An Understated Dominance Novel (Dahlia & Dustin) by Marina Vittori updated 2025-26 - An Understated Dominance Chapter 2628

Chapter 2628

Grace stood before a table stacked high with sea charts, her fingertips gently brushing the coarse, yellowed hemp paper.

The cinnabar-red routes etched across the maps looked like congealed blood streaks, glowing eerily beneath the candlelight.

When Logan pushed open the door, he caught sight of her closing a rosewood box, tucking thick cowhide account books inside. Snippets of text peeked out between the pages—“freshwater reserves,” “dry food ratios”—evidence of meticulous planning for a voyage that promised danger at every turn.

“Any word from the fishermen?” Logan asked as he stepped in.

Grace lifted her gaze, her eyes reflecting the deepening dusk outside the window. “Stevie just returned from the harbor. He found an old fisherman—Ronin. Said he once saw a mirage near the Black Water Ditch three years ago. A jade-colored palace suspended in the clouds. The stone stele at the front had a name carved into it—‘Fairyharbor.’”

She paused, tapping her fingers thoughtfully on the table. “But the old man said the vision lasted only as long as an incense stick. When he looked again, even the sea fog was gone.”

Logan walked over and picked up a chart labeled Black Water Ditch.

Ink swirls marked the turbulent currents. Around them, notes scribbled by fishermen filled the margins: “Strange winds in June—ships vanish without a trace.” “Something enormous stirs beneath the water.” “Crying sounds at night.”

Running a finger along the uneven scrawl, Logan smirked. “This is more believable than any map in the royal archive.”

Three days later, at dawn, Haizho Fishing Port was wrapped in a mist that smelled of salt and secrets.

Grace stood on the deck of the Breaking Waves, dressed in dark, fitted attire, watching as the last supplies were loaded aboard.

The deck was lined with sealed ceramic jars filled with compressed rations and medicinal herbs. A reinforced freshwater tank beneath the cabin could sustain them for three months. Every weapon and tool they might need had been accounted for.

“Mr. Ronin,” Grace turned toward the elderly man huddled near the gunwale, clutching a weathered charm, his gnarled fingers white with tension. “You’re certain it was near Black Water Ditch?”

The old fisherman nodded weakly. His clouded eyes stared out toward the open sea. “I’m sure. My third son died there. That day, the sun was bright, then suddenly a strange white mist rolled in. I saw it—an island floating in the fog, like a palace in the sky…”

A violent cough shook his frail body. He hunched over, wheezing. “The mist was unnatural. Even the nets that got wet turned to rags by morning.”

Logan pressed his palm against the rusted iron ring on the anchor, tapping it lightly.

A faint vibration rippled down the anchor chain—as if something stirred in the deep.

He looked up. The horizon had begun to darken unnaturally fast, clouds spreading like ink across rice paper.

“Weigh anchor,” Logan said sharply. “If we don’t move now, we’ll be trapped in the harbor when the typhoon hits.”

The soldiers moved quickly. The capstan groaned as the heavy anchor rose, trailing bubbles from the sea floor.

As the sails of the Breaking Waves caught the wind and billowed wide, Ronin collapsed onto the deck. He stared at the churning wake and muttered, “I shouldn’t have come… I never should’ve come…”

The first five days at sea were calm.

Flocks of gulls wheeled overhead, and the sunset turned the water to molten gold.

Each day, Grace climbed the watchtower, scanning the endless blue with a telescope. Below, Logan pored over copied legends and sailor accounts of Fairyharbor, cross-referencing them with ancient sea charts.

Then came the sixth afternoon.

The sky blackened abruptly, as if someone had extinguished the sun.

The first sign of trouble came from the sailor at the helm. He shouted as the compass needle spun out of control. The brass dial turned red-hot, burning his hand.

Before anyone could respond, the ship lurched violently.

It was as if a massive, invisible hand had seized the hull—twisting and tossing it without mercy.

Grace slammed into the railing. Her jade pendant struck the wood with a sharp crack, leaving a fine fracture across its surface.

“Water dragon!” someone cried, pointing toward the horizon.

A massive column of water erupted from the sea, shooting skyward.

Thunder cracked overhead, and bolts of lightning snaked through the storm clouds like silver serpents. Each flash illuminated the monstrous whirlpool churning just ahead.

Rain pelted the deck like shards of glass. The wind howled, tearing through the sails until they groaned like wounded beasts.

Grace leapt to the top of the mast. A golden light formed a glowing shield in her hand, just in time to block a falling beam.

She looked down. The sea had turned pitch black. Waves several meters high slammed into the deck, and chunks of floating ice rode the swells—ice, in the middle of summer.

“Hold on to something—anything!” Grace’s voice ripped through the storm, loud enough to cut through the wind.

The soldiers clung to chains and rails. Some weren’t fast enough—huge waves swept them overboard, and they vanished into the vortex below before they could even scream.

Then, from the crow’s nest, came a shriek that pierced the chaos:

“Tentacles! There are tentacles!”

Grace looked up.

From the roiling sea, thick gray tentacles surged into view—each one as wide as a barrel, slick and glistening, covered in pulsing suction cups.

On some of those cups, fragments of human bone clung like macabre trophies.

One tentacle slammed onto the deck, cracking the teak boards with a deafening crash. Two soldiers, caught off guard, were seized. Their screams were cut short as their bodies were torn in half—blood and entrails raining down across the torn sails.