*Sabrina*
The smoke still hangs low over the sand, curling like ghosts around broken crates and torn sails, and the air reeks of gunpowder and blood. I press a cloth to the cut on a sailor’s arm, whispering something comforting even though my own hands won’t stop shaking. Isla kneels beside me, tying a bandage with quick, practiced fingers around his leg.
“We got lucky,” she murmurs. “There would have been more of them than us, if we’d met up with them at sea.”
I nod, though nothing about this feels like luck. Men are limping. One is unconscious. A few will bear scars they didn’t have yesterday, but we’re all alive.
Gabriel paces near the boats, barking orders, keeping the remaining crew sharp while we get ready for departure. Tomas hauls a barrel toward the waterline, his face smudge
