The warships that had drawn up either side couldn’t afford to fire too high unless they were positive they’d hit their prey. A stray shot could fly past The Morrigan and strike their companion.

The Morrigan ran parallel with the second ship now—this would be the perfect moment to—

The deck below her feet trembled as The Morrigan returned fire. This close, every double shot hit, splintering against the warship’s hull close to the waterline.

Her legs trembled as if she’d climbed up and down the shrouds a dozen times in a storm. But the fae and the gods really must be on their side, because The Morrigan still hadn’t taken a single hit. Catching her breath, she looked up at Knigh.

He was smiling.

Not that twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not a sardonic smirk. Not the cool smile he levelled at FitzRoy when he was trying to be civil. A real smile—mouth, eyes, cheeks all lifted and bright, transformed. He watched the waters ahead, so he must not have realised she was looking. Maybe he’d have been more guarded if he had.

Maybe he thought they’d make it to the shoals and escape.

She huffed a quick laugh and squeezed his hand again before dipping back into the deep.

A few more turns, more abrupt and twisting than any ship could usually manage, and they were still untouched except for a tear to their flying jib. Vice slowed them to fall behind the sweep of the first ship’s broadside.

The Morrigan shuddered, and Vice stumbled. Splinters burst into the air. Someone screamed.

A hit to starboard.

Knigh twitched, smile gone. Wincing, Vice swallowed. But a team was already running towards their injured mates, and she had to concentrate.

And slowing had placed them closer to the third ship, still running a central course. The Morrigan’s vulnerable stern was directly in the path of their chase cannons.

“Bollocks.” She stared up at the three gun decks looming behind them.

In the periphery of her vision, something long and thin moved in the water, serpent-like, just below the surface. But when she looked, there was nothing there. Must’ve been a trick of the light on their wake.

“What is”—Knigh looked over his shoulder—“gods, they’re … Wait … That’s the Sovereign … Mercia?” His tanned skin turned ashen, and his hold slackened on the wheel.

“Mercia?” Vice steadied his hand. What was Mercia?

A shout went up from the Sovereign—she couldn’t tell what they said, but it seemed to come from a tall man at the bow who looked down upon them. Whatever it was, the order rippled across the deck and flags rose. One was a pennant with a blue octopus. The Navy signalled with flags, but she’d never bothered to learn what they meant. “What are they saying?”

Knigh still stared, chest heaving. “Cease fire.”