Siren song

The Burning

They kept her on deck while the Maiden’s Fortune died. Kyria’s wrists were bound behind her, the coarse rope biting deep, her dress torn and heavy with salt. Two pirates flanked her, their hands rough on her arms as if she might throw herself into the sea and rob them of their prize.

The black-sailed ship, The Widow’s Wail; rode beside the burning wreck like a carrion bird. Its hull was darker than the sea itself, its rails lined with men who laughed and shouted as fire devoured what was left of the Fortune. Flames climbed the mast, bright and hungry, turning the shredded sails to glowing ash that drifted like falling stars across the water. The smell of pitch and smoke filled the air. Every few moments, a sharp crack split the silence, timber breaking, the ship’s bones giving way.

Kyria stared, throat tight, unable to look away. The heat licked her face; the reflection of the fire danced in her eyes. “A fine pyre,” one of the men near her said, grinning around his pipe. “Fit for a ship that thought she could outrun us.”

“Hush it,” the other muttered, casting a wary glance toward their captain.

The man stood a few paces away, motionless at the rail. His pale eyes glimmered in the firelight, fixed on the sinking ship. His crew might have been celebrating, but he wasn’t smiling. Kyria’s gaze found Tate among the prisoners, hands bound, face streaked with blood. He was alive. Barely. When he saw her, he tried to lift his head, managed a faint nod. That small, broken gesture struck harder than any blow.

“You should’ve left me,” she whispered under her breath.

The Fortune gave a long, low groan as her hull began to split. The flames hissed when they met the sea, steam curling like ghosts around the dying mast. “Never seen one sink so pretty, have you, love?” one of the pirates jeered beside her, leaning close enough that she could smell the rum on his breath.

Kyria said nothing. Her nails bit into her palms. The captain turned then, his voice low but cutting clean through the noise. “Cut her loose.”

The sailor hesitated. “Sir?”

“She’s not going anywhere,” he said. “Let her see what the sea takes.”

The ropes around her wrists were sliced. Kyria stumbled forward, steadying herself on the rail. No one stopped her when she leaned over it. Below, the Maiden’s Fortune was half gone, her deck tilted sharply as the waves climbed higher over the bow. The water glowed gold and red where the fire met it. Bits of wreckage floated free, a crate, a plank, a torn scrap of sail. She watched the nameplate slip beneath the waves, the last piece of her journey to the colonies vanishing with it. The glow dimmed, then disappeared into the dark.

“It was taking me home,” she whispered, voice shaking. “He was waiting for me.”

The captain’s tone was unreadable when he answered. “Then he’ll wait a long while yet.”

Kyria turned toward him, grief flaring into anger. “You don’t know what you’ve done.”

“I know exactly what I’ve done,” he said. “I’ve reminded you what the sea is. You give her what she asks for, or she takes it herself.”

“And what does she give back?”

He met her gaze for a long, quiet moment before answering. “Nothing that lasts.”

The Fortune vanished beneath the surface with a final, hollow moan. The ripples reached the Wail, rocking her gently, almost tenderly. Kyria gripped the rail, knuckles white. Beneath the surface, something stirred. A sound, faint and deep thrummed through the hull. Like the sea was breathing. Listening. None of the pirates noticed. But she did. The water was not silent. It was waiting.