28. Vinicola

28

Vinicola

A fter a few days at sea, we finally reach a small merchant island, and I can barely hold back a leap of joy. I step off the ship with arms spread wide, breathing in the crisp, mist-laden air. The sky is cloaked in a moody gray that begs for candlelight, the kind that would cast warm, orange halos around us and make the whole scene glow.

Oh, I can feel the inspiration brewing already.

I inhale deeply, grinning as the chill sinks into my skin. This life was meant for me, wasn’t it? The Heretica is a beauty, and Gypsy, our lovely heretic-in-chief, named her perfectly. Far grander than that rickety schooner I’d been trapped on before. I love every inch of her.

“I think I was meant for this pirate life all along and just didn’t know it,” I declare as everyone joins me on the dock. The water’s a dreary gray today, and the wind has a biting edge, but that only adds to the romance of it all.

“Wouldn’t call you a pirate just yet, Vini,” Gypsy replies, her lips pressed together as she scans the dock. “For now, you’re just sailing with some.”

“Two, to be precise,” Fabien interjects with a raised brow. “Ridley and I aren’t pirates.”

“But you both fight like ones,” Zayan mutters, his eyes darting around.

I can’t help but grin as I look at the scene. We’re sticking out like a sore thumb on this dock—Fabien, towering over everyone with half an armory strapped to him, looks like he could take down an entire ship with just a glare; Gypsy and Zayan look like they’re two seconds away from robbing everyone in sight, and then there’s me… spotless as a daisy. Too clean for this place, by far. We’re practically a walking red flag.

“We fight to survive,” Fabien declares like it’s obvious. “Pirates fight dirty. Add a bit of real training, and you’ve got the edge.”

Zayan half-scoffs, half-smirks, but I can tell he agrees, even if he’d rather not admit it. The four of them have been training fiercely in every spare moment, between sailing and sleeping. And I’ll give credit where it’s due—they’re brilliant fighters. But to Fabien, fighting humans is one thing; fighting monsters? A different beast entirely. He’s taken it upon himself to turn us all into warriors prepared for anything.

I even caught him eyeing me once, trying to decide if I could be trained into something dangerous. Imagine that! Me! With a sword in my hand? I’m more likely to trip over my own feet or accidentally cut my own ear off than land a hit on someone else. But Fabien is relentless; he’s convinced that even I should be prepared, in case, you know, a monster suddenly takes offense to me.

So I’ve been, let’s say… creatively avoiding him since he mentioned it. I found myself a little sanctuary tucked away in the garden. Right beneath an orange tree, there’s a perfect nook surrounded by pots, flowers, and enough leaves to keep me hidden from view. It’s my peaceful escape, and so far, Fabien hasn’t caught on.

But today? There’s no escaping. The moment we step off the dock, Fabien’s gaze locks onto me like he’s decided that my days of hiding are over. His eyes could probably cut steel if he wanted.

“If you get lost, that’s your problem,” he growls, his voice like a rumble from some shadowy tavern choir. I can almost picture him there, singing bass with a bunch of gruff sailors. I told him as much last night, after deciding it was safe enough to return to the group. He only snarled in response, but honestly, the man’s vocal depth is like a well-tuned cello.

“Whatever happened to ‘all for one, one for all’?” I ask, flashing him my most charming smile. “Weren’t we supposed to be a collective now?”

Fabien’s eyes narrow, unimpressed. “We are a collective,” he mutters, arms crossing over his barrel of a chest, “but that doesn’t mean I’ll babysit you if you wander off. If you can’t keep up, maybe the three of us will just complete the Trials without you.”

I press a hand to my heart in mock dismay. “Your words, my friend, are like thorns,” I sigh. “Surely there’s a soft spot under that prickly exterior?” I attempt my most wounded look, though I know Fabien’s heart is made of the same stuff as ship timber: tough, and probably a little splintered.

“Stay close,” he orders, ignoring my theatrics. “I’ll only say it once. Got it?”

I give an exaggerated nod, though I can’t resist rolling my eyes a little. “Loud and clear, Mister Rancour,” I say with mock solemnity, catching a smirk from Zayan and a raised eyebrow from Gypsy.

Fabien just shakes his head, his expression sharpening as he scans the crowded dock and bustling marketplace.

Ridley, who’s been quiet up until now, pipes up. “We’re here for supplies, no distractions. We get what we need, and we leave. The Trials are closer than we think, and we don’t want the goddess following through on that warning she gave our captain.”

Gypsy gives a sharp nod. “Zayan and I need new weapons. We’ll go together.”

“Ridley can handle the carpenter on his own,” Fabien says, as if that settles it. “The bard will go with me.”

I blink. “Uh, sure, I suppose that works.”

