The howling wind lashed at my exposed, raw face; whipping my wet, bedraggled hair into spirals around me. The sky was becoming darker and the rain was cascading down on the StellaLuna. A strained cough escaped my lips, causing my chest to tighten and my lungs to burn with a fire that did nothing to thaw us, but the hoarse sound was muffled by the moaning of the sea hammering against brittle wood. I cinched my arms into a corset around my waist and prayed to all that was holy for our escape from the claws of Rán.
The ship let out a roar of agony as it split open as though it were pepper cracked in the palm of a God. The wood howled and wailed like a dozen bleeding wolves as splinters whisked through the briny air. The StellaLuna abraded against a bank of coarse stone, jolting me from my wavering stance on deck, and launching me into bitter black water.
YOU ARE READING
The Isle of the Blessed
FantasyThe further in I go, the less I can see beneath me. The water gets blacker as we slice through the surface. Into the wall of charcoal swirls and thunder. I cannot see beneath me, nor ahead. Hidden in the black sea, waiting to pounce, with Her eyes o...
