Sunlight kissed Marisol's face, and even with her eyes half-shut, it was too bright for her liking.

  It’d been an hour. Maybe two. She still lay sprawled across her stretcher that’d been unceremoniously plunked down on two crates on the quarterdeck of Enrique’s warship. Every inch of her ached beneath the thin layers of bandages the medics had applied to her charred skin. With the air carrying such a salty, breezy brisk, anyone on a normal day would feel refreshed and energetic—but all of them, a thousand or so Guards and Imperators scattered across a fleet of a dozen warships, were anything but that.

  Someone shouted orders nearby, and the warship suddenly groaned beneath her. It’d always been groaning—like it was seconds from splitting apart—but this time it felt different. A shift, subtle at first, then unmistakable.

  The ship lifted off the sea.

  Her stomach lurched with the familiar sensation, and she barely stopped herself from laughing sordidly out loud. Dead Island Straits, she thought. They’d sailed into one of those giant bubbles and were currently defying all known laws of gravity.

  But she couldn’t even be assed to sit up straight and look around at the archipelago that’d given her so much trouble more than half a year ago.

  [... You will do yourself no good dwelling endlessly on the destruction of the Whirlpool City.]

  [It has been conquered by the Swarm for now—accept that as fact and think about what to do from now on.]

  Marisol snorted. “No kidding,” she mumbled, the words barely leaving her lips. Forcing herself to sit upright felt like an act of rebellion against her own body, and pain shot through her ribs, but she ignored it. She’d been getting better at that—ignoring pain.

  The quarterdeck was chaos. Guards and Imperators dashed up and down between the decks, patching holes in the hull and tying down what hadn’t already been tied. Smoke curled from somewhere below deck, and the acrid stench tickled her nose. The triple giant silver sails overhead were billowing at full force, and since her crates had been placed right beside the railings, she peered over and scrunched her nose at the rapidly distancing sea below them.

  They, alongside the rest of the fleet also floating into the air behind them, were already well over fifty metres above sea level.

  “Nice to see this place hasn’t changed, at least,” she muttered dryly.

  Captain Enrique chuckled next to her as he gripped the helm, his posture tense but steady. Victor, standing beside Enrique with both hands clasped over his walking cane, had no comment as he stared straight forward at the vast canyons. Above all of them, Andres perched on the crow’s nest like a hawk, barking incomprehensible commands to the fleet behind them—Marisol’s ears were still ringing a bit too hard for her to tell what he was saying.

  So she looked past him, following Victor’s gaze. The Dead Island Straits was exactly as she remembered. They were deep, cragged canyons carved by time and whatever the name was of the Insect God that’d bled all over the archipelago. Trees grew sideways and vegetation dotted the walls of the canyon. Canopies of vines stretched overhead every once in a while, putting them under cool shades, but then Enrique shouted something at his crew, and all of them started sailing even higher, ascending until they were well above even the giant bone forests at the top of the canyons.

  Marisol remembered this place well.

  The warship jerked slightly, slowly, then settled with a heavy groan as it docked in the middle of one of the bone forests. Around and behind them, the other warships in the fleet did the same, lurching to rest above the jagged canyons.

  Immediately, hundreds of soldiers hopped overboard in droves, ropes and pulleys creaking as they worked to secure the battered vessels. It wasn’t quiet at all. The air buzzed with shouts, commands, and tension, like the moment before a storm.

  But just as Marisol was about to swing her glaives off her stretcher so she could help out somewhere, Victor tapped his walking cane against the quarterdeck in a rhythm that didn’t quite fit the chaos around them.

  Tap.

  Tap. Tap.

  Tap. Tap. Tap.

  And everyone on their warship froze.

  Marisol squinted as well, furrowing her brows as she started looking around the bone forest.

  It began as a whisper, a low, incessant buzzing noise that seemed to rise from the bottom of the canyons. Then they appeared—hundreds of them.

  They soared upwards from the canyons in a flurry of emerald wings, their bodies lean and angular, carrying blowguns and wicked curved blades that gleamed in the sunlight. Their metallic masks and their giant, hexagonal damselfly eyes bore holes into all of them, unblinking as all seven hundred or so of them hovered in perfect synchronization around the fleet.

  Marisol’s breath caught.

  … Damselfly Oracles.

  While the Guards and Imperators backed up against each other, murmuring to themselves with uneasy glances darting towards the hovering tribesmen, a few of the Damselfly Oracles descended, landing lightly on the quarterdeck. Seven of them. All old, wrinkled, and wearing more intricately carved masks.

  Save for one familiar figure.

  The young girl immediately shot forward at Marisol, her smile wide and warm as she immediately tore off her metal mask.

