I had considered throwing my second in command overboard three times since sunrise. Not permanently, probably, but losing our charts during Parliament’s latest attempt to put a rope around my neck was impressive even by his standards. One poorly secured case and one naval shot too near the stern had sent our navigation into the sea while The Widow’s Hymn slipped through their line. We escaped without the maps, leaving me to navigate unfamiliar currents with little more than the sun, memory, and a growing desire to strangle someone.

Then came the grumbling about provisions. We had enough stores for several days, but my crew apparently considered that an impending famine, and eventually their complaints became more irritating than stopping. I allowed a few nets to be cast. Fill the stores, quiet the bellyaching, then make sail before our luck found another way to sour.

I was studying the horizon when someone called for me. Judging by the strain on the first net, I expected wreckage caught among the absurd number of fish near the surface. Instead, when it cleared the rail, pearlescent scales flashed blue and violet among the silver catch.

Merfolk were no myth, though a sailor could spend decades at sea without seeing one alive. I'd been among the fortunate few, which was precisely why I recognized the male lying motionless in my net.

The Sea King.

Every grievance I'd carried since the naval attack vanished as I approached. There would be no cool greeting this time, no reminder about where The Widow’s Hymn was permitted to sail. He was gone, and with that realization came another far less welcome one.

I knew these waters. His waters. Of all the damned stretches of ocean available to us, we'd sailed blind into the kingdom where I'd personally given my word that The Widow’s Hymn would pass without lingering or interference.

Now its king lay upon my deck.

The fish surrounding him suddenly seemed far more important. There were too many, packed near the surface in numbers I'd rarely seen. Schools this large didn't gather for our convenience. Something had driven them upward, and before I could determine what, the second net came over the rail.

Another flash of iridescence caught the light. Royal scales. Guest landed upon the deck tangled in the net, alive, and for one remarkably long moment I considered whether the sea had developed a personal grievance against me.

Then The Widow’s Hymn lurched hard enough to send the deck pitching beneath my boots. I caught the rail as lines snapped taut overhead and the water beside us rolled outward in a widening circle. Something enormous moved beneath the surface, a ridged shape briefly breaking through the swell before disappearing again.

I'd sailed these waters before. Whatever that creature was, it didn't belong here. The dead King, his living heir, the fish fleeing toward the surface, and now this. I didn't need the whole story to know we'd lingered long enough.

Cut the nets and make sail. I want every scrap of canvas she can carry.

My gaze dropped briefly to Guest. Whatever waited beneath those waters, returning the King's heir to them was no longer an option.

Hands to the lines. Bring her about. We're leaving.