The sea did not roar.
It pressed.
Black water folded over her head, heavy and absolute, forcing salt into her mouth and down her throat. It burned like metal. Like something alive. The cold wrapped around her ribs and tightened.
Her green silk saree dragged her downward, the pleats twisting around her legs like binding cloth. Once graceful and light, it now clung to her like soaked chains. Every kick felt like tearing through wet rope.
Her lungs spasmed.
She swallowed brine.
Her gold earrings struck her neck when she twisted. The ruby bracelet at her wrist flashed red beneath fractured moonlight before vanishing again into foam. The silver payal at her ankle chimed faintly before the sea muted it completely.
Her fingers brushed the small brass compass resting at her collarbone.
Its needle spun wildly.
Useless.
She forced herself upward.
Broke the surface with a violent gasp.
Air tore into her chest.
The sky above her was wrong.
The stars were unfamiliar. The moon too pale. Too large. The wind tasted different sharper, cleaner, colder.
And then
She saw it.
A ship.
Massive. Black hull reinforced with iron ribbing that gleamed faintly beneath lantern light. The sails were dark and heavy, not merchant white. Lanterns hung in precise intervals along the railing, their flames steady behind etched glass.
Men lined the deck.
Not sailors.
Soldiers.
She inhaled sharply and swam.
Each stroke felt like tearing muscle from bone. The saree tangled again; she tore at the lower pleats with shaking fingers and freed her legs enough to kick harder.
The ship was drifting past.
"NO–"
Her voice broke under wind.
A rope flew through the air.
It landed too far.
Another followed.
Closer.
She lunged.
Caught it.
The coarse fibers cut into her palms as the sea tried to wrench it away. She wrapped it around her wrist and held with everything left in her body.
"Hold!"
The command was sharp. Controlled.
The rope snapped tight.
Her body slammed against the hull. Wood scraped her shoulder. Salt filled her mouth again.
Hands reached down.
Gloved. Firm.
She was hauled upward with decisive strength.
She hit the deck hard.
Solid wood beneath her cheek.
The smell hit her first.
Tar. Salt. Oil. Steel.
Not fish. Not trade.
War.
Her body convulsed violently. Water poured from her lungs as she rolled onto her side coughing, choking, trembling. The wet green silk clung to her waist and chest, outlining every ragged breath.
Boots surrounded her.
When she forced her eyes open; she understood immediately.
This was not one army.
It was two.
Closest stood the western soldiers.
Black and grey coats tailored sharply at the waist. Double-breasted fronts fastened with polished metal buttons. Silver embroidery edged collars and cuffs in severe, angular patterns. Gloves. Polished boots reflecting lantern light like glass.
Their posture was rigid.
Their movements economical.
Most of them wore their hair short or medium length clean cuts, practical, disciplined. Their skin was pale beneath the lantern glow, cool-toned, almost colorless against the dark fabric.
At their center stood a man who did not need to raise his voice to command attention.
Ash-blond hair, cut short and swept back. Blue eyes pale, piercing, winter-cold. His jawline sharp. His expression unreadable.
His coat was longer than the others, black lined in deep grey, silver filigree tracing the seams like frost along stone.
Authority radiated from him.
Behind them stood the eastern faction.
Their clothing flowed rather than structured.
Layered robes in deep red and black. Rich green trimmed with dark silk. Wide sleeves belted tightly at the waist. Sashes embroidered with curving, intricate patterns instead of sharp lines.
Their skin was pale as well but warmer, almost ivory under lantern light. Their features refined. Composed.
Their hair told its own story.
Many wore it long falling past shoulders, tied loosely at the nape or gathered in half-knots. Some wore it medium length. A few cut it shorter. But unlike the western soldiers, there was variation.
There was elegance.
Among them stood a man in layered red and black robes.
His hair fell long and dark down his back. His gaze was steady. Intelligent. Observing rather than cold.
The two forces stood apart ; distinct yet sharing the same deck.
She pushed herself upright slowly.
The wet green silk clung to her brown skin, deepened by sea and moonlight. She adjusted the pallu over her shoulder without lowering her gaze.
Her gold earrings caught the light softly. The ruby bracelet glinted at her wrist. The silver payal chimed faintly when she shifted.
She looked nothing like them.
Foreign.
The ash-blond commander stepped forward.
"Identify yourself."
His voice was low but stern. Controlled.
Her mind sharpened instantly.
Truth would unravel everything.
So she chose.
"Mamta Sharma."
Her voice was hoarse but steady.
"I am an accountant. Merchant trade vessel."
Silence held.
"We were transporting fine cotton textiles. Muslin."
A flicker moved through the red-robed man's gaze.
Recognition.
"It was our third international trade route," she continued. "My first time accompanying my brother-in-law. He handled port negotiations and carried the official seal. I maintained the accounts."
The ash-blond commander studied her closely.
"You speak as though educated."
"Yes."
She held his blue gaze.
"As I mentioned, I am an accountant. English is not my first language , in case you haven't guessed."
A faint murmur among the western soldiers.
"I am educated in two languages," she continued calmly. "Commerce-related subjects. Basic science and mathematics. And scriptures."
She did not hesitate.
"I am from a family of Hindu priests."
The red-robed eastern officer stepped forward then.
"You carry no crest," he observed softly. "No bonded insignia."
His voice was smooth. Precise.
"My brother-in-law carried the seal," she replied.
She moved slowly toward her waist fold.
Instantly, gloved hands shifted to sword hilts western and eastern both.
"Slowly," the ash-blond commander warned.
She withdrew a small square of cloth.
Even drenched, the muslin was impossibly fine.
She spread it between trembling fingers.
Lantern light passed through it like mist through dawn.
The red-robed officer took it first.
His fingers paused.
"These threads," he said quietly, "are not woven in any dominion bordering the Barrier Sea."
Barrier Sea.
She memorized it.
"We trade extensively," she replied.
Her body trembled again not entirely performance.
"I do not know where this is," she admitted softly. "The attack happened in heavy weather. I jumped. I have been in the water for many hours."
Her throat burned.
"I am on the brink," she said honestly. "May I have water?"
The two officers exchanged a glance.
Different nations.
Shared tension.
"Water," the ash-blond commander ordered.
A flask was placed into her shaking hands.
The liquid was cold. Metallic. Unfamiliar.
"These waters," the commander said evenly, blue eyes never leaving hers, "are not kind to the unclaimed."
Unclaimed.
The word settled heavy in her bones.
The circle around her tightened subtly.
Not protective.
Strategic.
As though she were no longer a drowning girl.
But something delivered.
Her strength finally gave out.
The lantern light blurred.
The last thing Mamta Sharma saw before darkness claimed her was the ash-blond commander's pale blue gaze not hostile.
But calculating.
As though the Barrier Sea had not merely spared her.
But returned her for a reason.