27. Fabien

27

Fabien

“ I sn’t that what real love sounds like?” Vini murmurs, glancing over at me with a wistful smile as he sits on a crate just a few feet from the Captain’s quarters. His gaze is soft, almost dreamy, fixed somewhere beyond the ship’s railing. He doesn’t need to say who he’s talking about. I can hear them perfectly fine. “Oh, to be one of them. Doesn’t that appeal to you at all?”

“No,” I grunt, the response slipping out before I can even consider it. Instantly, regret creeps in. Locking those two in there together… this was supposed to be about making them a team, not giving them an excuse to… well, do this .

This was meant to be simple: we’re supposed to face the Trials together. For that, we need to function as a crew—at least, the three of them do. I never planned to be anything more than an extra set of hands, a spare part they tolerate, maybe even respect, but still an outsider. I have no interest in bonding, and I’m certainly not interested in… whatever they’re doing in there.

Another muffled moan filters through the door, sending a fresh surge of irritation crawling up my spine. I don’t want to admit how thoroughly I underestimated the mess between Gypsy and Zayan. What I expected was shouting, maybe a brawl and some bruises—not fucking. I hadn’t figured that “sorting things out” would come to fucking .

Sure, Zayan’s interest was obvious from the start—he practically oozes intent every time he’s near her. And Gypsy… well, she didn’t exactly push him away. But to outright fuck?

My mind didn’t even consider it as a possibility to as far they might go together. But now, here I am, listening to them like a fool, wondering how I could’ve been so off the mark.

Gypsy and Zayan aren’t much younger than me, but somehow, this makes me feel ancient. When was the last time I heard a woman cry out like that within earshot? I can’t remember. Even the sound feels alien to me now, like it belongs in another lifetime, another world.

Actually... when was the last time I even fucked someone? I vaguely remember a phase I had as a teenager. With all that money I had and the tales spreading about me like weeds in good soil, women pressed themselves onto me without a second thought.

But then I wised up. I saw what they were after, the glint of gold more intoxicating to them than any affection I could give. And with that came the end of it all—along with my respect for sex.

Because that’s all sex is, really—a distraction that gets in the way, taking time and focus from the things that truly matter. It’s a distraction that burns out faster than gunpowder, leaving behind nothing but smoke. Purpose is the only thing that doesn’t fade, the one thing worth chasing. Purpose is all I have, and it’s all I need.

And yet… I’m still flesh and bone, aren’t I? A man, despite it all, with needs I’m not quite immune to. I ignore them, but they never go away, gnawing at the back of my mind even now. I try to remember the last time I listened to them, but I don’t have an answer.

Vinicola looks over at me, his eyes half-lidded, the smile never leaving his lips. “Then how does love sound to you, Mr. Madman?” he teases, voice laced with a humor that needles at something in me. “If not like this?”

He looks at me the way Ridley sometimes does, a look that suggests there’s something in me beneath all my rage and ruin. And before I can stop myself, I blink, caught off guard, already regretting that split-second lapse.

It’s a mistake. One I can’t claw my way out of, not fast enough.

My mind drags me back to the last time I felt anything close to love—something both damning and precious. Against my better judgment, I peer into the dark, forbidden places I keep locked tight, places I only dare approach in my worst nightmares. And I can feel it—the echo of my misery. And before I can do anything about it, images slice through me, as vivid as the pain I’ve tried so hard to smother.

A hand, stretched out, fingers curling like claws as my mother tries to grip my arm. Panic twists her voice into a sharp, trembling cry, louder than the waves crashing around us. She sees something—a shadow moving beneath the water. My father shoves me forward, pressing me onto the only bit of wood that hasn’t yet been claimed by the sea.

My mother clings to my hand, her fingers slipping with seawater and sweat, her eyes wide, filling with tears that mix with the salt on her cheeks. She looks at me, shoving something cold and hard into my palm, her eyes locking with mine. It’s a key. The key.

A piece of metal that feels heavier than anything I’ve held before.

I know what she’s thinking. She knows that I know. It doesn’t matter that we’re holding onto each other; we’re all going to die.

I clench my jaw and swallow hard, forcing the burning tears back into a cage inside me, a searing box that holds it all—the fear, the anger, the pain—trapped. I won’t cry. Not for her to see. Not for the thing circling below to see. I won’t give the ocean the satisfaction of watching me break.

My mother cries enough for the both of us. Her body trembles against me, shuddering with every broken sob that tears itself from her chest, like she’s already letting go. My father, strong and silent, pulls us close. We press our heads together, hugging one last time. I can feel her shaking beneath my skin, and it feels like it’s clawing at my chest, forcing the air from my lungs.

