The Girl Who Belonged to the Sea by Katherine Quinn
Chapter Fifty
Margrete
The winds whipped mercilesslyat Margrete’s face as the mighty wave she commanded brought her closer to where the battle endured.
Now, she tethered her thoughts to a single word—
Rise.
The magic within her soul flared to life as her skin caught fire. The sting of it centered her, and an eerie peace encircled her form.
She was always meant to be here, always meant to endure the captain and his heartlessness, because she was destined to destroy the darkness within him.
It didn’t matter if gods had guided her to this very spot. Margrete would take back control, and she certainly wouldn’t be a pawn.
Not even one belonging to a god.
On instinct, her arms shot out to the brightening skies, dawn but hours away.
“Arias moriad!” The command tumbled from her lips without thought. The words were as ancient and as magical as the blood flowing through her own veins. A great surge of energy shook her bones as the furious waters mounted, ready to do her bidding.
Nestled deep within her core rested a well of iris blue light. Tendrils of it tickled the inside of her mortal form, reaching out to cloak every inch of vulnerable flesh. Stardust yellow bloomed from the center of her smoky soul, a force of ancient enchantment that slowly took shape. Margrete delved deeper, whispering to the sheer force she contained, demanding the strength of a foreign magic.
Margrete’s shut lids trembled, and her body swayed. Back and forth, the waves rocked, until a violent wind guided the waters and shaped them into the wall of liquid stone before her—one that promised devastation. This colossal wave rushed past the southern side of the island, Margrete floating like a wrathful god at its back.
There. Just a blemish on the waves was the Iron Mast.
Margrete glimpsed its red and black sails. She recalled her youth, a time when the ship seemed to be the mightiest and most formidable vessel known to man. Now, it looked no more than a toy.
Easily breakable.
Margrete flew behind her wall of water, the ruthless winds propelling her closer. There was only forward. Only her target.
Margrete’s rage swelled as she scanned the waves for Darius, for his ethereal form of smoke and silver, but there was nothing but the Iron Mast and the mercenaries battling on shore.
She turned her full attention to the captain’s vessel. She’d worry about the God of the Sea later. Now, she demanded the blood of the man who had tried to ruin her. The man who’d been adamant about extinguishing her fight. He had failed, and she was going to make sure his darkness never tainted another living soul again.
Taking in the black sails that inspired fear in the hearts of so many, Margrete made out a small figure on the deck, his graying blonde hair flying in the breeze. Beside him stood the count, his face turned toward her, mouth agape with panic.
As Casbian screamed and pleaded, her father remained still, the gray-blue stone that once belonged to a god clutched in his hand. Somehow, even in such a powerful state, Margrete felt the captain stir her fears, rouse her unrest. This time, Margrete used that terror to aim the wall of water at his vessel of sin.
As the wave approached—Margrete floating like a vengeful angel behind the colossal swell—the captain smiled up at her. His grin seemed to glow with a cruel pride.
Margrete didn’t smile back. Not as the barricade she’d crafted slammed mercilessly into his ship, devouring all of the men onboard. The wooden planks shattered and split, and the deafening screeches of the crew filled the air.
She took no pleasure in destruction. Not even his.
The last thing Margrete saw of her father—of the man who had failed to break her—was the gleam of steel in his eyes. It remained, even as the leaden waters swept him from the deck and hauled him down into the chaos of the waves, devouring him in one crushing blow.
He would perish…and so would the Heart. It would be dragged beneath the swells and carried away by the current.
What little power remained in the gem would be lost—
For now.
Margrete raised her arms, and the waters she commanded spun into a frenzied whirlpool. Escape from a watery death would be beyond possible.
The roiling waves eased their furious dance and soothed themselves into a calming sway. Only when the captain was no more, once his wicked ship had been destroyed, did Margrete rest. The weight of her years beneath his watchful eyes of stone lifted. The air was sweeter, and honeysuckle mingled with the natural saltiness of the ocean breeze.
When she turned her eyes away from the ruin of her past life, Margrete Wood aimed her sights on the island of Azantian. A place of magic and myth.
A place she would now call home.
A destiny she had chosen.