The sea stretched endlessly in all directions, black as ink beneath the sliver of a moon that peeked through the storm-streaked sky. No land. No light. Nothing but the whisper of waves against the hull.
Arden Shadowborne stood at the ship's helm, one hand resting lightly on the tiller, the other gripping a dagger at his belt. The Nightgale was not a warship, nor a vessel meant for long voyages. It was a sleek, nimble craft designed for speed and discretion—perfect for slipping past prying eyes unnoticed.
But some eyes saw everything.
Behind him, Elowen Blackthorn stood near the prow, her gaze fixed on the distant horizon. Even here, at sea, where most would be at the mercy of the elements, she carried herself as if she still sat on her throne. The wind toyed with the loose strands of her silver hair, her black coat billowing slightly as she stood motionless.
She was waiting.
So was Arden.
