VENGEFUL SPIRIT

Asha met Corvin's smirk with a calm, steady gaze.

She had dealt with men like him before—men who mistook silence for weakness, who thought that power was measured in muscle and intimidation.

She could kill him before he drew his knife. A flick of the wrist, a well-placed strike, and he'd be another body for the sea to claim.

But she didn't want to make enemies. Not yet.

"I'm not here to cause trouble," she said, keeping her voice even.

Corvin chuckled, shaking his head. "That's the thing about trouble. It don't care if you want it or not."

A few crew members watched from a distance, their expressions wary but curious. Asha sighed. If she fought Corvin now, she'd either have to kill him or risk the entire crew turning against her. She didn't need that kind of attention.

She reached for the dagger at her belt—slowly, deliberately—then held it out, handle first. "If you want a fight, take it."

Corvin's smirk faltered. He eyed the blade, then her, as if trying to decide whether this was a trick.

"What's this?"

"A test."

She took a step closer, lowering her voice. "Take the knife. Try to kill me. If you can."

A pause. A shift in the air.

Then Corvin laughed—a deep, guttural sound—but there was unease beneath it. He had expected fear, resistance, maybe even an argument. But not this.

He didn't take the dagger.

Instead, he spat over the railing and shook his head. "You're not worth the trouble." Then, louder, for the rest of the crew: "But if you want to keep your place on this ship, you'll work like the rest of us."

Asha nodded once. A fair trade.

For now.

The days that followed were filled with labor. Asha hauled ropes, scrubbed decks, helped with the rigging. She moved with quiet efficiency, listening more than speaking, learning the rhythms of the ship and its crew.

She learned that the captain's name was Renlow, a veteran sailor who had little patience for foolishness but valued skill. She learned that Corvin had been with him for years, acting as both enforcer and quartermaster. She learned that the ship, The Black Gull, wasn't just a merchant vessel—it was a smuggler's ship, carrying goods and secrets across dangerous waters.

And she learned that they were heading toward a place called Thornspire.

A city of thieves, assassins, and exiles.

It was exactly the kind of place Asha needed.

But something felt wrong.

She could sense it in the way the crew whispered when they thought no one was listening. The way Captain Renlow seemed tense, his eyes always on the horizon. The way Corvin watched her—not with anger, but calculation.

Something was coming.

And it found her that night.

Asha woke to silence.

A different kind of silence.

The ship creaked beneath her, the waves lapping softly against the hull, but the usual sounds of the night crew—shuffling footsteps, murmured voices—were gone.

She was being hunted.

She didn't move, didn't even open her eyes fully. Instead, she listened.

A soft step. The scrape of metal against wood.

Then—movement.

Asha rolled to the side just as a blade buried itself into the mattress where she had been lying. She sprang up, drawing her own knife, her heart calm even as adrenaline surged through her veins.

The assassin moved fast, slashing again. Asha dodged, barely, feeling the sting of the blade as it nicked her shoulder. She countered with a sharp thrust, but her attacker twisted away, fluid and practiced.

In the dim lantern light, she caught a glimpse of him.

Lean. Dressed in dark leathers. A mask covering his lower face.

Not a simple cutthroat. A professional.

Which meant someone had sent him.

The ship rocked, and the assassin used the movement to lunge forward, aiming for her throat. Asha caught his wrist, twisting sharply. The knife clattered to the floor.

She drove her knee into his ribs, forcing him back, then flipped her dagger in her grip and pressed it to his throat.

"Who sent you?" she demanded.

The assassin said nothing.

Asha pressed harder. "Speak."

A chuckle—low, rasping. Then, to her surprise, he whispered, "You're not as free as you think."

Then he bit down.

A sickening crunch.

Asha jerked back, but it was too late. His body convulsed once, then went still.

Poison.

Asha swore under her breath, stepping away as the assassin's body sagged against the wall. His eyes were open, unseeing, his mouth tinged with black where the poison had burned through.

She wiped her blade clean and searched his body. No identifying marks. No insignia. Just a single slip of parchment tucked into his belt.

She unfolded it.

One word.

Asha.

The ship was quiet as she slipped onto the deck, the note tucked into her sleeve. The night crew was still at their posts, oblivious to what had just happened below.

She found Captain Renlow near the stern, his hands on the wheel, eyes on the dark horizon. He glanced at her as she approached.

"Trouble?" he asked, as if he already knew the answer.

Asha tossed the assassin's knife onto the wooden railing. "Someone sent him for me."

Renlow exhaled through his nose. "Figured as much."

She studied him. "You knew?"

"I knew someone dangerous had boarded my ship." His gaze flicked to her. "Didn't know how dangerous until now."

Asha crossed her arms. "And?"

Renlow shrugged. "And nothing. You paid for passage. I don't ask questions unless they put my ship at risk." He looked back at the sea. "But someone wants you dead, and that's bad for business."

Asha tapped the note against the railing. "Who would know I'm here?"

Renlow didn't answer right away. Then, after a long pause, he said, "Thornspire's full of eyes. Word gets around."

Asha frowned. "I haven't set foot in Thornspire yet."

Renlow's grip tightened on the wheel. "You don't have to."

Asha felt something cold settle in her gut.

She had spent years in the shadows, hunting, killing, surviving. But someone had been watching her.

And they had been waiting.

She clenched her fists.

She wasn't done after all