Siobhan Dunmoore was losing the war one ship at a time. The Shrehari Empire had burned more hulls out from under her than any other officer in the Fleet. Some said she was too aggressive. Others said too reckless. The enemy called her something else—something they spat with fear. None of it mattered. Not all her enemies wore Imperial uniforms. And the only reputation she had left was for bad luck.
She was dragging another wreck home, crew half‑dead, systems failing. This time she'd bluffed her way out by the skin of her teeth. She wanted rest. The Admiralty wanted her back in the fight.
They gave her Stingray. The Fleet's cursed frigate. Captain disgraced, crew broken, ship rotting. The last of her kind still limping through the war. Admirals whispered about scrapping her, breaking up the jinx. But the war was bleeding ships, and anything that could still fire had to fight.
So Dunmoore went from staring down the Empire's finest on a battleship's burning bridge to commanding a crew ready to mutiny, admirals sharpening knives, and a mystery that stank of death. Stingray's curse wasn't just sailor's talk. Something was wrong. The crew kept their mouths shut. Politics pressed in. Her own demons clawed at her.
Taking that frigate into battle was suicide. But Dunmoore had never walked away from a fight. Failure wasn't an option. Defeat wasn't acceptable. Death was just a hole in the ground. Victory was the only honor left. She'd drag Stingray back from hell—or go down damned forever.
