The channels beyond Ashport narrowed into black water veins, curling between teeth of jagged reef. Mira kept the tiller firm in her hand, feeling the tide tug and twist beneath her. Each bend hid more shadows. The stars were clear overhead, but their light barely touched the water.
She'd run these waters before.
From under the tarp, Solomon stirred. "You're… not going toward the open sea."
Mira didn't answer. Talking with him will only distract her, and distractions got you dead out here. She'd learned that the hard way.
A faint splash came from behind them, too heavy for a fish. Mira's grip on the tiller tightened. She shifted the sail just enough to catch more wind, feeling the skiff jump forward.
"You're avoiding something," Solomon said quietly.
She flicked her eyes over her shoulder. Black water. No movement. But the air felt… wrong. Like the moments before a fight, when everyone waits for someone else to throw the first punch.
"You hear that?" he asked.
"Quiet," she said.
The quiet itself was the answer—no gulls, no night fish breaking the surface, just the hush of the wind and the low creak of the skiff. That kind of silence meant something big was moving below.
Then came the sound—a low, resonant groan from under the hull. Mira felt it in her feet before she heard it.
Solomon pushed the tarp aside enough to see her face. "That's not a ship."
"No," she said. "It's worse."
Something scraped the bottom, slowly intentionely. The skiff rocked, and a pale shape slid under the surface, larger than the boat itself. Mira swore under her breath and yanked the tiller hard, steering toward the nearest reef.
"That'll tear us apart," Solomon said.
"Better sharp rock than teeth," she shot back.
The shape surged forward, cutting them off. The water bulged, and a massive head broke the surface—slick black skin, eyes the size of her fists, and a mouth lined with hooked teeth like a shark's, but far too many rows. Its jaw unhinged wider than any creature had a right to.
The people called it a deep-maw. Mira had never wanted to meet one.
The beast circled, sending the skiff rolling on the swell. Mira's hand went to the long knife at her belt. She could fight, but in a skiff this small, there'd be nowhere to run if the thing came straight at them.
Then Solomon moved he open one of the jar that was near him and take the orange powder from his both hands.
He wasn't steady—still pale, still weak—but he leaned over the side and plunged both hands into the water.
"What the hell are you—?" Mira began, but stopped.
The water around his hands shimmered faintly, like moonlight trapped beneath the surface. The deep-maw slowed, its massive head turning toward him. The shimmer spread out in rings, and for a heartbeat, the creature simply floated there, jaws half-open, staring.
Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, it sank back into the dark. The water closed over it with hardly a ripple.
Mira stared at him. "What did you just do?"
Solomon slumped back, breathing hard. "I simply ruined his appetite.."
She blinked. "Ruin its appetite?"
"Thanks to you they were Papricka in this pot," he murmured. "I just poured it in the water."
"But how did it make him cut his appetite."
"Its the spices i heard from someone that this could repel some fish, i only got lucky this time it works."
Mira didn't like that answer. She liked even less that her heart was still hammering from the way the deep-maw was going to eat them.
She set the sail again and steered toward a narrow gap in the reef. If the creature came back, she wanted stone between them. The gap was barely wider than the skiff, and the tide sucked at them, but on the other side the water opened into a small cove surrounded by high black cliffs.
It was quiet here, sheltered. No lanterns, no voices. Just a half-sunken dock leaning out from a strip of shingle beach.
Mira nosed the skiff in and tied it fast. "Smuggler's anchorage," she said, seeing his questioning look. "Not on any chart worth owning."
She helped him out, his weight still dragging at her. He was steadier now, but there was a strange heat in his skin, he mostly have taken a cold.
They sat near the dock, the skiff rocking gently in the shallows.
"You still haven't told me why the serpents want you," she said.
"I don't know," he said, though there was a pause before the words.
"You don't know, or you don't want to tell me?"
His mouth twitched. "I really don't know."
Mira leaned back on her hands, watching the moonlight slide across the water. "You've got the eyes of a marked man. And you just make a deep-maw go away like it was a stubborn mule. That's not exactly normal dock trash."
