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"Cut the port ballast, or this coffin rolls!" Cassian slammed one hand against the bucking control rail. "Brant, I said cut it!"
"The valve is welded shut!" Brant shouted from below the engine cage. "You want it cut, come down here and kiss the torch!"
The ironclad lurched hard to starboard. Lyra hit the bulkhead shoulder-first, caught herself on a pipe, and bit down before the pain could make a sound. Behind the armored view slit, boiling black water flashed white around the hull.
Something moved in that foam.
Not a wave. Not debris.
Three red heat signatures streaked along the submarine’s flank, keeping pace with the dying engines.
Cassian grabbed the back of Lyra’s coat before the next roll threw her across the deck. His fingers locked around her waist. His palm was hot through the soaked fabric, rough and steady while the deck tried to kill them both.
"Let go," she snapped.
"Stand up first."
"I can stand."
"Then prove it."
She drove her elbow backward. It caught his ribs. Cassian grunted but didn’t release her. Instead, he planted one boot against the deck brace and hauled her upright as the ironclad shuddered again.
"You just grabbed the captain," he said near her ear. "That usually earns a punishment."
"You just grabbed the navigator. That usually earns a broken hand."
"You’re welcome to try."
Lyra turned in his grip. Her blind eyes aimed straight at his face, pale and unfocused, but her chin came up like she could see every inch of him. Blood ran from the cut at her wrist, slipped under the leather of her glove, and dripped onto the grated floor.
Cassian saw it.
His mouth tightened. "You’re bleeding again."
"Congratulations. Your eyesight works."
"Brant! Get me pressure on the starboard jets!"
"The jets are dead!"
"Then make them less dead!"
"That’s not how machinery works!"
"It is on my ship."
"It’s not your ship if we’re all dead!"
Another impact slammed through the hull. The lamps swung overhead. Somewhere beneath their boots, metal groaned with a deep, ugly sound.
Lyra lifted her face toward it. Her lips parted.
"They’re turning," she said.
Cassian released her waist only to catch her wrist. His hand closed over the bleeding one.
Lyra hissed.
"The hounds?" he asked.
"No. The current."
"That current is dragging us toward the trench."
"I know."
"Then stop listening and tell me how to get out."
Her wrist pulsed against his palm. Cassian felt the tremor in her bones before he saw it travel up her arm. She tried to pull away. He held on.
"Your blood is in the water," he said. "The thermal hounds are following it."
"Hot oil is in the water too."
"They’re following you."
"You hired me because I’m useful. Don’t look offended now."
"I’m not offended. I’m deciding whether cutting off your hand would save the rest of us."
"Try it, Vance."
Her voice stayed flat, but her fingers curled against his. The contact was brief, accidental, and far too warm. Cassian felt the tiny pause in her breathing. So did she.
Her jaw tightened.
"You can let go now," she said.
"No."
"That wasn’t a request."
"Good. I don’t take orders from women who can’t see where they’re going."
Lyra stepped closer until her coat brushed his chest. "And I don’t take orders from men steering a crippled ironclad into boiling water. Yet here we are."
The ship dropped.
Both of them slammed into the command console. Cassian’s shoulder took the worst of it. Lyra’s forehead struck the edge of the panel, and a sharp breath tore out of her.
"Damn it." He caught her face with his free hand. "Where did you hit?"
"Your concern is embarrassing."
"Answer me."
"You don’t get to touch me like that."
"Then stop bleeding on my deck."
His thumb hovered beside the cut at her temple. He didn’t touch it. That small restraint made the space between them worse. Lyra could feel his breath against her cheek, short and controlled. He smelled like hot metal, oil, and the bitter coffee he had abandoned three hours ago.
"I’m fine," she said.
"You’re lying."
"You’re loud."
"I’m keeping you alive."
"You’re keeping your investment alive."
For half a second, his expression went still.
Then the sonar bell screamed.
Brant’s boots hammered up the ladder. He appeared through the steam with a wrench in one hand and a black streak across his cheek.
"Two thermal hounds on the port side," he said. "One below us. It’s big."
"How big?" Cassian asked.
"Big enough to eat the word ‘big.’"
"Useful report."
"I’m an engineer, not a poet."
Lyra pulled her wrist free at last. Blood dotted the steel between them.
She crouched and pressed two fingers to the deck.