It forces the air out of my lungs.

Is this what it feels like to drown? Is this the same pain Mom and Dad feel? Is this why she shakes so much? Because of the pain? I’d take away her pain if I could. I’d feel it doubled instead. Because I love her.

My hand tightens around the key, the metal biting into my palm, and I look down at my mother. “Mom,” I whisper, my voice lost in the roar of the waves. “Don’t cry. Just close your eyes… Let me be the one to look into the water.”

I’ll be the brave one. I’ll take the fear, the agony, and shove it into that box, sealing it tight. I’ll hold it so they don’t have to. I’ll make it so they can smile, even in this last moment.

The weight of it won’t catch up to me, anyway.

Because we’re all going to die.

And just when I can’t breathe, when I’m slipping back under, a voice cuts through the darkness like light breaking through the depths. It’s soft, unfamiliar, pulling me back from the edge.

“Hey, hey… it’s okay.”

It’s okay. It’s okay. The words echo like a lifeline, but nothing is okay. There’s a beast below, waiting, as I drift in this endless abyss. I can’t drown, but I can’t escape either. I’m trapped, holding it all.

Then, the voice breaks through again. “Mr. Madman?” it whispers, gentle, warm. I know it isn’t mine. No part of me could make something so delicate. So real. “It’s okay. Just relax. It’s all okay.”

The weight on my chest eases, loosens, and my vision blurs, sharpening until I’m back. I’m back on solid ground, and there’s a person in front of me, pale and soft against the roughness of my world. Light blue eyes, blonde hair. I know him, don’t I? Right—Vinicola. That weak, strange man, so full of words.

He’s the voice.

I blink, and the reality of it sets in. I’m sitting on the floor, knees scraped against the hard wood. I must have fallen. Vinicola kneels beside me, reaching out with a hand like he’s going to touch my forehead, like his fragile touch could somehow ground me.

But I slap his hand away before it makes contact, baring my teeth in a snarl. Not like an animal—no, I am an animal, as much as those old-world elephants we hear stories about. They carry their pain, just like me, little forbidden boxes buried deep. Once they feel betrayal, they don’t let anyone near. They don’t trust.

“Don’t touch me,” I grit out, venomous, my gaze locked onto his. I know my eyes hold the threat I want them to. They always do. If he doesn’t back away on his own, he’ll learn the hard way that I don’t handle people gently.

But he doesn’t back away. My snarl slides off him like rain on slate. Instead, he drops to a crouch, his hands lifted slowly, like I’m some wild thing he’s coaxing out of a cage. His gaze never wavers. He lifts his brows, gives me a quick, disarming smile, then tilts his head toward the floor beside me.

“May I?”

I hesitate, the snarl stuck halfway on my lips. The rational part of me screams to shove him away, to make it painfully clear that no one should come near me when I’m like this. I’m too unpredictable. Too dangerous. But all he’s asking for is a piece of floor. This damn ship’s deck that, technically, he has as much right to as I do.

So that’s what I tell him, looking away to hide the unsteady edge in my voice. “If that’s what you want.”

To my surprise, he takes it as permission. He settles beside me slowly, the old wood creaking beneath him, and it feels warmer somehow, less like cold, dead planks and more like solid ground. Like land that won’t vanish beneath me.

Ridiculous , I think. It’s the same ship floor as a moment ago.

Vinicola doesn’t say anything for a while. He just sits there, next to me, our shoulders nearly touching. The sounds of Zayan and Gypsy fucking keep sounding out from the cabin, and he just listens in like it’s music for him or something.

I glance at him, catching the way his eyebrow twitches when Gypsy cries out, a little sharper, a little higher. He blinks, and there’s something reverent in his expression, like it moves him. It’s perverse, in a strange, unhinged way that’s worlds away from my own madness.

And somehow, that thought drags me out of my own head, just enough that my pulse begins to settle. My heart finds a rhythm that doesn’t feel like it’s trying to claw its way out of my chest. When I finally turn to him fully, he meets my gaze, his eyes glinting in the dim light, a calm spark of something almost…human.

“What do you see in them?” I ask, breaking the quiet. If he’s surprised that I’ve started up a conversation, he doesn’t show it. He turns and keeps his eyes on the cabin door.

“In this moment or in general?”

He wants specifics. Fair enough, though I’m not sure what specifics I’m even asking for. I bend my knee, resting my elbow against it as I shrug. “Both, I suppose.”

