His stepmother his queen

The storm didn't wait for him to reach the shore.

It came like a curse-wild winds tearing through the sails, waves slamming the ship like fists, thunder roaring like ghosts mourning their king. The Crimson Tide groaned under the weight of it all, her red flags drenched and snapping in protest.

Lucien stood at the helm, soaked to the bone, but he didn't flinch.

"Push her harder!" he shouted over the howl. "We don't stop for the sea. It stops for me."

His voice cut through the chaos like a blade. Nineteen and already a legend. The youngest Dreadmour to ever command a ship. But tonight... he wasn't a commander. He was a son returning to his father's grave.

Behind him, his crew obeyed without question. Not because they loved him. But because they feared what he might become if they didn't.

And maybe... they were right to fear.

His fingers curled tighter around the soaked rail. Somewhere beyond the mist, the jagged cliffs of Dreadmour Keep were rising like black teeth from the sea. Home. Or what was left of it.

His father was dead.

Murdered, they said. Slain in his sleep like a coward. The great Pirate King Aldric Dreadmour-the man who ruled half the sea with blood and steel-reduced to whispers and ashes.

And now the crown was his.

Lucien's jaw clenched. Not from grief. Not yet. There was no time for grief. Only questions.

Who slit the throat of a king?

And why did every road to the answer lead back... to her?

"Land ahead!" the crow's nest called.

Lucien didn't look. He didn't need to. He could feel it.

The closer they got, the tighter the noose around his ribs pulled.

Because waiting at Dreadmour Keep...

...was Isolde.

His father's queen.

His stepmother.

The woman who haunted his dreams with every cursed breath.

The long, cracked docks of Dreadmour Keep stretched into the sea like broken bones.

Lucien stepped off the ship without waiting for anyone to throw down the royal plank. His boots landed hard on the soaked wood, thunder still cracking behind him. Lightning lit up the jagged stone fortress ahead-his father's home, and now, his.

And there she stood.

Like the storm had summoned her.

Isolde.

Dressed in black velvet soaked by the rain. A veil covered half her face, but not the sharpness of her eyes-those cold, moonlit things that never aged. She hadn't changed. Not in the ten years he'd been gone. Not in the hundred lifetimes it felt like since she last spoke his name.

She didn't move. Didn't greet him. Just watched.

As if daring the sea itself to touch her.

Lucien's breath hitched. Not from the cold. Not from fear.

But from the burn in his chest.

How could one woman look like grief and royalty and sin-all at once?

Behind him, his crew fell silent. Even the sea held its breath.

He walked toward her, each step echoing louder than the storm.

She didn't flinch.

Didn't speak.

Didn't look at him like a boy she once raised.

She looked at him like a man she should kill.

Or kiss.

"Isolde," Lucien said, his voice low, heavy with years and want and rage.

She pulled back her veil slowly.

"My king," she replied-voice like honey laced with poison.

And something inside him snapped.

The long, cracked docks of Dreadmour Keep stretched into the sea like broken bones.

Lucien stepped off the ship without waiting for anyone to throw down the royal plank. His boots landed hard on the soaked wood, thunder still cracking behind him. Lightning lit up the jagged stone fortress ahead-his father's home, and now, his.

And there she stood.

Like the storm had summoned her.

Isolde.

Dressed in black velvet soaked by the rain. A veil covered half her face, but not the sharpness of her eyes-those cold, moonlit things that never aged. She hadn't changed. Not in the ten years he'd been gone. Not in the hundred lifetimes it felt like since she last spoke his name.

She didn't move. Didn't greet him. Just watched.

As if daring the sea itself to touch her.

Lucien's breath hitched. Not from the cold. Not from fear.

But from the burn in his chest.

How could one woman look like grief and royalty and sin-all at once?

Behind him, his crew fell silent. Even the sea held its breath.

He walked toward her, each step echoing louder than the storm.

She didn't flinch.

Didn't speak.

Didn't look at him like a boy she once raised.

She looked at him like a man she should kill.

Or kiss.

"Isolde," Lucien said, his voice low, heavy with years and want and rage.

She pulled back her veil slowly.

"My king," she replied-voice like honey laced with poison.

And something inside him snapped.

Cliffhanger-

Lucien reached his chamber-and froze.

The fire was already lit.

On the table sat a single goblet, still warm. His father's crest etched into the rim.

Beside it... a black feather.

He stepped closer-then saw the message scratched into the stone beneath:

"She lies. The crown is not hers to give."

A cold breath touched the back of his neck.

He turned.

No one.

Just the open door-swinging.

And wet footprints leading out.

Not his.

Not hers.

Someone else was already inside the Keep.

Watching.

Waiting.

And they weren't done.

Not yet.