The deck was slick with seawater and blood. The ship groaned beneath them, battered and barely afloat. Smoke curled from broken lanterns, and the air stank of salt, death, and burnt flesh.
Bodies—some whole, some mangled beyond recognition—lay strewn across the wood. A thick silence hung over the crew, broken only by labored breathing and the occasional creak of the mast.
Yara stood near the railing, hands braced against the splintered wood, chest heaving as she tried to steady herself. Her arms burned from exhaustion, her clothes clinging to her skin, heavy with seawater and grime. The adrenaline had worn off, leaving her hollow and shaking.
She decided to go below deck to change her clothes before joining in clearing the carnage left behind from their battle.
Behind her, Val was furious.
Not at her. Not just at her. At everything.
