Chapter 22 Ready Aim FIRE
I hit the upper deck and stepped straight into a wound.
Splinters bit into the soles of my feet before I could find my balance. The air burned—rope and pitch scorched to something bitter that crawled up my nose and settled thick on my tongue. I tasted it when I breathed, when I swallowed. It didn’t go away.
Another cannon cracked the world open.
Too close.
The sound rattled through my skull, sharp enough to make my teeth ache. Something burst to my left—wood, maybe a barrel—and shards rained down, stinging where they struck my arms. Men shouted over each other, voices snapping and breaking, no rhythm to it except urgency.
I kept my eyes on the deck in front of me. Blackened. Slick. Alive with boots and blood and movement.
Don’t fall.
Don’t stop.
A hand slammed into my chest and stopped me cold. I looked up into Silas Marroway.
He stood braced beside a cannon, boots planted wide, arms streaked black with powder and sweat. His eyes cut sharp as broken glass.
“What are you doing up here?” he barked.
“Helping,” I shot back, though the word nearly vanished under another blast.
His gaze dragged over me—quick, measuring. Like he was deciding if I was worth the space I took up. Then he jerked his chin toward the stack of cannonballs at my feet.
“Feed the gun. Fast.”
I dropped without thinking.
The first ball rolled under my hands, heavier than it looked. Cold. Greasy. It left a dark smear across my palms that didn’t wipe away when I shifted my grip.
I shoved it toward him.
Silas caught it, jammed it into the cannon’s mouth, and snapped his hand out for the rammer.
I already had it.
The wood was worn smooth where other hands had held it. I drove it forward, shoulders straining, the force of it jolting up my arms.
No space to think.
No room to hesitate.
The Red Eel loomed through the smoke.
Closer than I wanted.
Close enough to see faces.
Men lined her deck, teeth bared, eyes bright with something sharp and hungry. Red paint slicked her hull, wet as fresh blood.
My stomach twisted.
Keep moving.
At the helm, Fisk stood like the storm had grown a spine and decided to wear his shape. The wheel fought him, the ship bucking beneath his hands, but he didn’t give an inch.
“Starboard!” his voice cut clean through the chaos. “RELOAD!” It hit me harder than the cannon fire.
Steady.
Certain.
I grabbed another ball before I could think about why that mattered.
Pass. Load. Ram. Fire.
I let the rhythm take me. Each blast punched through my bones, the recoil snapping up my spine, but my body learned it fast—how to lean, how to brace, how to move with the deck instead of against it.
Silas worked beside me like a machine that had forgotten how to stop. Between shots, he flicked a look at me. Not soft. Not kind. But he didn’t tell me to leave.
“You done this before?” he shouted.
I shook my head, breath coming hard. “No.”
Didn’t have the air for more. His mouth twitched, almost something like approval. Another volley screamed in from the Red Eel.
Too high.
The mast above us exploded.
For a heartbeat, everything slowed.
The crack of wood splitting. The long, awful groan before it gave. Splinters hung in the air like they hadn’t decided where to fall yet.
Then they did.
I moved—
Too slow.
Silas hit me like a wall.
We went down hard, the deck slamming into my side, the air knocked clean out of my lungs. Something massive crashed where I’d been standing a breath ago, the impact shuddering through the boards. For a second, I couldn’t breathe.
Couldn’t think.
Just the ringing in my ears and the weight of him pinning me to the deck. Then he was off me, already cursing.
“You want to die,” he snapped, hauling himself up, “you do it on your own time. Not mine.”
I sucked in a breath that burned all the way down. A laugh broke out of me before I could stop it—sharp, wild, a little unhinged.
“Yes, sir.”
We crawled back to the cannon like nothing had happened. Because nothing had time to matter.
Pass. Load. Ram. Fire.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Up at the helm, Fisk drove the ship like he could bend the sea to his will. Every order came down clean and cutting.
“Hard to starboard!”
“Hold—hold—”
“Fire!”
And we did.
Every time.
My hands slipped on powder and sweat, my eyes stung from the smoke, but I didn’t stop. Couldn’t. The fear burned off, replaced by something hotter, sharper.
Alive.
The deck buckled under my feet. A hit—low this time.
Deep.
The wood screamed as it split, the whole ship tilting farther than it should. Water surged over the side, sloshing across the deck, cold and biting around my ankles.
Shouts turned ragged.
For a breath, everything blurred—noise, movement, the violent heave of the sea.
Then—
Quiet.
Just a sliver of it. Enough for me to taste blood in my mouth and realize I was still standing.
Still breathing.
Silas dropped to one knee in front of me, hands already moving.
Checking.
Quick. Efficient.
I flinched when he pressed my shoulder. “Just bruised,” I managed. He grunted, satisfied enough, and hauled me up like I weighed nothing.
“Get ready,” he said. “Next one’ll be worse.”
I nodded. Wiped my face with the back of my hand, smearing soot and sweat together. Grabbed another cannonball. It felt heavier now. Or maybe that was just me. Beneath my feet, the deck shifted again—but this time it didn’t settle right.
Water seeped up through the cracks.
Dark.
Slow.
The boards groaned under it, sagging just enough to notice. As if The Ghost was bleeding. I tightened my grip on the iron. Forced my eyes back to the cannon.
No time.
No space for fear.
But somewhere deep, quiet and stubborn, a thought took root anyway—When the sun came up…there might not be a deck left to stand on.