Though she longed to rejoice, she buried her hope deep inside for she knew death still clutched tight to her cloak. Lashed to a chunk of wreckage from her sunken ship to keep her from being tossed into the boiling water that whipped around her, Braelyn fought to get to her knees as land approached. Carried as she was on a giant wave of frothing violence, she managed to get her feet beneath her. The lash held her tight and lent her a measure of balance as she drew one of her blades from the sheath at her hip. A sudden chill filled the air as the short sword shimmered in her hand, wisps of steam roiling up as droplets of water met the ice-blue steel of the blade. She set the tip of her sword near the restraining lash and waited with her heart in her throat as her makeshift raft hurtled toward shore. She waited as the wave she rode began to plummet downward, and then waited an instant longer before slicing the leather restraint that bound her other wrist. Her loose arm held out for balance, she sheathed her blade and made ready.