  “Marisol!” Hana’s voice cut through the tension like sunlight through fog. Before Marisol could respond, the young girl was fussing over her, hands fluttering to check her bloody bandages and muttering something about how bright her ‘colour’ was.

  While Hana hovered around her, Victor strode forward, meeting what must be the old chiefs of the Damselfly Oracles with a steady calm that seemed to radiate authority. Marisol couldn’t help but eavesdrop.

  “... The Whirlpool City’s been abandoned,” Victor said bluntly, his cane tapping once more for emphasis as he stared at the six chiefs. “I’m sure all of you have had this thought for an entire month, but our hold on the Deepwater Legion Front is finally compromised. Even you can’t stay here anymore. Without the city’s autocannons firing, the Crawling Seas in the far west will be washing towards the east and swallowing everything in their way. It’s time for everyone to move east—towards the mainland.”

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  The chiefs tilted their heads, their wings twitching as they processed his words. Marisol scanned the soldiers nearby. They were still exchanging nervous glances at the hovering oracles, and she couldn’t really blame them for it. Hovering cannibal tribesmen weren’t exactly the kind of allies that inspired confidence, but Victor must’ve noticed the same thing

  While the chiefs talked quietly amongst themselves, the old man turned casually.

  “Relax,” he said, his voice carrying over the sky effortlessly. “We never made it official, but the Damselfly Oracles have been defending the Dead Island Straits from bugs and marauders for decades under the employment of the Worm God. We’ve been working together long before most of you were even old enough to hold a sword.”

  The tension didn’t suddenly vanish, but Marisol felt it definitely lessened. A few soldiers nodded hesitantly across the fleet, and the whispers started to die down.

  The old man’s words simply have that much sway, huh?

  In the meantime, Victor turned back to the chiefs. “We need materials to repair the warships. A certain Barnacle God’s spines damaged them on our way out of the city,” he said curtly, before glancing around at the warships behind him again. “Every captain should provide their schematics and blueprints to the oracles! Tell them what parts you need to repair your ship with, and they’ll help us out! They ain’t here to eat us alive!”

  …

  Still, the hesitation lingered.

  And Andres chose that moment to roar from the crow’s nest, his voice booming like a cannon shot. “You heard the man! Move! We can’t stay here for long!”

  The Imperatrix’s words got through. The soldiers jolted into action, uncertainty broken through, and the chaos returned. This time, the hundreds of Damselfly Oracles swerved down to every warship’s upper deck to communicate, coordinate, and distribute the workload—they worked together far quicker and far more efficiently than Marisol would’ve thought, but given the soldiers were professionals and the oracles did seem to speak their tongue, maybe it shouldn’t have come as a surprise to her.

  They were in a dire situation, after all.

  So, Marisol swung her glaives off the edge of the stretcher, wincing at the pull of strained muscles beneath bandaged skin. Hana was at her side in an instant, steadying and supporting her with an arm under her shoulder.

  “I help!” Hana said.

  Marisol smiled weakly back. “Thank you.”

  As dozens of soldiers raced off and disappeared into the bone forest in search of materials, accompanied by Damselfly Oracles, Andres leapt down from the crow’s nest and landed with a solid thud that shook the quarterdeck. He strode toward Victor and Enrique, who were already engaged in a conversation of information exchange with the chiefs.

  Marisol, still leaning on Hana, hobbled over as well. Her curiosity was a stubborn thing, refusing to let her rest.

  “How do you know so much about the oracles?” she asked once she was standing directly behind Victor. The old man glanced over his shoulder, a grin splitting his bandaged face.

  “Because I was the one who recruited them nearly thirty years ago alongside the Worm God and the Thousand Tongue,” he answered plainly, clapping one of the oracle chiefs on the shoulder like an old friend. The chief’s expression didn’t soften. If anything, he looked more irritated. “A lot’s changed since then, and I haven’t really met them in about five or six years, but some things stick. They’re still loyal to the Hasharana, as I’m sure you already know—”

  “Damselfly Slayer. There’s something we need to discuss,” one of the chiefs interrupted, his tone clipped. His wings flicked, catching sunlight like shards of stained glass, and Victor’s grin faltered for a second before he nodded.

  “Fine, fine. Old men and old friends need their secrets.” Then he glanced at Marisol, waving her away. “Go find something useful to do, lass. Or not. You’re more than welcome to just lie down and rest a bit longer.”

  …But when he realised Marisol wasn’t hobbling away immediately, he paused and glanced around again.

  “Good work with Eurypteria, by the way,” he said after a moment, his tone softening. “And don’t worry about the city. What happened with it ain’t on you. Also, I promised that you’re going home to your mama with a vial of healing seawater, so don’t sweat it—I’m sure it’ll all work out just fine by the time we get to the Harbour City.”