"I was never dock trash, or anything like that" he said, his voice sharp for the first time.
"Like what?"
He didn't answer right away. "There are things, i prefer not to say."
"That's not an answer."
"It's all I've got."
She snorted. "No wonder the serpents want you. You talk like a half-mad man."
He actually smiled faintly at that, though it didn't reach his eyes.
The tide shifted outside the cove, a low hiss through the reef. Mira was about to suggest getting some rest when she heard it—oars. More than one set, steady and deliberate.
She stood, scanning the cove mouth. Shadows slid into view—three narrow boats, hulls painted black to drink the moonlight.
Figures stood in the bows, wrapped in dark cloth. No serpent patches. No colors at all.
One of them raised a hand. "Mira Kellan," a voice called, low but carrying. "You've got something that belongs to us."
Mira's jaw tightened. "Funny, I don't recall owing anyone here."
"You do now," the voice replied. "Hand it over, and we'll let you alone."
Mira didn't move. Her hand slid down toward the knife at her belt, fingers brushing the hilt without gripping it fully. The way these men spoke—calm, certain—meant they were either bluffing or holding the winning hand.
The leader stood in the bow of the middle boat, the only one with his hood pushed back. His face was all angles—cheekbones sharp enough to cut rope, skin weathered like driftwood. His eyes were the color of cold steel.
"What exactly is it you think I have?" she asked.
He smiled, but there was no warmth in it. "The boy."
"Not mine to hand over," Mira said.
"That's generous," the man replied, his voice dropping a shade lower. "But see, it's not about ownership. He's marked, whether you know it or not. You'll be doing yourself a favor."
Behind her, Solomon shifted, leaning just enough to peer past her shoulder. She felt the movement and hissed at him without looking back.
The man in the bow noticed. "Ah," he said softly. "Still alive. Good. That will make the delivery worth the trip."
Two of the boats angled in, blocking the cove mouth. The third hung back, oars resting in the water like patient serpents.
Mira's mind worked fast—she had one boat, one half-fit passenger, and one knife. Fighting was suicide. Running… also suicide unless she got the wind right and slipped the reef without snapping her mast.
"Why?" she asked. "What's so special about him that you rowed into a smuggler's graveyard after dark?"
The man tilted his head, studying her like she was an interesting puzzle. "Do you believe in debts, Mira Kellan?"
"I believe in paying my own, not in other people's games."
"Then you'll understand this—he carries a debt heavier than you or me, and it's come due. Now, bring him."
One of the other boats drifted close enough for her to hear the creak of oarlocks. Shadows shifted—men standing, ready to leap across the gap if she hesitated.
Mira forced her voice flat. "Last I checked, debts are settled between the one who owes and the one who's owed. I'm not part of this."
"You are now," the man said, his smile sharpening.
Behind her, Solomon whispered, "Mira… I can't go with them."
"No kidding," she murmured back.
"Not for the reason you think. If they take me off these waters alive, others will follow. Worse than pirates. Worse than—" He broke off, breath catching.
"Worse than the deep-maw?" she said, trying to keep her tone dry, but a cold ripple ran down her spine.
"Much worse."
Mira weighed her options, which didn't take long—they all ended badly. But bad could still be played for time.
She straightened and called to the steel-eyed man. "If I'm handing him over, I want to know who's asking."
The man's grin widened, but this time it looked genuine, in a predator's way. He tugged the dark cloth from his shoulders, letting the moon catch on something at his throat—a pendant shaped like a semi moon.
Every smuggler, thief, and dockhand in Ashport knew the symbol. Moonfang. The ones who could find anyone, anywhere.
Mira felt her gut twist.
Solomon's hand closed weakly on her sleeve. "Don't," he said.
But the Moonfang man only gestured, and his rowers leaned forward, the boats sliding closer. "Time's up, Kellan."
The skiff rocked under Mira's boots. She kept her eyes on him, but in her mind she was already seeing the map of the cove, the wind's faint push, the reef's teeth.
She might have one move left. And if she made it wrong, they'd both be dead before the tide turned.