The morning after a storm was always too quiet.
The Stormrider drifted through the sky, its crimson sails catching the first rays of a pale sunrise. The clouds once a raging sea of black and silver were now a soft wash of pink and gold. But the stillness wasn't peaceful. It was a silence that felt loaded, like the click of a pistol right before it fired.
And inside Alistair Von Wolfenstein's cabin, the storm hadn't passed at all.
It still burned.
The air was thick with the scent of rum, leather, and something darker something raw. The map to the Iron Tempest lay forgotten on Alistair's desk, crumpled beneath the weight of the night before.
Alistair leaned against the edge of the table, his shirt half-buttoned, his hair an untamed mess though whether from sleep or from Seraphina's fingers in it last night, he wasn't sure.
He wasn't alone.
Seraphina Blackthorn stood by the porthole, gazing out at the sky, though Alistair doubted she was admiring the sunrise. Her dark hair tumbled down her back, her leathers still clinging to her like a second skin, and her dagger spun idly between her fingers a restless, silent rhythm.
And Isolde Greaves cold, controlled Isolde leaned against the wall near the door. She was the picture of calm, her rapier still at her hip, her loose shirt slipping just off one shoulder, a hint of last night's chaos betrayed by the faint flush still coloring her skin.
The silence between the three of them was louder than the storm had ever been.
Alistair finally broke it.
"Is this the part where you both kill me?" he drawled, though the usual cocky grin couldn't quite hide the tension tightening his jaw. "Or was that just foreplay?"
Seraphina's smile was a sharp thing. "You'd be dead already if it was."
Isolde's gaze didn't waver. "There's always time."
Alistair chuckled softly, though his heart beat a little too fast. "Good to know."
The air still crackled not with skyfire this time, but something far more dangerous.
Because what had happened last night the clash of lips, the tangle of bodies, the unspoken competition between Seraphina and Isolde wasn't over.
It had only awakened something deeper.
And none of them knew how to put it back in its cage.
A knock at the door shattered the silence.
"Cap'n!" Rogan's gravelly voice barked through the wood. "We've got trouble."
Alistair let out a slow breath. "Of course we do."
Seraphina slid her dagger back into its sheath. "Saved by the bell."
Isolde smirked, though her hand still lingered near the hilt of her rapier. "For now."
Alistair opened the door, only to be met by Rogan's scowling face a fresh cigar already clenched between his teeth. Behind him, the crew bustled about the deck, adjusting sails and checking the cannons.
"Varik?" Alistair asked.
Rogan's one good eye darkened. "Not yet. But we've got something worse."
Alistair's stomach tightened. "Worse than Varik?"
Rogan nodded toward the horizon. "Take a look."
Alistair stepped out onto the deck, with Seraphina and Isolde close behind.
And there it was.
A skyship but not just any skyship.
It was massive, its hull blackened and lined with glowing runes, the same runes they'd seen on the Iron Tempest. The sails weren't fabric they were sheets of shimmering metal, rippling as though the ship itself was alive.
But what made Alistair's blood run cold was the emblem painted across its bow a serpent coiled around a broken gear.
Varik's mark.
"He's already found another ship," Seraphina murmured, her jaw tight.
Isolde's voice was like ice. "No. That's not just any ship."
Alistair's fingers tightened around the hilt of his cutlass. "Then what is it?"
Isolde's gaze didn't leave the approaching vessel.
"That," she whispered, "is The Widow's Fang."
Seraphina's head snapped toward her. "That ship was destroyed years ago."
Isolde's lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "So was the Iron Tempest."
The wind picked up, and the Widow's Fang drew closer slow, steady, like a predator circling its prey.
Alistair's mind raced.
Varik hadn't just found a new ship he'd found an ancient warship, one just as cursed as the Iron Tempest.
And now, he was coming for them.
Again.
Alistair let out a slow breath, his cutlass gleaming in the rising sun.
"Well," he muttered, "guess we didn't kill each other last night for nothing."
Seraphina's smile was fierce. "Don't count your luck just yet."
Isolde's voice was calm. "We might still."
And as the Widow's Fang loomed ever closer its dark silhouette cutting through the morning sky Alistair realized the storm wasn't behind them.
It was just beginning.