The ship's horn cut through the sea mist like a blade.
Elias was still on the cave floor, the silver fragment's warmth fading from his palm. The children had pulled him to his feet, but his legs were rubber. Lyra's hand was in his, her grip tight enough to hurt. The horn sounded again—a long, low note that echoed off the island's black cliffs.
"That's not a rescue signal," Valdez said. She stood at the cave mouth, her sidearm drawn, her eyes on the horizon. "That's a warning."
Elias pushed past her, into the gray light. The sea was no longer empty. A ship had emerged from the mist—a battered freighter, its hull patched with mismatched plates, its deck crowded with shipping containers and makeshift gun turrets. No flag. No name. But it moved with purpose, cutting through the swells towar