He leans back slightly, considering, and nods to himself, like he’s decided on some conclusion only he can understand.

“In this moment?” He smiles faintly. “I see freedom. They’re lost in each other—sensations, heat, the rawness of it all. Right now, there’s nothing else. It’s… pure, in a way.” His smile deepens, almost playful. “Sure, I’m certain they’re getting plenty filthy back there, but oh, if you’d seen the way they’ve been circling each other these past few days… You’d want to applaud them now.”

He lets out a soft chuckle, and strangely, a twinge of envy stirs in my chest. Not for the act itself—no, that doesn’t matter. It’s for how he can see something so grand in the sounds of a couple tangled in a sweaty mess behind a thin door. I don’t know how he does it.

“And in general?” His voice softens. “I see hope. They believe in each other, and maybe—just maybe—that’s enough to carry them through. Maybe belief is all anyone needs.”

I stare at him.

“Belief?” I scoff. “You see belief in two people fucking? That’s… something else.”

He gives me a sideways smile, undeterred. “I see a lot in a lot of things, Mr. Madman. It’s a gift of mine.”

“Mr. Madman?” I echo, arching a brow. “Is that what you’re calling me now?”

“Do you dislike it?”

I let the thought roll over. Do I? The name feels fitting. I shake my head. “Suppose not. But gift or no gift, belief alone won’t save us from what’s coming. The Trials don’t care about hope, or love, or some noble trust in each other. They chew up anything that’s not strong or ruthless enough to survive. They demand cunning, not fairy tales.”

It’s his turn to shrug. “Maybe you’re right. But if that’s how it is, then why am I here?” His head tilts, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Because you believe she chose you for this, don’t you?”

“I do.” The words slip out before I can mask the confidence in them. Faith or not, I am tied to this path.

“Then if she chose you, she chose me too.” He gestures around, to the ship, the crew. “She chose Miss Captain, Mr. Zayan, this ship, and everything in between. And I’m sorry, but I’m nothing without love or hope. That’s who I am.”

There’s a truth in his eyes, a damnable honesty. He’s right about the goddess choosing us, I’ll give him that. But the rest? The idea that we’re here to prove some point about love and trust banishing all darkness?

Bullshit.

“If anything, the lot of you are here to mess with me,” I say, looking away and working my jaw left to right.

He laughs, and it’s the kind of laugh that cuts through cynicism like butter, full and free of any bitterness. It’s unsettling, that happiness of his—so damn unflinching.

“Oh, isn’t that awfully egocentric of you, Mr. Madman?”

I snort, fighting back a smile. “Whoever said I wasn’t?”

“Fair point,” he admits with a grin, leaning back against the crate with a casual stretch. “But think about it this way: maybe the goddess had a grand plan when she threw us all into this swirling mess. Maybe she saw something in each of us that could balance the rest, you know? Like, you’re the steadfast one—focused, driven, always steering the ship ahead. They’re... well, they’re professionals at connecting with each other, as you’ve no doubt noticed.” He glances away with a teasing smirk, then taps his chest lightly. “And me? Perhaps I’m here to remind everyone of the little things—hope, love, and, let’s be honest, the unspoken art of a good roll in the sheets. Nothing quite like it to bind people so tightly that not even a hurricane can tear them apart.”

It takes everything not to laugh in his face, and I’m not sure if it’s because he’s so naive or because, deep down, I half wish he was right. But the words stick in my throat, and before I know it, I’m just sitting here, silent.

And then, when another wave of moans rolls over, I just get up and leave.

Vinicola stays put, still lounging on the floor for a couple of minutes more before he gets up and follows me, too.

I watch through narrowed eyes as Gypsy and Zayan enter Ridley’s room, looking as disheveled as they did after that lightning storm, fighting for their lives and nearly losing them to me.

Gypsy’s hair is a wild, tangled mess, clothes clinging in disarray, and there’s a flush in her cheeks—a gleam in her eye—that makes it obvious she’s still basking in the afterglow. The cripple’s no better: just as battered, but walking with a confidence that wasn’t there before.

Funny what some pussy will do for some men. Even his limp seems lighter now.

They pass me without a glance, locked in their own little bubble, oblivious to anything beyond each other. Gypsy leads, Zayan’s eyes trailing down her ass, as though he hasn’t had enough.

“And here I thought one of you might’ve died back there,” I remark, watching as they settle across from me and Vinicola, while Ridley stands by his desk, ever the sentry.