  …

  There was something in his voice—a certainty that didn’t match the chaos around them—and it left Marisol tilting her head, trying to puzzle it out.

  Before she could press him on it, though, he turned back to the oracle chiefs, waving her away again.

  Hana tugged at her arm. “Come! Let’s find materials for ship!”

  Marisol clenched her jaw and shook her head—half because she was trying to shake away thoughts of the Whirlpool City, and the other half because she actually didn’t want to fly around now. “I’ll help. Just… not yet. There’s something I gotta do first.”

  Hana hesitated, then nodded. “Okay! I scout ahead! Join me when free!”

  With a cheerful wave, the young girl took off, her wings carrying her into the bone forest alongside a dozen other Guards.

  Marisol stood on the quarterdeck for a moment longer, staring at Victor’s back before she turned away. Her muscles were still sending sparks of pain through her body with every slight movement, but she managed to slide her way down onto the upper deck, then make a full turn into the captain’s cabin right underneath.

  The door creaked as she pushed it open, and the sharp smell of blood and antiseptic immediately washed over her. The cabin had been transformed into a dimly-lit, well-ventilated infirmary, with stretchers crammed into every available space. Claudia and half a dozen medics were moving between patients, hands and antennae stitching cuts and disinfecting wounds. There had to be about twenty, thirty injured stuffed in this tiny cabin, but now that they’d docked on steady ground, Claudia was already shouting at her medics to carry a few soldiers out onto the upper deck for fresher air.

  Every bandaged limb, every laboured breath, every bloodstained stretcher—it was all her doing.

  They were all soldiers who’d gotten injured as a result of her decision to stay and fight for the Whirlpool City.

  Her chest tightened, but she stopped thinking when her gaze landed on a trio of familiar faces. Reina, Aidan, and Bruno lay side by side, their bodies battered but alive. Relief hit her like a lightning strike to the chest, sharp and unexpected.

  She moved quickly, ignoring the twinges of pain in her legs and arms as she skated past the medics. Maria was already kneeling next to Reina, and Helena next to her older brothers, but there was room for one more. She dropped to her knees beside Reina’s stretcher, her voice trembling but determined.

  “... You good?”

  Reina’s face was pale, her eyes half-lidded and glassy, but she turned her head toward Marisol. Her lips barely moved as she whispered, “I’m… good.”

  Maria’s notebook was opened on her knee. Her quill scratched against the page with quick, deliberate strokes, and when she finished, she held the notebook up for Reina to see.

  You finally did it, Rei-Rei.

  Eurypteria is dead.

  Reina’s lips twitched into the barest hint of a smile, her hand trembling as she reached out to touch Maria’s arm. Maria reached back, squeezing her hand. Tears glistened in her eyes as she turned her head next, her gaze shifting to Aidan and Bruno lying beside her—both men were still unconscious, their faces slack, but they were undoubtedly still alive.

  “I…” Reina’s voice faltered, her breath catching as she looked up slightly, dipping her head at Helena. “I’m sorry I couldn’t protect them better. I am… a Lighthouse Imperator. I should’ve—”

  “They’re not dead, Miss Reina,” Helena said firmly, her voice thick, her hands balled into fists as she smiled fiercely back. “They’re not dying. Not from this. They’ve been through worse, and they’ll get through this, too.”

  To prove her point—or maybe just to vent—Helena reached over and smacked Aidan and Bruno on their foreheads. Not hard, but just enough to make a point.

  “See?” she said, sniffling. “They’re too stubborn to die. Idiots.”

  A soft laugh behind them broke the tension, and Marisol looked over her shoulder to see Claudia leaning against the wall, her arms crossed.

  “Ain’t nobody’s dyin’ on my watch,” Claudia said, weary but warm. “I don’t care how bad it looks. I’m here, and I don’t lose patients once they’re in my care. Got it?”

  A fragile sense of hope filled the cabin, fragile but real. Marisol felt it settle in her chest—a small, flickering light against the darkness of everything that had happened.

  They’re alive.

  They’ll be fine.

  She let out a shaky breath, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. At least something good had come from all this—the death of Eurypteria.

  But before she could dwell on it, the cabin door swung open further behind all of them. Heavy footsteps approached, and Marisol turned to see Victor standing in the doorway.

  He didn’t look like his usual sharp-edged self. His bandaged face was grim, his cane tapping against the floor as he stepped inside.

  “Lass,” he said briskly. “Come with me.”

  Marisol pushed herself to her feet, her body protesting every movement. “What’s wrong?”

  Victor glanced at Maria and Claudia, then back at Marisol. “There’s a problem with the Dead Island Straits. Maria, Claudia, you’re coming too. All able-bodied Lighthouse Imperators should be there as well.”

  Chapters remaining: 18

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