Creed (Book 6.5 of The Land of the Forgotten Series)

Creed Morgan watched the heavy pallet be lowered into the cargo hold of the ship, the thick ropes creaking as they took the weight. The winch groaned in protest, metal grinding against metal as the load swayed slightly before settling. He kept his eyes on it until it disappeared below deck, listening for the dull thud that signaled it had been set down properly instead of crashing into something expensive or, worse, someone stupid enough to be standing in the wrong place.

Satisfied, his gaze snapped back to the dock.

He counted automatically, his mind ticking through numbers the way it always did when he was on a job. One. Two. Three more were waiting near the warehouse doors, wrapped in tarred canvas and stamped with the merchant guild’s seal. Too many for his liking. His jaw tightened as he mentally calculated the time it would take to load them, secure them, and get underway.

Too long.

Yes, it was money. Good money. The kind that kept the ship maintained, the crew paid, and his accounts comfortably padded. But money didn’t mean shit if you lingered too long in port when instinct told you to move.

And his instincts were screaming at him that something was off.

Creed shifted his weight on the planks, the familiar roll of the ship beneath his boots grounding him. The Sea Wraith tugged impatiently at her moorings, ropes stretched taut as if she felt it too. She was loaded heavily already, too heavy for his taste, but still seaworthy. Barely.

His gaze flicked west again, sharper this time.

Dark clouds loomed low on the horizon, thick and heavy, layered one atop another like a wall slowly marching toward them. He narrowed his eyes, assessing their shape and speed. Storm clouds had personalities if you paid attention. These weren’t lazy rain-bringers drifting in for a soak. These were fast-moving, dense, and mean.

Moving this way.

A muscle ticked in his jaw.

He drew in a deep breath through his nose, letting the scents of the harbor fill his lungs. Salt and brine. Old fish and fresh tar. The faint bite of oil and rope fiber. Beneath it all, unmistakable now that he was listening for it, was the sharp, clean edge of rain riding the wind. Not yet, but soon.

Too soon.

At best, they would get wet. At worst—

He cut that thought off sharply. Superstition had no place on a ship, no matter how many times experience whispered otherwise. Still, his unease coiled tighter with every second they remained docked, exposed, and vulnerable.

Creed frowned.

He hated getting wet.

His gaze darted to the manager of the docks just as the male stepped outside, as if summoned by irritation alone. Of course. Creed exhaled sharply through his nose. Now he showed up. He had been conspicuously absent when the first pallets were loaded, content to let the crew work uninterrupted until the sky darkened and things grew inconvenient.

Creed huffed under his breath, his irritation tightening like a pulled rope. Typical. Dock managers had a sixth sense for timing, and it always leaned toward the worst possible moment. Still, he’d try. He always tried before resorting to other options.

He pushed his way through his crew, muttering a few clipped orders as he passed. They shifted instinctively to make room for him, years of working under his command making them efficient and silent. He strode down the plank with long, purposeful steps, boots thudding against the wood, and hit the dock without slowing, heading straight for the manager.

The male looked up as Creed approached, sharp black eyes sweeping over him in a quick, assessing glance. His lips curled faintly. “Morgan.”

“Vicente.” Creed leveled his gaze on the male, keeping his expression neutral even as his patience wore thin. “Permission to stay here until the storm passes.”

Vicente followed his line of sight toward the western sky, his brow furrowing as another distant rumble of thunder rolled faintly over the harbor. For a moment, Creed thought he might actually consider it. Then Vicente’s gaze slid past him, taking in the ship still being loaded, the ropes taut, and the deck crowded with crew and cargo.

“Absolutely not,” Vicente said flatly. “You know the rules. And by my calculations, your time here is almost up.”

Creed’s jaw clenched, his teeth grinding together as he held back the response that burned at the back of his throat. Rules were flexible when it benefited the docks. Apparently not when it benefited him.

He was only allowed in their territory for so long. That rule had been set a long time ago, and never once had he broken it.

“Not to mention,” Vicente continued, his tone sharpening as he stepped closer, “if the seas get heavy, that ship will tear free and destroy my dock. And then you’ll owe me for that as well.”

Vicente glared at Creed, his posture stiffening, authority rolling off him in waves.

Creed stared at him for a long moment, unblinking. He watched the Fae male’s pupils narrow and watched his lips peel back just enough to flash his fangs in a subtle warning. A challenge. Or a reminder of who held power here.

Creed exhaled slowly.

Arguing further would be pointless, and time was slipping away by the second. He gave a curt nod, turned on his heel, and headed back toward his ship without another word.

This was going to be a fucking shit show.

Creed headed straight for his first mate, Emyr, weaving through coils of rope and stacked crates as the ship came alive around them. “Batten down everything before we set sail,” he said without preamble. “We’re going to get plowed by that storm.”

Emyr followed his gaze toward the west, his red eyes narrowing as another gust of wind snapped the loose edges of canvas. He gave a short nod. “They won’t let us stay?” He looked back at Creed, already knowing the answer.

Creed lifted a brow.