Zayan’s eyes flicker, a glint of something close to irritation, but it vanishes as fast as it appears. “Jealous, Rancour?” he taunts, the cockiness oozing from him like he’s got the world figured out now.

Figures. Men like him only need a warm body and a bit of adrenaline to feel complete. Food in their bellies, a woman beneath them, and they think the world’s back in order. There’s a simplicity in that I almost envy.

“No need,” I reply, voice dripping with disdain. “Unlike you, I became a man a long time ago. But hey, good for you. Every boy has to experience that sweetness at least once, no matter how late he gets around to it.”

Zayan’s jaw clenches, a flash of that territorial fire sparking up. Then he glances at Gypsy and softens, a slow, smug grin spreading across his face, like he’s proven some point only he understands.

Before I get a chance to push further, just to test if this ease is real or an act, Ridley clears his throat. He unfurls a worn map across the table, its edges frayed from years of rough handling, and the air in the room thickens. Everything changes.

Gypsy’s out of her seat before the map even lies flat, her eyes devouring every line. Zayan shifts, drawn in despite himself. Vinicola bites his lip, looking half-starved. Meanwhile, I feel that old, cold box deep inside me start to shake, the vile things locked within scraping against the edges, clawing for release.

They always do when I see this map.

Gypsy, Zayan, and Vinicola may not know it yet, but Ridley and I are about to unveil things we’ve chased for years. Pieces of history, fragments of power hidden within the seas—a knowledge few have survived to tell.

“What is this?” Gypsy asks, leaning forward, her voice barely above a whisper. It’s like the sea itself has claimed her, whispering promises only she can hear—a language that’s never spoken to me. There’s something reckless in her gaze, a pull toward the forbidden that would make even the damned hesitate.

As much as I resent it, I can see why the goddess chose her. Gypsy’s curiosity and drive fit the task. It’s not mere impulse; it’s in her bones.

Ridley remains silent, allowing me to speak first. “It’s a map of the seas,” I say, watching her trace the cryptic symbols etched along the edges.

“No.” She shakes her head, disbelief tugging at her mouth. “I know what the seas look like. This… this is something else entirely. What are all these strange symbols, these circles? You’ve marked them everywhere…”

Ridley steps closer, his fingers grazing the map’s surface. “This,” he says, his voice low and intense, “isn’t just any map of the seas. It’s a map of all the places of power we’ve found.” His eyes flick across the various marks and annotations, like he’s reliving each discovery. “Places where the Trials have started and ended, where the keys were seen… where sailors met their end in ways no one could explain. The gateways.”

Yes. The gateways. The magical, invisible doors that lead to the pieces of the Lady’s realm...

Gypsy’s eyes widen, her gaze flicking between us with a mixture of awe and skepticism. “Wait a minute,” she says, half-laughing, as if she can’t quite believe her ears. “I don’t think we’re speaking the same language here.” She blinks, shaking her head. “What do you mean, gateways ?”

Ridley’s eyes darken. I know what he’s about to say—still, I find myself holding my breath, bracing against the weight of it.

Back when I was young and still staggeringly naive, I’d stumbled across a journal buried in the stash of a sea witch. It was weatherworn and brittle, but I read it cover to cover. Inside, I found accounts of gateways hidden within the sea, ancient and terrifying. Ever since then, the ocean has felt like one vast, fluid monster, its calmness a mere disguise for the beasts it harbors, coiled and waiting. After reading about the gateways, I understood that the ocean was not a single monster but teeming with other creatures, hidden behind unseen gates, biding their time like soldiers waiting for the call to war.

Perhaps even that’s what they were from the start—fighters, brought to life by the goddess herself.

They exist. Alongside other things.

“Gateways,” Ridley repeats. “They are portals to other realms, places where the fabric separating our world from others is thin. Think of them as fields with their own magnetic forces, forces that don’t conform to anything we know.” His gaze turns distant. “The shipwreck where you all met—it’s one of these places. It doesn’t belong to this world as we know it. It has its own reality, its own set of rules.”

Gypsy stares at him, unblinking, the disbelief clear on her face. Clearly, to her, Ridley’s words sound like riddles or black magic—a territory she refuses to entertain. Even Zayan, who’s rarely silent, seems to have lost his voice, the usual gleam of his defiance fading as he absorbs the weight of Ridley’s words. Vinicola, though, seems to be the only one who takes it fairly well.

Finally, Gypsy speaks, her voice barely a whisper. “Then how did we get there? Zayan, Vini, and I?” She shakes her head, the lines in her brow deepening. “How did we cross into… another world?”

