Liam's boots hit the deck with a wet slap, seawater dripping from his clothes, his hair plastered to his forehead. He was drenched, cold, and furious—but alive. His chest heaved as he took in the burning chaos around him. Flames from the Leviathan's Howl cast a hellish glow across the sea, and the air was thick with smoke, ash, and the coppery scent of blood. The Sea Phantom groaned under the strain of battle, timbers cracked, and men screamed in pain or rage. But none of that mattered to Liam now.
His sword was already in his hand.
And it was thirsty.
