The salt spray at the Oakhaven harbor did not smell of the ocean. It carried the stench of stagnant tomb air and ozone, clinging to the skin like a shroud. Malphas and Lyra stood at the edge of the rotting pier, watching as the phantom fleet carved through the black water. The vessels were gargantuan, shifting masses of obsidian and bone that seemed to bleed darkness into the harbor.
"They aren't sailing," Lyra muttered, her fingers white-knuckled around the hilt of her dagger. "They are being birthed from the silt."
Valerius stood upon the lead ship, his silhouette towering against the bruised sky. He didn't signal his fleet. He simply walked toward the bow, his golden eyes observing the city with the cold intensity of a predator watching a dying hare.
"He wants to draw us out," Malpha
