14. Zayan

14

Zayan

V inicola is full of shit. He lied straight to my face.

Saying he’s scared? That’s putting it lightly. The man’s terrified. He’s not shrieking like a banshee this time, but I can hear it in every shaky breath he takes, like he’s holding himself together with string and prayers. But even though that’s the case, he’s still loud enough to wake the dead. Like a moron.

“I’m a bard, for heaven’s sake,” he hissed at me a few minutes ago when I told him to shut it. “I’m trying! But sound just loves me!”

I’d have rolled my eyes if I wasn’t busy keeping them on Gypsy, watching her swing a dagger I gave her. Gave her a little courage, sure, but the way she’s hacking at the air, I’m half-expecting her to take a swipe at me by accident. That’s saying something.

Gypsy’s no better off than Vinicola. She’s jumpy, spooked by every rustle, every damn leaf that moves like it’s going to bite. Fierce as she is, I can see it—her edge is dulling with every step we take, that fire inside her flickering.

That dagger? It’s just a crutch. It won’t last her long. Sooner or later, she’ll crack.

The more we press on, the more I’m thinking I should’ve gone into the jungle alone. Would’ve been quicker. I’d grab some wood, maybe a few roots, catch a fish or two. Set up camp on the coast, get the fire going, no fuss. I could even haul some fresh water from the schooner if I had to.

But… solitude here? Not smart. This island’s a mystery. Marauders never touched it, and according to Gypsy, Silverbeard didn’t either. Best to stick together, even if it’s a pain.

And as much as it pains me to say it, I don’t even mind having Vinicola along. Sure, he’s noisy, and I’d rather be alone with Gypsy. But she’s not exactly in the mood to talk about what matters. And the bard? He gets her to laugh without her cutting me with her eyes, so there’s that.

Plus, she’d never admit it, but having someone around who’s just as terrified as she is? That actually makes her a little braver.

“Why the hell is it so dark in here?” Gypsy curses, panting a little as she stops. Naturally, Vinicola and I stop, too.

“Because it’s a godless place,” Vinicola says, deadpan, brushing off his chest like that’s supposed to help. The idiot ditched his vest back on the beach, saying the jungle would ruin it. I told him it was a dumb idea. Guess we’ll see how long he lasts before he regrets it.

Now, if he drops dead, well... I’ll feel bad for about a minute. But I warned him. It’s all on him.

“Keep moving,” I say, scanning the ground. Water’s got to be close. Small animal tracks, the high humidity—it’s a matter of time before we find it. And with the schooner’s water barrels either smashed to bits or lost in the storm, we’re gonna need it.

Vinicola’s still grumbling, his steps louder than a herd of wild boar.

“Maybe the darkness is trying to spare us from whatever nightmare’s hiding under all these leaves,” he says, with a nervous laugh. “What you don’t see can’t make you flee.”

Oh, great. He’s singing now.

It’s cut short, thankfully.

Gypsy whirls around so fast she nearly slams into me. “Vinicola, if you don’t shut up, I’ll feed you to the first beast that crosses our path.”

That bite in her voice says it all. She’s even more rattled than I thought.

Vinicola clamps his mouth shut, eyes wide, but Gypsy’s already huffing and turning back, swinging her dagger at thin air like she’s not half-starved and dehydrated woman in a dangerous jungle. I’d laugh if it wasn’t so damn tragic. But let’s be real—threats don’t keep the bard quiet. I’ve told him I’d slit his throat before, and here he is, still not getting the hint.

“I’m just saying…” he mutters. “The chances of something watching us is pretty damn high right now. They see us , and we don’t see them .”

“For fuck’s sake,” Gypsy grumbles, swiping at another low-hanging branch.

“Eyes and ears,” Vinicola adds with a shiver. “And probably noses . Lots of noses.”

I decide to step in before Gypsy does something she’ll regret. “Alright, that’s enough. Just keep moving.”

Somehow, that does it. First time in a while, he shuts up, letting us walk in silence.

The jungle closes in around us, the trees and undergrowth thickening like a vice. The air is stifling, almost suffocating, and I can see beads of sweat trickling down Gypsy’s temples. Vinicola’s panting like a mutt in heat, hair plastered to his forehead.

I knew the foliage would be dense the moment we dropped anchor, but I didn’t expect it to be this wild. The island’s not exactly massive—could barely fit three villages if anyone bothered to live here—but the life it holds thrives like it’s hell-bent on spooking us all. Even me. There’s this nagging sense of danger creeping through the air, like it’s whispering to me: one wrong step, and it’s game over.

I don’t know how long I stay locked in that feeling, but I focus on every little sound, making sure Gypsy’s taking the right steps. You’d think I’d be leading the way, but sometimes the back’s the most dangerous spot. In this chaotic little formation we’ve got, it’s safer to keep an eye on what’s lurking behind us, waiting to pounce.

We’ve got no clue what might be living here.

The silence stretches only a couple more minutes before it’s shattered again.

“At times like these, I can’t help but picture my mother’s face,” Vinicola mutters, breaking the tension. “I can almost hear her laughing at me, saying, ‘Vinny, I told you not to follow in your father’s footsteps. Now look at what happened because you didn’t listen.’”

I don’t bother digging into his words—honestly, I couldn’t care less. But Gypsy apparently finds it intriguing. Even in this sour mood of hers, she’s interested.

It’s… strange.

“Oh yeah?” She doesn’t slow down, still hacking through the jungle like it’s her personal punching bag.

Vinicola jumps at the chance to keep talking, obviously grateful to elaborate. “Yup. She always had this look on her face, like she knew I was destined for trouble.” There’s a pause, then he adds, his tone dropping to something softer, “she didn’t want me to go.”

