The fishing trawler churned through the black Atlantic, its engine a low, persistent thrum that vibrated through the deck. Behind them, the island burned—a pyre of flame and smoke that stained the horizon a deep, angry orange. Corvus was dying, its secrets turning to ash, its legacy consumed by the fire that Caleb had set in motion. The buyers had scattered like roaches, their helicopters and speedboats disappearing into the night. The archive was destroyed. The Collection was gone.
But the war was not over.
Caleb stood at the stern, watching the island shrink into the distance. His body was a ruin of pain and exhaustion—the wound in his side had torn open during the fight with Voss, and his hands were stained with blood, some of it his own. He should have collapsed hours ago. But someth