Ridley looks at her knowingly. “The compass led you through the gate. Or so we assume.”

“But there was no gate,” she protests. “There was only open sea. Nothing strange. Not even a storm.”

Ridley nods, a flicker of understanding in his eyes.

Of course, he does. When I was just a kid, a brat too angry for my own good, I told him I’d travel through every damned realm until I made the goddess pay. He’d looked at me then with the same expression I see in Gypsy now—a mixture of pity and disbelief, waiting for me to come to my senses.

Back then, he didn’t have proof, not a shred, to believe in me. I was just a kid, half-mad from grief and hunger for revenge I wasn’t conscious about. And I knew he thought me a fool—a sick young lad clutching at an impossible dream to dull the ache of losing his parents.

Still, he never said a word against it. Maybe he thought I’d break if he told me the truth. Or maybe, in that quiet way of his, he chose to be loyal even to a boy gone mad.

It’s only when we crossed the first gateway that he believed me. And when he did, there was no going back.

“That’s the nature of the gateways,” he says now, his thin, wrinkled lips spreading into a faint, lopsided smile. “They don’t make themselves known. To most, they’re just another stretch of water, same as any other. But for some, there’s a shift—a strange current, a note in the wind, the sea sounding offbeat, just enough to make the hair on your neck stand up.” He pauses, glancing my way. “Young master and I, we can sense it. It’s faint. A hunch, really. But it’s there.”

“Gypsy can sense it too,” I point out, remembering how she heard the compass buzz the moment the key drew near. I recall the way she and I both dropped, struck by that awful headache at the shipwreck’s summit.

“Oh.” Ridley’s brows lift slightly, though I can’t tell if he’s pleased or unsettled. Probably a bit of both. Sensitivity’s not always a good thing.

Being sensitive to the mystical—it’s a double-edged sword. Sure, it heightens the senses, makes you sharper when it comes to noticing the strange currents of the sea, the moments when The Lady stops her silent watch and decides to get involved. For some, it grants a kind of perception, an edge that could be life-saving.

But The Lady isn’t just some force to be felt and ignored. When someone senses her presence, feels that shift in the world, she’s aware of it. The Lady sees it all, and those she sees… she remembers. To catch the eye of an unstable goddess, one who is as likely to drag you under as she is to let you be, is no gift. It’s a curse that comes with a thousand unknowns.

And in our group? We’ve already got three marked by that curse.

“So, you’re saying there are hidden places all over the waters—places people have just been sailing through, clueless?” Vinicola asks.

“Exactly,” Ridley confirms. “That’s why some sailors vanish. Others get trapped, drifting through her waters with no hope of getting out.”

“That’s… that’s a mad stroke of bad luck,” Vini mutters, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Or is it?” I murmur, eyes narrowed.

He glances at me, and I know he’s thinking of our conversation from earlier. About what it means to be “chosen” by powers we can’t see or fight. And how, despite everything, we’ve both felt that pull in our own ways.

“The journal we found, the one with all the old maps?” I say, crossing my arms. The leather of my coat creaks, tight against the strain. “It said she decides whose life she takes and who gets to pass unscathed. Some sail by because she allows it, and the rest? They’re just… offered up.”

“The Lady of the Seas doesn’t leave things to chance,” Ridley adds. “Her realms, her rules. She decides who finds their way home and who’s lost for good.”

He clears his throat, a slight edge there that’s impossible to miss.

It’s a jab at me, that much is clear. Unlike the others, Ridley doesn’t think I’m mad for believing the realms exist, nor even for wanting to charge headlong into them. He thinks I’m reckless because I don’t bother to keep my hatred for her a secret. Because I want her to hear it, to know I’m coming, whether she likes it or not.

“That’s… unhinged,” Vinicola says. “But what does that have to do with the Trials?”

“The gateways are directly tied to the Trials,” I answer. “Every single gateway you see on this map? Each one used to mark where a Trial was held.”

Vinicola’s face pales. “This… many?” he asks, his eyes wide.

“More than that,” I reply. “What we’ve charted here is just a fraction of them. The Trials have been held since the first fools dared these seas. Four Trials per cycle. One cycle every hundred years. And each Trial… selects four champions.”

Vinicola’s hands are shaking as he reaches for the edge of the map, pulling it closer like he’s hoping to find some mistake in the ink. Zayan, on the other hand, crosses his arms

“And the champions this time around… is us four?” Zayan asks, making a slow, mocking circle in the air with his finger. “Gypsy, the bard, me… and you?”

