The cell stank of brine and rust, of mold blooming on wood soaked through too many times to resist decay. Rian lay curled in the corner of the brig, shackled at the ankles, his cheek pressed to the damp planks. Above, the creak of rigging and the slap of waves against hull marked time like a dying heartbeat.
His eyelids felt too heavy to lift. Sleep was no comfort — too shallow, too fleeting, pierced by every clang of boots or splash of water through the leaking walls. Still, he hovered in a haze between exhaustion and adrenaline, the kind that came from hiding something powerful in plain sight.
His hand curled tighter around the cloth-wrapped bundle at his chest.
Saltwater stung where they'd torn skin from his back and ribs — reminders of his failed escape.
