The Stormrider drifted in the calm aftermath, its crimson sails limp, the sky around them eerily silent. The Iron Tempest was gone or at least, what was left of it. All that remained was a swirling mass of faint blue smoke, glowing embers of skyfire flickering in the void.
Alistair Von Wolfenstein stood at the bow, a half-empty bottle of black rum swinging from his fingers. His coat was still scorched from the blast, his knuckles bloodied from a fight he barely remembered. The taste of metal and adrenaline lingered on his tongue.
The Iron Tempest was a ruin but the war wasn't over.
Behind him, the Stormrider's crew worked in grim silence, patching what could be salvaged, securing what remained of their weapons, and casting uneasy glances at the sky. Because while the storm had passed, the threat of Varik still hung like a blade above their heads.
And the real storm the one swirling beneath Alistair's ribs was far from over.
"You're brooding again."
Seraphina's voice slithered into his thoughts, smooth and sharp. She leaned against the mast, her dark hair still damp from the storm, her leathers clinging to her like a second skin. The twin daggers at her thighs gleamed in the dying light.
Alistair grinned, though it felt heavier than usual. "You'd miss me if I didn't."
She tilted her head, a sly smile curving her lips. "I'd survive."
He chuckled softly. "You always do."
The silence between them wasn't uncomfortable no, it crackled like a spark waiting for a flame. Every stolen glance, every too-long brush of fingers, every battle fought side by side it had built into something dangerous.
Something neither of them dared name.
Not yet.
Seraphina stepped closer close enough that Alistair could smell the salt on her skin, the faint scent of leather and danger. "That ship wasn't just a weapon," she murmured. "It was alive."
Alistair's smile faded. "And now it's dead."
Her fingers grazed the hilt of her dagger. "Are you sure?"
Before he could answer
"I hope I'm not interrupting."
The voice was a blade, smooth and cold.
Isolde Greaves.
She stood at the base of the stairs leading to the bow, her long coat trailing behind her like a dark shadow. Rain still clung to her midnight hair, and her rapier though sheathed seemed ready to strike.
Alistair's jaw tightened. The space between him and Seraphina suddenly felt a little too small.
"Not at all," Alistair drawled, though his pulse had quickened. "Always a pleasure, Lady Greaves."
Isolde's smile didn't touch her eyes. "I can see that."
Seraphina didn't move didn't step away, didn't blink. She merely studied Isolde with the same predatory calm she reserved for enemies.
The storm was gone, but the tension oh, the tension was alive and well.
"Did you come for a reason, Isolde?" Seraphina asked, her voice honeyed steel.
Isolde's gaze flicked to Alistair. "I came to talk about Varik."
Alistair arched a brow. "You mean the man who tried to kill us again?"
Isolde stepped closer, each move deliberate, controlled. "He's not done. You know that."
Seraphina's dagger spun between her fingers. "Good. Neither am I."
Alistair exhaled through his nose, his cutlass resting against his hip. "As much as I enjoy watching the two of you circle each other like a pair of skyhawks, let's focus on the enemy who's not standing on my ship."
Isolde's lips curved not a smile, but something more dangerous. "Are you sure about that?"
The words hung in the air a loaded gun between them.
Because the truth was, Alistair wasn't sure.
Was Varik the enemy or was the greater danger standing right in front of him?
One woman of fire, unpredictable and fierce.
One woman of ice, calculated and deadly.
And him a captain caught between two storms, each one as likely to kill him as kiss him.
The Captain's Quarters Later That Night…
The air was thick with rum and secrets.
Alistair sat at his desk, the map to the Iron Tempest now useless crumpled in one hand. The other hand nursed the bottle of black rum, his thoughts a tangled mess of battles, betrayals… and the two women who seemed determined to drive him mad.
The knock at his door was soft. Too soft.
"Enter," Alistair said, though he already knew who it was.
The door creaked open and Seraphina stepped inside.
Her coat was gone, leaving only the tight leather vest and worn trousers that clung to her like a second skin. Her daggers were still strapped to her thighs, though now they felt less like weapons and more like ornaments a reminder of what she was.
Dangerous. Beautiful. Deadly.
"You're drinking alone," Seraphina said, her voice a whisper of smoke. "That's a bad habit, Captain."
Alistair leaned back in his chair, the bottle swinging from his fingers. "I have a few of those."
She stepped closer too close. Close enough that he could see the scar along her collarbone, the faint sheen of sweat at her throat.
And then
Another knock.
Before Alistair could speak, the door opened again.
Isolde.
Her coat was gone too replaced by a loose shirt that dipped just low enough to hint at the curve of her collarbone. Her rapier still hung at her hip, but like Seraphina's daggers, it felt more like a warning than a weapon.
The air thickened.
Alistair's grin faltered just for a heartbeat.
"Twice in one night?" he mused, his voice lower now. "I must be lucky."
Seraphina's gaze flicked to Isolde. "Or cursed."
Isolde's smile was pure ice. "Aren't those the same thing?"
The silence that followed was not soft. It was a blade's edge, sharp and waiting to draw blood.
Alistair set the bottle down slowly, deliberately. "If this is about Varik"
"It's not," Seraphina said.
"Not entirely," Isolde added.
Their eyes never left each other two storms circling the same center.
And Alistair…
He was the center.
The storm outside was gone but the real tempest was in this room.
And it was about to break.