I ignore the disdain in his voice. “Precisely.”

Gypsy, who’s been silent for some time now, starts pacing the room. “What about the gate we just passed through?” she asks. Her voice is steady, but I can see her mind whirring.

Ridley glances at me, his white, bushy eyebrows lifting slightly.

“That one’s one of the newer gates,” I reply. “Appeared about a hundred years ago.”

“You seem to know a hell of a lot about something supposedly so ancient,” Zayan murmurs, standing to circle the table with the map. His gaze shifts between Ridley and me, distrust barely veiled. “Where did you pick all this up?”

“From anywhere we could. Some of it stayed in the family.” Ridley’s eyes flick to me before he continues, “Some, the young master here traded from witches and shamans. Some came by… less noble means. Make no mistake—this knowledge has a cost. The Trials aren’t a fable you hear in taverns; even those who know pieces of the truth keep it close. It’s not for sharing with just anyone.”

“That all sounds unreliable at best,” Zayan mutters, crossing his arms.

He’s right, in a way. We’re no scholars, no alchemists or sorcerers. Just men with no choice but to turn every stone, unearth every half-truth. Men willing to crawl through dirt and dive into madness if it meant scraping together one more shred of understanding. Sometimes that meant listening to whispers from a homeless man lying in the gutter, his words sick with fever and soaked in filth. Sometimes it meant giving up my parents’ heirlooms, piece by piece. And sometimes, it meant sacrificing another scrap of sanity, just to reach further into the darkness.

Madness. That’s what this all is, and the sooner my new companions understand it, the better. If we keep going, they’ll lose more than they’ve bargained for.

Ridley and I share a look, a silent warning. It’s time they know just how deep this goes.

“There are… other sources,” I say, knowing full well how this will go over. “Ones that come straight from the source itself.”

The response is instant, almost reflexive.

“What sources?” Gypsy’s voice is sharp.

“Well...” I start, brining a hand to rub at the scruff on my face. “It’s us. We’re the conduits to the source.”

Her eyes become two thin slits. “Us? What exactly does that mean?”

“Each of us,” I start carefully, weighing each word, “is connected to the Trials. It’s not just that we were chosen—we’re bound to them. It’s why Vinicola heard the goddess’s voice when he held the compass and the first key. It’s why, when Gypsy took the wheel and led us toward the horizon, the gateway didn’t even try to trap us. It let us pass—or perhaps it was her doing. Maybe, Captain, you even knew the way without realizing it.”

Gypsy’s eyebrows draw together as she glances away, her expression one of deep concentration. It’s strange, but she doesn’t look ready to throw my head to the waves. For that, at least, I’m grateful; I’ve dealt with more than enough doubters, and my patience, once a strong suit, is running thinner by the day. The longer I’m in this, the more I feel the threads of my world pulling apart. I’ve forgotten what “normal” even was.

But her silence tells me something—it’s as if my words have struck a chord. Maybe they’ve already seen enough of the inexplicable to make them believe, even if only a little.

“Alright, suppose you’re telling the truth,” Zayan interjects, his tongue resting against his cheek, skepticism barely veiled. “What would you do if we hadn’t shown up, then? How would you have gotten out alone? You’re not exactly the Lady’s favorite, are you?”

Oh, I’m definitely her favorite—favorite to torment.

“Our men would be praying to their gods—maybe even her,” I say dryly, shrugging at the mention. “But Ridley and I? We’d keep on as we came in—sailing blind, spinning circles, listening for where the buzzing fades. Somewhere in that dead silence, there’d be a breach. We’d find it. Might take months, but we’d get through.”

“A couple of months, huh?” Zayan’s lips twist in a grin, his tone mocking. “Quite a bit of time.”

“It’s nothing compared to how long I’ve already spent on this cursed quest.”

“Does the ship have resources to last that long?” Gypsy asks.

Vinicola beats me to it.

“Oh, it has,” he says, nodding enthusiastically, his hands rising as he mimes an explosion near his temples. “The stuff they’ve got on board... it’s crazy! They’ve even got this whole water filtering contraption that lets you drink seawater—if you wait, like, a little while. And there’s a whole space for growing plants and whatnot. This isn’t just any old ship.”

Gypsy’s brow arches. She hasn’t toured the ship like Vinicola has, let alone struck up a conversation with the crew like Zayan did. She threw herself straight into captaincy, straight into navigating out of here. Meanwhile, Vinicola wandered around before that nap we took in the quarters—before Zayan stormed in, clearly itching to pull Gypsy aside for that oh-so-private chat he just had to have.