Fabien nods, as though any other response was unthinkable, and I fall into step beside him, still reeling a bit. I mean, I didn’t expect to end up part of his agenda.

See, I don’t really mind Fabien. Not like Miss Captain or Zayan, who’d probably see him as the devil himself. No, I don’t think he’s evil. He’s… hurting. So much hurt that it’s like he’s all hollowed out, nothing left but anger and disgust—like he’s a barrel that’s leaked all the good stuff and is just sour fumes now.

Does that make him easy to be around? No, not in the least. Fabien’s the kind of intensity that crackles too close, like a fire that doesn’t just stay in its place—it licks toward you, reaching, ready to burn if you’re not careful. Normally, I like a good flame, you know? Sit back, watch it dance, listen to it pop as it eats away at wood. But Fabien’s fire? It’s got a will of its own, practically tugging me in by the collar.

Ever since that time I sat with him, waited for his storm to pass, he’s looked at me differently. It’s almost like he’s relieved I stayed, but he hates that he feels that way. Poor bloke’s caught between wanting company and despising his need for it.

Usually, I’d say he’s delicate, like Zayan. But Fabien’s a different story. He’s got so much bottled up, it’s a wonder he doesn’t explode right there. It’s not that he doesn’t know his feelings—oh, he knows them all right. It’s more like he knows them too well, every inch of that anger and fire, and it’s about to burst out any second.

Terrifying? Absolutely. But you know what? It’s also beautiful, in that dangerous way. He’s like a volcano, rumbling and ready, and I can’t lie—it stirs something in me. I can practically feel a new song coming on just thinking about it.

Mother always had a saying for people like Fabien. She’d clink her wine glass and say, “Vinicola, the world’s got folks with fires so big, they could roast a whole flock of geese just by breathing near them. ”

Fabien Rancour—yes, he’s exactly that kind of fire hazard.

Miss Captain catches my eye, tossing me one of those pitiful looks, as if she thinks it’s fate’s fault I’m stuck with Mr. Madman instead of joining her and Zayan. But there’s no truth in that pity. She’s the captain here. If she didn’t want me going with Fabien, she’d have pulled me into her little party. But no, this is clearly her way of arranging a bit of one-on-one time with Zayan—no nosy bards allowed, especially ones with sharp ears and softer hearts.

Oh, I remember their attempts to sneak away to the garden on board. Lovely, private, and apparently perfect for… whatever it was they were doing half-naked when I innocently sat down to write. Ah, the shocked looks on their faces. But who am I to complain? Love is love, and I’m all for it—my own or anyone else’s. They just weren’t quite as pleased to find me there, already mid-verse about the spontaneity of passion , as one could call it.

In my defense, they moved far too quickly for me to make a discreet exit.

“See you in a few hours, then?” I flash her a grin, one that I hope conveys the purest kind of understanding. It’s a knowing look, but there’s no edge to it. I’m not mad she chooses love over friendship. Good for her.

“Try not to tick him off too much,” she says with a raised brow. “Wouldn’t want you left in a ditch somewhere.”

“Yeah, he’s all about the Trials, but a little teammate murder? I wouldn’t put it past him,” Zayan adds, his smirk sharp as a blade.

“If I wanted any of you dead, you’d be gone by now,” Fabien grunts, which I’ve heard him say at least twenty times in the last few days. “We all sleep in the same room, after all.”

“With one eye open,” Zayan mutters under his breath, but he’s fooling no one. Every time he and Gypsy return from their alone time , he’s out like a rock—so dead to the world a ghost would tiptoe around him.

Fabien doesn’t waste breath on small talk—just gives a sharp nod to Ridley, who slips off in the opposite direction. I fall in step too, leaving the lovebirds to their...tasks.

The island, well, it’s the same as any other hideaway for pirate rabble, save for one minor detail. The crowd here has a different edge—rougher, sharper, like they’ve swallowed nails for breakfast. There aren’t many ‘normal’ faces. And by normal, I mean sailors just popping over to stock up. Mostly, it’s pirates, through and through.

Other than that? Business as usual. We’re weaving through the marketplace, brushing past vendors shouting about their wares and sailors huddling in clusters, swapping secrets in low voices. The air is thick with saltwater, spices, and something fishy that goes beyond the smell. You can practically taste the death, decay, and double-dealing in every breath—it’s as if lawlessness itself has mixed into the air, becoming part of the very atoms here.

My heart gives a small, unwelcome jolt. I know exactly what that means. In a place like this, there’s a good chance someone might recognize me.

“Is this place safe for people like us?” I ask Fabien, matching his long strides with a bit more effort than I’d like to admit. My lungs are good, so I manage to breathe through the pace discreetly, praying he doesn’t catch on that I’m nearly jogging beside him.

“People like us?” He doesn’t even look at me, his eyebrow slightly raised. “In what possible way do we belong to the same category?”