Emyr winced. “Dumb question,” he muttered. “Aye aye, Captain.” He snapped a sharp salute, then spun on his heel and began barking orders, his voice carrying easily over the sounds of the harbor. He didn’t waste time, but then Emyr never did.

The crew responded instantly.

Those not tasked with securing the cargo moved to prepare the ship for the storm. Sails were reefed and tied down, extra lines thrown and pulled tight, and loose equipment lashed into place. The deck became a flurry of controlled movement, boots thudding, ropes snapping taut, and voices rising and falling in quick, efficient bursts.

More than a few of them cast furtive glances over their shoulders toward the west.

No one on this ship liked storms. Not really. Not when they were on the water, trapped between wind and wave with nowhere to run. Creed caught the looks and didn’t comment. He felt the same unease coiling low in his gut.

He really didn’t like this.

He’d never been a huge fan of the water when he was younger. Back then, it had felt vast and unforgiving, something that could swallow you whole without a second thought. Time and necessity had changed that. Now, he respected it. Understood it. Even relied on it.

But storms?

Storms were chaos given form. Wind screaming like a living thing. Waves that rose higher than they had any right to, crashing down with bone-jarring force. He hated them. Always had. He avoided them whenever possible, altered routes, delayed departures, and did anything to keep clear.

But sometimes, they were unavoidable.

Like today.

Unless they got a miracle.

Creed didn’t believe in miracles.

He’d stopped believing in anything during his twelfth year of life.

Twenty minutes later, the cargo was finally loaded, every pallet wedged and lashed tight in the hold. The crew shifted seamlessly from loading to securing, their hands moving with practiced precision as they prepared the ship for the coming storm and their journey back home. Lines were doubled, knots checked and rechecked, and canvas reinforced where it could be. The Sea Wraith felt heavier beneath Creed’s boots now, burdened not just with cargo but with the promise of rough seas ahead.

The trip would take two days in good weather.

Creed wasn’t under any illusions.

He knew better than most that time at sea was never guaranteed. It would depend entirely on how bad the storm grew and how far it shoved them off course. Wind and current were fickle things, capable of undoing the best-laid plans in moments. This wasn’t their first rodeo, but no two storms were ever the same. Each had its own temperament, its own way of testing you.

“Captain!”

Creed lifted his head as Emyr approached, his boots striking the deck with purpose. Creed had been standing at the railing, his forearms braced against the wood, his blue eyes locked on the darkening skies. “We ready?” he asked, though he already knew the answer.

“Yes, sir,” Emyr replied. His gaze followed Creed’s out toward the horizon, and he drew in a deep breath, his shoulders tightening slightly. “I have a bad feeling about this, Creed.”

“So do I,” Creed murmured. He straightened, rolling his shoulders as if settling the weight of command more firmly in place. “Let’s move, and hopefully we can stay ahead of it, but...” He let the sentence trail off as he glanced at Emyr, one brow lifting.

The Griffin shifter met his gaze without hesitation.

Emyr nodded once, sharply, and turned away to start barking orders, his voice cutting cleanly through the rising wind. Lines were cast off, sails adjusted, and within moments the ship responded, gliding away from the dock as the harbor slowly fell behind them.

They were underway.

Creed moved about the deck, inspecting every inch as the ship picked up speed. He checked lines he knew were secure, ran his hand along railings that had already been reinforced, and tested knots that had been tied by crew he trusted with his life. He knew it was fine. He knew it was ready.

Still, he checked again.

Emyr stood at the helm, steady and focused, guiding them out of the harbor with ease. He knew this port as well as Creed did. Every current, every hidden hazard. He always had. Emyr had been at Creed’s side for thirty-six years now. He was his best friend, his brother in everything but blood. He’d kept Creed upright on his darkest days, when the sea had been the only thing that made sense anymore.

Creed eventually returned to the railing, his fingers curling around the worn wood as his gaze slid back to the western sky. The storm didn’t seem to have moved much, still looming in the distance like a waiting predator. He hoped he wasn’t imagining things and hoped his instincts weren’t finally dulling with time.

He really didn’t like this.

Creed snorted quietly to himself before turning his attention north, toward the direction they were headed.

Creed had been coming to Ynysoedd Tywyll for thirty years now. Long enough that the sea routes felt etched into his bones, long enough that he could navigate the surrounding waters by instinct alone. Not many of the Tir Anghofi Fae had ever set foot in this far-flung part of the realm. Most never would. Distance bred disinterest, and unfamiliar waters made even seasoned Fae uneasy.

Creed had been fortunate.

Ynysoedd Tywyll was unlike anywhere else in Tir Anghofi. It was a scattering of dark, rugged islands rising sharply from the sea, their cliffs jagged and dramatic, their shores shrouded in mist more often than not. The land itself seemed alive, lush and untamed, with dense forests climbing steep inclines as though determined to reclaim every inch of rock. The air there was different, heavy with salt and magic, carrying scents that lingered long after you’d left its shores.

Beautiful, in a wild, dangerous way.

He’d been even more fortunate to get the contract twenty-eight years ago.