Pity, by the way. That nap was the best sleep I’ve had in weeks.

“Nothing makes seawater drinkable,” Gypsy says, her voice dry with skepticism. She glances my way, eyes narrowing. “Sure of that?”

“Sure as salt itself.” I shrug, matching her look with a nonchalance of my own. “That’s all we drink on this ship.”

She eyes me with that wary stare, jaw working as she chews over my answer. Finally, she nods. “Alright, then. Tell me how it works, and I might give it a try. Otherwise, you’ll find me sticking to rain barrels, like any sensible pirate.”

Ridley steps forward, a glint of pride in his old eyes as he takes the cue. “It’s a desalination system, Captain. An old, almost forgotten method we managed to bring back to life here on board. We use heat to evaporate seawater, leaving the salt behind, and then condense the steam into drinkable water. Not quick, but reliable enough.”

“Old, you say?” she queries. “Just how old are we talking? And where’d you get this miracle system from?”

I smirk. “Bought the blueprints off a collector. Had to build it ourselves, though. It’s part of why we’re all rooming together. Big ship, yes, but bigger needs. Takes up space to keep the whole lot sustainable.”

Her skepticism softens slightly, though her gaze remains sharp. “I’ll admit, that’s impressive. But a garden, too?” She looks between us, her wariness laced with a hint of interest. “You’re telling me there’s some kind of vegetable patch on board?”

Vinicola beams, stepping forward with a dramatic wave of his arms. “Oh, Captain, if only you’d seen it! It’s a full setup—herbs, greens, all thriving right in the heart of the ship. And there’s this sunlamp they rigged up to keep it growing, even below deck. Can you believe it?”

Gypsy’s brow lifts, an almost amused look flickering across her face. “So, seawater wine and a pirate’s paradise, all rolled up under one deck?”

“Still need to hit the ports,” I add, cutting in before Vinicola can get carried away. “What we grow’s a supplement. Makes the rations stretch, lets us eat something green now and then, but it’s not enough to last the whole crew on a long run. Can’t live off dried meat and hardtack alone.”

“Smart,” she nods, a slight smirk tugging at the edge of her mouth. “Stretching the rations, getting creative with the green stuff… I’d say that’s damn near civil of you.”

Ridley clears his throat. “If we’re laying it all out for her, Captain should know about the armory too.”

She perks up at that. “Now that sounds more like it.”

Ridley inclines his head slightly, his voice lowering, as if even speaking of it is enough to conjure something from the shadows. “We’re stocked well—more than well, really. Not just with conventional weapons, either. Some of what we’ve got on board is… unconventional.”

Gypsy raises an eyebrow. “Unconventional as in…?”

“Artifacts,” I say, holding her gaze. “Objects that defy reason. Cursed blades, bullets that never miss, relics passed through pirate hands for centuries. Some were bought; most were stolen.”

From my left, a loud gasp cuts through the air. Vinicola’s eyes are wide as he stares, mouth agape. “Are you telling me we have magical objects on board?”

“Call them what you want.” I shrug. “But yes, they’re far more than tools. Anyway,” I smack my lips, shifting focus, “we’re here to talk about the Trials. Ridley and I have filled you in plenty. What about your stories?”

“Didn’t peg you for someone who cared,” Gypsy says, sitting back down.

“I don’t,” I answer sharply. “But I need to know who I’m stuck with if my life depends on it.”

Gypsy snorts. “And you value your life so much?” She lets her words hang, her smirk taunting. “Didn’t seem that way back at the shipwreck. Or even now.”

I grit my teeth, fighting the urge to roll my eyes as annoyance prickles through me. Dealing with people—a necessary headache, but one I’d hoped would sting less than this. “If I’m dead, I won’t get to finish my plans, will I?” I snap.

It puts a smile on Gypsy’s face.

“Well,” Vinicola starts, the eagerness in his voice breaking through, “if anyone’s got the right to tell our story, I’d say it’s me. I’ve got an excellent memory for these sorts of things.” He turns to Gypsy and Zayan, his expression hopeful. “If neither of you objects…?”

Gypsy waves her hand in a dismissive gesture, though there’s a spark of interest beneath her casual exterior. She’s curious, but she won’t admit it. “Fine,” she says, feigning indifference.

Vinicola leans forward, eyes bright. “So, where to begin… Miss Captain here”—he gestures to Gypsy—“started it all. She defied her father, Silverbeard, who’d wanted nothing to do with the compass, and decided to go after it anyway, his warnings be damned.”