There’s something in his voice that pricks at me—pain. I know that sound. As much as I’d hate to admit it, it hits somewhere close. I glance at him, despite myself.

Normally, the guy’s all grins and rambling, like he doesn’t know when to shut up. But now? There’s something else there. Something raw.

“Then why did you?” I hear myself asking before I can stop.

He doesn’t reply straight away. He just chuckles for a short while, instead, the sound nervous and baffled and also regretful.

He chuckles, and it’s that kind of laugh that’s more nervous than amused. “Saw my father twice in my life,” he says. “Once when he came back from the sea with his privateer pals, took half the wine we’d made, said he’d sell it. The second time? When I came here looking for him after ten years of nothing.”

Gypsy clicks her tongue. “Give a man some booze, and he’ll strip himself clean of morals.”

“Aye,” I mutter, still watching him.

Vinicola hums, nodding. “He told me stories of these seas, you know? Said it was a place where the sun barely touched the ground, where people could really be happy. I figured he’d come here.”

“Did you find him?” I ask, surprising myself again. Maybe it’s curiosity. Maybe it’s something else. As a man with no father, it’s hard to tell if I should envy or pity him.

Most days, I don’t even bother thinking about who my father was—or is. Doesn’t matter. My mother needed coin more than a son, so she sold me off to Roche. And maybe that was for the best. At least I got a real example of what a man’s supposed to be, even if he’s a pirate.

Still, the idea of blood ties grabs me sometimes, like a leech that won’t let go. What’s it like, having a mother who actually gives a damn? Someone who’d lose sleep because you’re gone too long. I’ve never had that.

Soft lives make soft men, I suppose. Maybe that’s why Vinicola turned out the way he did. But the thing is… he had something most of us don’t get.

Genuine love. That much is clear.

“In a way,” the bard finally says, and I can tell he’s holding something back. For once, the words aren’t pouring out.

I glance back, a half-smirk tugging at my lips. “Art is pain, huh?”

He nods, all earnest, like that’s the truest thing he’s ever heard. “Because art is love,” he mutters.

And for some reason, I don’t hate him in that moment. Yeah, he’s useless, loud, and every other thing that grates on my nerves. Even Gypsy likes him, and that’s its own problem. But right now? I don’t mind him so much.

Just as I’m about to let my guard down, there’s a rustle in the bushes. The sound snaps us all still.

I turn, slow and steady, narrowing my eyes as I scan the greenery. Something’s out there. Could be nothing. Could be trouble.

Gypsy’s grip tightens on the dagger I gave her. I can practically taste the salt of her sweat hanging in the air, feel her pulse pounding in the space between us.

“Anyone else hear that?” Vinicola whispers, his previous softness gone. He’s all fear now, and honestly? Can’t even say I blame him.

“Everyone heard it,” I mutter, keeping my voice low. “Stay still.”

We freeze, and for a second, the whole damn jungle goes quiet, like even it’s holding its breath. My fingers twitch, wanting to grab a dagger, but then I remember—I gave it to Gypsy. Great. Only thing I’ve got left is the gun.

Another rustle—this one closer. My eyes flick to Gypsy. Her face is pale as moonlight, her jaw clenched so tight I’m surprised her teeth don’t shatter. Her fingers are practically welded to that dagger, like it’s the only thing keeping her upright. Vinicola, on the other hand? He’s gone dead silent, his breath coming in shallow gasps, probably too scared to even make a sound.

I slide the gun out from its holster, slow and steady, my grip tight around the cold iron. Sweat drips down my brow, but I keep my focus sharp, my eyes scanning the shadows for any sign of movement. Another sound—a shuffle, a crack of twigs, and my heart pounds like a war drum in my chest.

Just as I’m about to aim, something shoots across the path—a blur of brown, quick and silent, vanishing into the underbrush like it was never there at all. I barely register it. Just a small animal. A rodent, maybe.

But Gypsy? She whirls around, her eyes wide and wild like she’s just seen a ghost.

“Did you see that?” Her voice is breathless, her chest rising and falling in rapid bursts. There’s panic there.

I raise an eyebrow, smirking despite the tension. “See what? Your nerves getting the best of you, love?”

I should be relieved. It was nothing. A rodent or some other harmless creature. Nothing that could actually harm us. But the way Gypsy’s staring at me—there’s something deeper going on.

“Did you see that monkey?” she practically screeches, her voice cracking. She’s shaking now, her fingers trembling on the hilt of the dagger.

“What the hell are you talking about?” I ask, my smirk fading as I catch the sheer desperation in her eyes.

Her voice rises, high-pitched, frantic. “Did you see what it had in its hand?!”

I blink. A monkey? What the—

“Keep your voice down, love,” I hiss, reaching out to lay a hand on her shoulder, but she shoves me off like I’ve just struck her, eyes blazing with fire.

“It had the compass, Zayan,” she chokes out. “It had my compass.”

My stomach drops. I don’t even have time to process that before she spins on her heel, bolting into the bushes, her feet barely touching the ground as she disappears into the jungle like a streak of lightning.

It takes a few painful heartbeats for her words to fully sink in.

Her compass. The one she threw onto the privateer ship. The one that made a huge crack of lightning strike the said ship. The very same one. And she’s chasing after a monkey like her life depends on it.

Oh, I shouldn’t be relieved at all. I should be terrified .

I snap into action, my feet pounding after her. “Gypsy, wait!” I shout, but she’s already too far ahead, her silhouette swallowed by the thick greenery. Damn her stubbornness. Damn that compass.

And damn me for always chasing after her. Always chasing after her.