It was a miracle. Trade would change everything for his nation—from how many people died of starvation to how negotiations at the Truce Summit went. Merik didn’t even mind that he would have to sail right back to Veñaza City after dropping this Hasstrel girl off on the Lejna pier. What were Tide and Windwitches for, if not crossing the Jadansi in days?

So Merik had signed the contract alongside Dom Eron, and then the instant the man was gone, Merik had summoned Hermin back to his cabin. “Inform Vivia that the piracy endeavor is no more—and also mention that the Dalmotti trade ship is only just leaving the Veñazan harbor. Just in case she decides she won’t back down.”

As Merik had anticipated, Vivia wasn’t ready to give up her scheme—but that was fine. Merik could continue to lie. Soon enough he would have trade with someone, and that was all that mattered.

“Admiral!” Ryber’s high-pitched voice cut through Merik’s thoughts.

Kullen and the other witches flinched—and Merik swore. He had ordered silence, and his crew knew how he punished disobedience.

“Don’t stop,” Merik muttered to Kullen, and with his fingers fidgeting with his shirttails, he marched around the steering wheel and off the quarterdeck. Wide-eyed sailors gawked as he stomped past. Several men ogled up at the crow’s nest, where Ryber was waving her arms frantically—as if Merik didn’t know exactly where the ship’s girl was stationed.

Oh, Merik would most certainly put Ryber in the leg irons tomorrow. He didn’t care if she and Kullen were Heart-Threads so long as Ryber remained a reliable sailor. This, however, was direct disobedience, and it would earn her six hours strapped in the irons with no water, food, or shade.

“Admiral!” A new voice rattled over the deck. It was a salt-wasted sound—Hermin. “Admiral!” he bellowed again.

And Merik almost lost control of his own voice. Two of his best sailors breaking the rules? Ten hours in the leg irons. For each of them.

Ryber’s bare feet hit the deck. “There’s a battle going on, sir! At an old lighthouse nearby.”

Merik didn’t care about old lighthouses. Whatever battle Ryber had seen was not his problem.

“Sir,” Hermin huffed as he hobbled toward Merik. The Voicewitch’s lame foot could barely keep up with his good one, yet he pushed himself as fast as he could. “Sir, we got a message from Eron fon Hasstrel’s Voicewitch.” He gulped in air. “Our passenger is on the run. Last seen on horseback north of the city and aiming for an old lighthouse. The Hasstrel’s men can’t get to the domna in time. So it’s up to us.”

“Carawen monks?” Ryber asked Hermin. Then she turned back to Merik. “Because that’s what I saw through the spyglass, Admiral. Two people standing off against four monks.”

“Hye, it’s the Carawens,” Hermin admitted with a nod. “And if we don’t get this passenger away, then whatever binding agreement you’ve got is considered null.”

For half a breath, Merik merely stared at Hermin. At Ryber. Then the Nihar rage got the best of him. He tipped back his head and gave a fist-clenching roar.

It would seem the old lighthouse battle was his problem, and there was absolutely no reason for stealth now. He needed this Hasstrel document untainted. It was Wordwitched, so if Merik didn’t meet the contracted requirements, his signature would simply vanish from the page.

An unsigned trade agreement was useless.

Bellowing for his oarsmen to get in position, Merik spun on his heel and strode back toward his officers and first mate. They hadn’t paused their concentrated magic—though they had changed course. The Jana now sailed west, toward shore. Toward the lighthouse.

“Stop,” Merik ordered.

Four mouths broke off mid-shanty. The wind gusted down … and vanished. The Jana drifted onward, but her pace slowed instantly.

Merik eyed Kullen. Sweat shone above the first mate’s lip, but he showed no signs of exhaustion. “I’m going ashore,” Merik said. “The ship falls under your command. I want you to bring the Jana as close to the lighthouse as the depths will allow.”

Kullen bowed his head, fist over heart. “Have Ryber keep her eye to the spyglass,” Merik went on. “Once I get the passenger away from these monks, I’ll give the wind-flourish. Then I want you to carry the passenger here. As soon as her feet hit the deck, you’ll order the oarsmen and the Tidewitches to make sail.”

Merik didn’t wait for confirmation before marching to the bulwark. Behind him, the Tidewitches and Kullen resumed the sea shanty. The wind and currents picked up once more.

Merik leaned against the waist-high railing, chest puffing full. Then came a sharp exhale and a second lung-expanding inhale.

Air spiraled around his legs, and his magic focused inward. The air streams picked up speed and power.

Merik took off.

His eyes teared up. Salty wind was forced into his nose and down his throat. His heart soared straight into his skull.

For that brief second when all of his Windwitchery was focused into a single funnel below him—when he shot through the air as easily as a petrel on a wave—he was invincible. A creature of joy and strength and power.

And then his height would plummet. He would drop low to the water and conserve his energy by feeding off the natural skip of air—for his powers were limited and his magic quickly tapped. He couldn’t maintain flight for long.

The lighthouse zoomed closer. Closer. The water turned shallow, the waves white-tipped.