Cassian caught her shoulder. "What are you doing?"
"Listening."
"With your hand?"
"With the part of me you keep trying to cut off."
Brant glanced between them. "Should I come back when the murder-flirting is over?"
"Shut up, Brant," Cassian and Lyra said together.
The chief engineer grinned. "That’s adorable."
A violent scrape tore down the hull. The submarine tilted another ten degrees. Cassian grabbed the overhead chain with one hand and Lyra with the other. Brant dropped to his knees and hooked an arm around the ladder.
Outside, something enormous dragged along the armor.
The sound traveled through the metal and into Lyra’s teeth.
She went rigid.
"Lyra?" Cassian said.
No answer.
Her head turned toward the deck beneath them. Her blind eyes stayed open, but her face had drained of color. A tremor started in her shoulders. It spread down both arms.
Cassian tightened his hold on her injured wrist. "Talk to me."
"Don’t."
"What do you hear?"
"Don’t touch—"
The hound outside struck the hull.
Lyra folded without a cry.
Cassian caught her against him before her knees hit the deck. Her body shook so hard his coat buttons clicked against her teeth. She clutched the front of his jacket, fingers digging into the metal clasps.
"Get her to the brace!" Brant yelled.
"No."
"Captain, she’s resonating!"
"I said no."
Lyra’s breathing came thin and fast. Her forehead pressed into Cassian’s collarbone. He could feel each shiver through the layers between them.
"It’s under us," she whispered.
"The hound?"
"No. Something older."
Cassian looked at Brant. "How long until the jets restart?"
"If I get the ballast valve open, maybe four minutes."
"You have two."
"That’s not how time works!"
"Make it work."
Brant slid down the ladder again, shouting curses as he went.
Cassian lowered his mouth toward Lyra’s ear. "Can you guide us?"
"Not while you’re holding me."
"You’re shaking apart."
"I said let go."
He looked down at her face. Her skin was cold despite the heat flooding the control deck. A narrow line of blood had reached the base of her palm. Her lips were pressed tight, refusing to give the pain a voice.
"No," he said.
"You don’t get to decide that."
"I’m captain. I decide who stays on their feet."
"You’re a condemned captain with a price on his head."
"And you’re a wanted heretic with half the sea trying to drag you into a cage. We can trade insults later."
"You don’t know what’s trying to drag me anywhere."
"I know enough."
"No, you don’t."
"Then tell me."
Her shaking stopped for one breath.
Cassian felt it. The pause. The lie waiting behind her teeth.
"Tell me what you hear," he said. "Or I lock you in the pressure room and run blind."
Lyra’s fingers tightened in his coat. "You’d lock me away?"
"If you become a danger to my crew."
"You mean if I stop being useful."
"I mean if you get them killed."
She shoved against his chest. Cassian let her gain half a step, then caught the back of her neck before she could stumble. His fingers settled beneath her jaw, not squeezing, just keeping her face turned toward him.
Her breath brushed his mouth.
Neither moved.
The ironclad groaned around them.
"Take your hand off me," Lyra said softly.
"Give me a direction."
"You’re impossible."
"You knew that before you signed the pact."
"You forced the pact."
"You were going to be hanged."
"And you were going to hand me over."
"I changed my mind."
"Because you needed my gift."
"Because I needed a navigator who could get us through the black sea."
"Same thing."
"No. It isn’t."
His thumb rested against the pulse beneath her jaw. It jumped once. Twice.
Lyra’s face turned slightly toward his hand. The motion was so small he almost missed it. Then she pulled back like she hated herself for making it.
"Port side," she said. "Hard port."
Cassian released her neck and spun to the controls. "Brant!"
"Still alive!"
"I need the port jets now!"
"You need a miracle!"
"Find one!"
Cassian seized the steering yoke and threw it left. The ironclad fought him. Its rudder screamed through the water. Black foam battered the armored windows.
One red shape flashed past the bow.
The thermal hound surfaced for half a second, long and narrow, its plated back glowing like a furnace beneath the brine. Its mouth opened wide enough to swallow a lifeboat.
Brant fired the forward shock cannon.
The blast turned the water white.
The hound vanished.
"Did we get it?" Brant shouted.
"No," Lyra said.
"You didn’t even look!"
"I don’t need eyes."
The ship spun through the boiling current. Cassian’s boots slipped. He caught the yoke before it tore free and pulled until the tendons in his hands stood out.