“Well, let’s see,” I muse, tilting my head as if pondering a great mystery. “Both of us are notable men from wealthy families, flaunting our outlander looks, and we both have a penchant for sticking our noses where they probably shouldn’t be. I’d say that brands us as birds of a feather, wouldn’t you?”

He glances over. There’s a glint in his eye, like he’s sizing up the absurdity of my answer.

“I’m known as the subject of some tiresome little story,” he says dryly, his voice dripping with aristocratic disdain. “And you… well…” He gestures vaguely in my direction, leaving the rest unsaid.

“Why, performing such tales, of course,” I answer smoothly, grinning like it’s the most natural conclusion in the world.

He smirks, just a little. “Don’t worry. You’re from a family most haven’t even heard of—an outsider, where I fit in just fine. But somehow, you manage to make yourself exactly the sort of irritating weakling everyone wants to put in his place.” He gives a mock sigh, his nostrils flaring slightly. “I’ll say this, though—keep to yourself, and you may survive without too much bruising.”

As we weave through the maze of market stalls, the ocean’s murmur fades under the bustling shouts and rickety laughter around us. My eyes flick over the crowd—shifty-eyed folks with hands that hover just a little too close to their hilts. Sharp-eyed, sharper-edged, the lot of them.

“And what about you, then?” I say, channeling my mother’s age-old advice: Keep talking, Vinicola; someone’s bound to listen, if only to make you stop.

Fabien glances over the crowd, his expression unreadable. “What about me?” he asks, voice as flat.

“Oh, nothing much,” I say, adding a shrug for good measure. “Just curious how it is you’re advising me to keep a low profile. You can’t really tell a man like me to stop drawing attention—people just naturally flock my way! But you? With all that... tallness, brooding, and that stash of ancient weaponry you’ve got on yourself? I’d say you’re leaving quite a trail yourself.”

He doesn’t answer immediately, his eyes still scanning the marketplace as if he’s calculating the risks of every person who crosses our path.

“Maybe,” he says at last. “I’ve made some enemies in my time. But if you’re asking if we’re about to get stabbed in broad daylight, the answer’s… probably not.”

“‘Probably not’?” I echo, a laugh catching in my throat. “Oh, that’s a comfort. So, only nighttime stabbings, then?”

For a second, I swear there’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth—a flicker of something almost human. It’s a small victory, like catching a ghost of a smile from Gypsy. And call me sentimental, but cracking through his fortress feels a little more satisfying than a typical laugh.

I do my best not to place different values on people’s emotions—a smile is a smile, after all—but with him, it’s like finding a rare coin in the dirt. Makes me want to polish it, see it shine.

“I hope the clouds don’t darken, then,” I add with a grin. “I need all the daylight I can get if I’m avoiding rogue daggers.”

He gives me a sidelong glance, narrowing his eyes slightly, but stays silent as we wade deeper into the crowded market.

For the next few minutes, we walk in silence—him scanning our path like we’re about to be ambushed any second, and me dodging elbows and shoulders, nearly toppling over as more and more people shove their way past.

At last, we stumble into a sort of clearing—a circular dirt square lined with five branching paths, packed stalls, and groups of people haggling, chatting, and generally taking up way too much airspace. I finally let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.

“Alright, my friend, where are we actually headed?” I ask as we reach the center of the square, doing my best to keep up as he veers sharply to the right. The crowds thin as we enter a more secluded path.

He doesn’t say a word until we’re well away from the noise, at which point he casts me a sidelong glance and says, “On the shipwreck, you broke my plant jar.”

Ah. Well. That’s... certainly not where I thought this was going.

“Your plant jar?” I echo, baffled but intrigued. Of all things, a plant jar wasn’t what I expected him to be harboring a grudge over.

“Yes,” he replies, his face as unreadable as a blank map. “That jar held a complete ecosystem. It didn’t require a single thing outside of what it already had. Crafted specifically for me, it was... a piece of land I carried to dull the key’s power.”

I stare at him, the words still settling like dust. “So… we’re here to find you… a new plant?”

“Ecosystem,” he corrects, his voice heavy with that particular brand of seriousness I already recognize. It says he’s getting angry.

“Right, an ecosystem ,“ I say, nodding as if it all makes perfect sense. “And this little world of yours somehow kept the Lady’s powers in check?”

Fabien nods curtly, not breaking stride. “It wasn’t perfect, but it helped. The key’s energy… let’s just say it’s a bit… wild. The ecosystem balanced some of that, kept it from overwhelming me or attracting unwanted eyes. It was a godsend—until you broke it.” His sarcasm practically drips when he says godsend .

