From the pile of corpses, Mugu cracked one eye open and took in his surroundings.
He had made it out of the hold.
But he was still far from safe.
The slavers stood along the railing, casually lifting bodies and tossing them overboard. Below, the sea churned with movement. As Mugu watched, pale shapes surfaced—long, slick creatures with too many fins and too many teeth. They tore into the falling corpses before they even sank.
This was a route they used often.
The monsters had learned the routine.
Mugu's gaze shifted carefully without moving his head. A small boat hung from the ship's side by two thick ropes. Inside were two oars and a modest sail. It was close—close enough that if he moved at the right moment, he could reach it.
If he could cut it loose, he could vanish into the waves.
The problem was direction.
Soltheon.
He had no compass. No map. No water. His throat felt like sandpaper.
He took a slow, silent breath.