"Lyra, where are the others?"
She stood behind him, one hand wrapped around the console, the other pressed over her bleeding wrist.
"One above. One behind."
"The big one?"
"Below."
"Can it reach us?"
"It already has."
The deck buckled.
A seam split along the lower bulkhead. Steam burst through the gap. Brant swore and dropped his wrench.
"Hull pressure falling!" he yelled. "We’ve got a breach in the lower intake!"
Cassian shoved the yoke toward Brant. "Seal it."
"I’m one man!"
"Then move like three."
Cassian crossed the deck and grabbed the emergency lever. The handle fought him. He slammed his shoulder into it once, twice. On the third hit, it broke loose and dropped the armored shutters over the intake vents.
The breach shrieked closed.
The hound struck again.
Lyra cried out this time—not loudly, not enough for anyone else to call it a scream. But Cassian heard the raw edge in it. He was beside her before she could fold.
His hand closed around her wrist.
"Stay with me."
"I am."
"Look at me."
"I can’t."
"Then listen."
Her breath stuttered. "To what?"
"My voice."
"That’s a terrible choice."
"You’re still insulting me. Good."
He pulled her against his chest and locked her injured hand between both of his. Her skin was icy. His palms burned around it.
Lyra shook in silence.
Cassian held on.
Not because she was useful. Not because the pact demanded it. Because when her pulse jumped under his fingers, something in him went cold with the thought of losing it.
He buried that thought under an order.
"Tell me where to steer."
"Down."
"Down gets us killed."
"Up gets us eaten."
"Pick a third option."
"You’re the captain. Make one."
Brant slammed a pressure wheel into place. "Ballast valve is moving!"
"How much?" Cassian asked.
"Enough to hurt us. Not enough to save us."
"Perfect."
The ballast tanks opened.
The ironclad plunged.
Lyra’s body pressed into Cassian as gravity stole their balance. Her cheek struck his shoulder. His chin brushed her hair. For one sharp second, they were locked together, breathing the same hot air, his arms around her and her fist still twisted in his coat.
"You can let go now," she whispered.
"You keep saying that."
"You keep ignoring me."
"Maybe I like the sound of you asking."
She went still.
Cassian felt the change and looked down. Her mouth parted. Her blind eyes lifted toward him.
"Was that flirting?" she asked.
"It was a tactical observation."
"You flirt like a man threatening someone with a knife."
"It keeps expectations low."
A sharp metallic boom cut through the control deck.
The ballast tanks jolted. The ironclad stopped sinking.
Brant’s face appeared over the engine cage. "Captain, you need to see this."
Cassian moved to the forward display. Lyra followed, still close enough that her sleeve dragged against his arm.
The sonar screen had gone almost blank.
No thermal hounds.
No current lines.
No bottom reading.
Just a wide field of dead black.
Then one pale ring appeared beneath the ship.
It pulsed once.
The ring widened.
Lyra grabbed Cassian’s sleeve. "Stop the engines."
"We can’t stop."
"Stop them."
"We’re sinking."
"Cassian."
The way she said his name cut through the alarms.
He killed the engines.
The ironclad drifted in the dark.
Brant whispered, "What is that?"
Lyra raised her bleeding wrist. Her fingers trembled over the display without touching it.
"A graveyard," she said.
"Of what?" Cassian asked.
"Ribs."
The sonar cleared by degrees. Shapes rose from the black below: curved bones taller than towers, stacked across the trench floor. Some were split open. Some still wore plates of pale armor.
A leviathan graveyard.
The ironclad slid between the enormous ribs.
Cassian’s grip found Lyra’s wrist again. This time she didn’t pull away.
"Tell me we can pass through," he said.
"We can pass through."
"That wasn’t the whole question."
Her face turned toward the deck beneath them.
The gold had started in her eyes.
Not a reflection. Not light from the instruments.
Gold burned behind the pale film, bright enough to show through.
Brant took one step back. "Captain..."
Lyra pointed into the rib-cage graveyard.
Her finger stopped above a pocket of black water where the bones vanished into the trench.
"Something is breathing below," she said.
The sonar ring pulsed again.
Once.
Twice.
The entire graveyard answered.
Cassian lifted the hand cannon from his belt and aimed into the dark. "Lyra, what the hell is—"