The wooden planks goraned beneath Kat’s back as the ship tilted. She couldn’t **see**, but she felt the damp, splintered boards pressing into her skin.

The air reeked of salt and tar, thick and cloying. She strained her ears—boots** thudded above**, heavy and deliberate. The creak of a swinging latern matched the ship’s slow, rhythmic sway.

A faint, sharp clanging echoed from somewhere—chains? No. Anchor chains**.** They were nearing shore.

She tasted iron on her split lip. Blood.

Then, through the planks, she felt it—distant tremors, uneven and heavy. Docking pylons**.**

Her heart pounded. Land waas near**.** Her chance.