Silverbeard. Gypsy’s father. The name’s familiar enough—anyone who’s sailed these seas knows it. It hits me then: I’ve heard stories of his daughter too, the wild one with the sea in her blood, who was meant to captain his crew one day. Or rather… used to be meant.

Gypsy interrupts with a sly grin. “You missed the part where Zayan went running to him like a rat in the hold, which is exactly how he found out in the first place.”

She’s still smiling, almost as if betrayal doesn’t sting her. But I remember how she and Zayan had made up barely twenty minutes ago, and I understand. This is just how they work.

“She thought I wanted to start a war between the Serpents and the Marauders,” Zayan adds, his voice tight, “but she was wrong.”

The atmosphere in the room shifts slightly at Zayan’s admission. Gypsy gives him a sidelong glance, her expression softening just a bit. But she doesn’t say anything, and the moment passes.

“Anyway, she was all alone, didn’t know Mister Zayan was shadowing her. She went ashore, swam with the compass lodged in her boot, got it working, and then stole a ship from two angry pirates who’d locked me up below deck. Mean as hell, those two. Miss Captain here shot one’s kneecap clean through and made the other swim to shore.”

Zayan laughs, shaking his head. “I actually saw those poor bastards. I don’t think that one’ll ever walk straight again.”

Gypsy shrugs. “I warned them. They should’ve just handed over the ship nicely when I asked.”

Vinicola’s excitement grows as he speaks, the story tumbling out in waves. “So, I joined Miss Captain on her journey. I figured it’d just be the two of us, but then Mister Zayan here decided to join the merchant ship those two pirates we left behind sailed with and started chasing us. Then, this storm hits—huge, rolling waves and all. I was pretty sure I’d die before I got to see my mother’s face again. And then, wouldn’t you know it, Zayan jumps right onto our ship, proclaiming his love…”

“No one proclaimed their love,” Gypsy denies.

“…And then, it turned out that whole storm was the compass’s fault. So, Miss Captain chucked it away, right onto that merchant ship, and we watched the storm zero in on them like it had a grudge. Then we escaped, made it to shore on a nearby island, and…”

“You threw the compass away?” I interrupt, disbelief tightening my voice. I’ve spent years hunting it, only to hear it was tossed away like driftwood. My jaw clenches as anger rises, tempered only by the sting of irony. Of course they’d toss out the one treasure I’d been risking my neck to find.

“What were we supposed to do, let it drown us?” Zayan retorts, defensive.

They don’t see it, don’t understand the stakes here. The Trials, the compass, the gateways—all discarded like meaningless relics. But the Lady doesn’t make mistakes in choosing. She’s toying with them now, but they don’t realize how far she’ll take them before she’s through.

“We did what we had to,” Gypsy says coolly, “but it’s not like we got away clean.”

For some reason, her frustration makes me smile. “Yeah? She got you good, huh?”

“If you consider showing me a talking monkey after dosing me with some jungle toxin ‘good,’ then yes. She got me,” Gypsy deadpans.

A dry laugh escapes me despite myself. “Just you?”

“Just me,” she mutters, unamused.

Ridley, caught up in his own thoughts, mutters, “So the compass brought the storm, and you tossed it to save yourselves. But the Lady doesn’t just let go. That compass is a key, a guide. You were chosen.” He pauses, his gaze thoughtful. “Did it come back to you?”

“I found it in the sand,” Vinicola says, sheepish.

“After that, we decided to follow it,” Gypsy admits, a reluctant hand rubbing the back of her neck, as if even the memory of that damned monkey unsettles her. I can’t say I don’t understand. The Lady’s got a twisted sense of humor—and an even worse sense of justice.

I could help her, I realize. If Gypsy’s really tangled up in the goddess’s games like I am, there are ways to shut her out. Techniques I’ve used before, imperfect but better than nothing. The real question is, do I feel like offering it?

“And that’s how you ended up at the shipwreck?” I ask, seeing now how they stumbled into the zone without even realizing it.

“Yup, just like that,” she says, voice flat, though I can hear the irritation beneath. She might as well be admitting a defeat.

What she doesn’t know is that there’s nothing else they could have done. Not after the compass was activated.

The compass doesn’t just want the key; it craves it, like iron drawn to the heart of a storm. And the sea—every rise and pull of the tide, every swell of wind—seems to push for them two into merging. An unaware human like Gypsy could have done nothing to prevent it.

She had to follow.

Just like she has to follow now. At least, until the Trials are complete.