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Hardor’s fucking Gaze. One of three vessels commanded by the Deep Wardens, dominating the high seas, and bringing swift justice down on anyone or anything that was deemed a threat to life in the Swell. Fathus’ protectors and lackeys were the only humans that were blessed with the ability to thrive in the swell, putting them just below the Oceanids on the hierarchy of import to the ocean god. Vila always thought they sounded like a bunch of assholes, but she did envy the freedom they held. Near complete autonomy of will, unrivaled strength and stamina, and life on the open ocean—if one didn’t
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Criminal underworlds and high-stake heists were his forte. Cults and secret organizations? He’d tried pretty hard to steer clear of those in his life. The gravity of the situation was setting in and he knew that success would be paramount.
No bears now, not in the Lower Planks. Just big, hairy, overconfident men who thought they could use sheer force to defeat a woman half their size. Not in here though. This was her arena and her fight to win. All trees fell with the right strikes, the old saying went. She had never seen a tree, but she knew how to place the right strikes.
He knew you either learned how to survive above the Swell or be consumed by it, and Narrio wasn’t one to give in.
Narrio nearly jumped out of his seat but thought that wouldn’t be professional, so he opted for a shriek instead.
