His arm dangled limp over her back, his breathing ragged but steady.
When she reached dry land, voices rose in disbelief.
"Syrena!"
"It's the Captain—he's alive!"
"Bloody hell—she carried him the whole way?"
The surviving crew had gathered beneath the cliffs — maybe a dozen, all battered, bruised, and soaked through. They rushed toward her but stopped cold when they saw her fully: soaked, half limping, dragging their captain like a sack of potatoes.
Syrena collapsed to her knees, lowering Sawyer carefully to the ground.
"Someone get water," she rasped. "And firewood. He's cold."
A moment of silence lingered before Harrow moved first, still bandaged and limping himself. "She… she carried him nearly an hour," he said, stunned.
"She did," another whispered. "Storm's strength…"
Syrena ignored them.
She peeled Sawyer's coat from his soaked frame, checking his wound, fingers trembling slightly. He stirred, eyes fluttering half-open.
His gaze met hers, blurry, but focused.
"You—dragged me…?" he murmured, voice rough and hoarse.
"Shut up," she muttered, brushing wet hair from her face. "You're heavier than you look."
Sawyer chuckled weakly, then winced in pain. He didn't have the strength to respond and drifted back into unconsciousness
The crew gathered around, quieter now, eyes flicking between their fearless captain—wounded and near-dead—and the strange girl who had saved him from both Spaniards and sea.
Harrow knelt beside her. "You saved us all," he said quietly.
But Syrena didn't look up. Her eyes stayed on Sawyer, her hands working methodically, as if keeping them busy might silence the flood of fear and something else she still didn't want to name.
Above them, the sky remained gray, but the rain had stopped. The sea, for now, was calm.
The island was no paradise.
Rocks jutted like jagged bones from the sand, the trees sparse and wind-bent. But it was land. And for now, it was safety.
Syrena stood, brushing dirt from her scraped knees. Sawyer lay unconscious behind her, chest barely rising.
They obeyed.
Within minutes, the crew scattered along the beach and into the shallow woods, leaving only Syrena and Harrow behind.
She knelt again beside Sawyer, his skin pale, lips tinged with blue. The gash at his ribs still bled sluggishly. His pulse was weak.
He didn't have long
She looked up at Harrow, who was crouched nearby, watching silently.
"I need your help," she said at last.
He blinked. "What do you need?"
"To trust me." Her voice dropped low. "And to keep a secret."
He raised a brow.
She took a breath. "Did you ever wonder how your wounds healed so fast after the sirens? When you were barely breathing?"
Harrow's face stilled.
His eyes narrowed, and he gave a small nod. "I did. Figured it wasn't just luck. Or rum."
Syrena gave a dry smile. "It wasn't."
He looked from her to Sawyer, then back again.
"I'm not going to ask what you are," he said quietly. "But… you saved me. And now him. You've earned more than trust."
She studied him a moment longer, then nodded. "Good."
She pressed her palm gently to Sawyer's chest, just over the wound. She closed her eyes, and began to hum — the same low, haunting melody he had never heard before
A soft glow pulsed beneath her skin, traveling from her fingertips into his body. The wound knit together slowly, blood drying, the torn flesh sealing smooth.
Sawyer gasped suddenly, arching slightly off the ground as breath filled his lungs.
Then silence.
He fell still again — but now, he was healing. The color slowly returning to his skin.
Syrena leaned back, exhausted.
Harrow just stared.
"That song…" he murmured.
She looked at him. Her voice was soft, but clear.
"We need to talk."