Page 23 of The War of Four Winters

Yisra nodded in approval. "First marker. Seven more to follow. Each one guides us through a turn in the channel."

The ship slowed to a crawl as we entered the passage. Branches from the mangroves scraped against the hull, the sound setting my teeth on edge. The light changed, filtered through the canopy overhead until it took on a greenish quality that made everyone's skin appear sickly and strange.

"Second marker!" called the lookout.

We turned slightly, following the twisting channel deeper into the swamp. The air grew thicker, filled with buzzing insects and the calls of unseen birds. My hand remained on my sword hilt, every sense alert for danger. This place felt ancient and watchful, as if the very trees assessed our worthiness to enter.

"Third marker," came the call, more uncertain this time.

Yisra frowned, peering ahead. "It's been moved," she muttered. "Someone's been through recently."

The implications sent ice through my veins. Someone else knew this secret place. Someone who might still be here, waiting.

"Should we turn back?" I asked quietly.

Yisra shook her head. "Too late for that. Channel's too narrow to turn around, and the storm will have reached the open water by now." Her jaw set in a grim line. "We press on, but cautious. Commander!"

Caris appeared at her side instantly. "Captain?"

"Arm your warriors. We may have company in the cove."

The Broken Blades moved with silent efficiency, checking weapons and adjusting armor without a word. I drew my own sword, the familiar weight centering me despite the unfamiliar surroundings.

"Fourth marker!"

"Fifth!"

The channel twisted deeper into the swamp, each turn revealing more of this strange, forgotten world. Mist began to gather around us, tendrils curling across the water's surface like ghostly fingers. Through the haze, I caught glimpses of the skeletal remains of ships less fortunate than ours. Their broken hulls provided perches for birds with wingspans wider than a man was tall.

"Seventh marker!" The call seemed to come from impossibly far away, though the lookout stood just at the bow.

"Last turn," Yisra murmured. "Prepare to drop anchor. The cove opens up just ahead."

As if responding to her words, the mist parted like a curtain drawn back. Before us spread a natural harbor, perfectly circular, as if carved by some giant hand. The mangroves rose in a protective wall around the perimeter, their tangled roots creating a natural breakwater that kept the waters unnaturally still.

And there, anchored in the center of the cove, was another ship.

Unlike our practical vessel, with its black sails and reinforced hull, this craft seemed built as much for beauty as function. Its lines were sleek and elegant, the hull painted a deep burgundy that appeared almost black in the fading light. Gold leaf adorned the railings and figurehead—a topless mermaid with generous curves, her hair flowing around her as if caught in an eternal current.

"The Mirage," Yisra growled, recognition and wariness mingling in her voice. "I might have known."

"Friend or foe?" Caris asked, her hand already signaling her warriors to spread out along our deck.

"Neither," Yisra replied. "And both. They call him 'the gentleman pirate.' He's known for wild but honorable antics. Word is he duels the captains of ships he boards. If they win, he lets them go. If not, he takes their cargo but spares lives, unless they've done something truly evil." Her mouth quirked in what might have been reluctant respect. "Not your usual cutthroat."

The mysterious ship showed no immediate signs of hostility. No weapons bristled along its rails, no crew visible on its decks. It sat serenely in the center of the cove, as if it had grown there like the mangroves themselves.

"Drop anchor," Yisra ordered. "But keep your weapons ready."

As our ship settled, the mist swirled around us again, thickening until TheMiragebecame little more than a shadow within the whiteness. Night was falling, turning the greenish light to deepening purple. Along the shoreline, tiny lights appeared, fireflies or perhaps something stranger, dancing between the mangrove roots.

The silence stretched, broken only by the soft lapping of water against our hull and the distant calls of night birds awakening. I stood at the rail, sword still drawn, waiting for something to happen. The waiting was always the worst part.

The crack of wood against wood made everyone jump. A small boat had materialized from the mist, now bumping gently against our hull. Through the swirling vapor, I made out not one but several figures—four men in total, their silhouettes distinct yet shadowed in the gathering darkness.

"Ahoy there! Permission to come aboard, my dearest Captain Yisra?" A voice rang out—male, cultured, with a melodic Savarran accent that turned each word into something resembling music. "It's been far too long since I've had the pleasure of your scowling countenance!"

Yisra's hand went to her blade, but her posture remained relaxed. "Show your face first, Al'Sharif. I don't invite shadows onto my deck, no matter how silver their tongues."

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