I let out a chuckle, raising an eyebrow. “Well, in my defense, I didn’t exactly have time to weigh my options. You looked ready to kill when you were coming after me, and once the voice kicked in… let’s just say things got out of hand.”

“Indeed.”

“So, anyway… where do we find another one of these magical ecosystems? Can’t say I’ve spotted any among the usual market fare,” I say, glancing around at the mishmash of pirate stalls and shops. Everything from barrels of fish to the odd trinket, but not a single ecosystem jar.

“We’re heading to see an old contact of mine,” Fabien explains. “He’s something of an alchemist. If anyone on this island can make a new ecosystem jar, it’s him.”

An alchemist. Naturally. As if things weren’t bizarre enough, now we’re off to see a mystical scientist skulking around the shadowy corners of a pirate island. It’s all a bit on brand at this point, but that doesn’t make it any less unsettling.

If Mother were here, I’d be telling her this whole tale, perhaps adding a bit about how her son, the champion of the Sea goddess, is somehow now knee-deep in magic jars and cursed pieces of gold.

“Let’s just hope he’s not the sort who prefers to work in the dark, hm?” I quip, grinning. As usual, my joke fizzles out in the silence. Tough crowd.

We arrive at a tiny shop tucked away in the corner of the alley, its faded sign showing two crossed leaves instead of a name. Fabien pushes the door open, and a bell rings out, its dainty chime feeling strangely out of place against the rough wooden walls.

Inside, the air clings with the heady scent of herbs, mingling with something sharp that tickles the back of my throat. Shelves stack up to the ceiling, every inch crammed with jars, vials, and bundles of dried plants that look like they’d sooner curse you than heal you. Behind a scarred counter stands a man—oh, this is a man worth seeing.

He’s tall and skinny, with hair so wild it looks like he challenged the wind and lost, and his spectacles teeter on the edge of his nose, as if deciding whether they want to stick around. His hands are splattered with stains that could be ink…or something a bit more explosive.

When his eyes land on Fabien, they light up with a glint of curiosity, the kind that says he recognizes an old friend or a favorite type of disaster. And there’s something else—a spark teetering dangerously close to madness, as if he’s just one mishap away from gleefully dancing off the deep end.

I saw him standing by the counter stand,

A wizard or madman, in command—

Could he brew a potion, dark and rare,

To grant a wish or ease a care?

But what price would he demand, I fear,

My voice? My sight? An ounce of cheer?

“It’s dark enough, alright,” I mutter, suddenly feeling a primal urge to clutch everything that’s mine. My freshly swiped white shirt (Fabien’s, of course), my songbook, even my little blade at my hip. This alchemist fellow has the look of a man who’d consider all of it as fair payment.

If I could, I’d probably clutch my own eyeballs, too. Just in case.

“And here I thought I wouldn’t see this face again,” the stranger says, dropping whatever odds and ends he’d been fiddling with and leaning over the counter to meet us. “You actually made it?”

“Only took a couple of years, but…” Fabien shrugs, rolling his shoulders. “As you can see.”

The alchemist, whose name I still don’t know, steps closer, peering at Fabien like he’s a wonder.

“So, I’ve lost the debt, then?” A slow, almost mischievous smile spreads across his face.

I have no clue what they’re talking about, but I keep my mouth shut, raising my brows just a tad and watching this curious exchange unfold. Mr. Rancour here isn’t exactly what you’d call ‘warm and fuzzy.’ In fact, I’d say he’s as prickly as a cactus. But he has these… well, tiny tells, little twitches of something friendlier when Ridley’s around. Right now, though? Nothing of the sort. He’s polite, yes, conversational even, but in that gruff, brooding way that he’s practically trademarked.

“You lost it,” he confirms, arms folded as he sizes up the alchemist. “Forget the rulebook. I’ve come to collect on my own terms.”

The alchemist bursts out laughing, and ‘burst’ might be putting it lightly—he erupts with wild, echoing laughter that practically shakes the shelves. It’s a kind of manic sound that sends a shiver up my spine, and before I know it, I’ve taken a step back, instinctively giving him room for… whatever this is.

“And you’ve got proof, right?” the alchemist finally gasps, wiping away a tear with a dramatic flourish. “You can’t expect me to buy into that tale on good faith alone. Your life’s one thing, kid—evidence is another.”

Fabien just stands there, as quiet and serious as a gravestone, waiting for the alchemist’s fit of laughter to die down. Then, like it’s nothing, he reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a rock. Not just any rock, mind you. This thing is sharp enough to make a blade look dull. Black as night and wet-looking, it catches the dim light in a way that makes me realize what it is.

“You really swiped a piece of that shipwreck stone?” The words escape before I can help it, my voice probably a bit too high-pitched. I mean, I know Fabien’s got his quirks, but really—a stone from a cursed shipwreck? Even I have limits.

And I don’t know why it surprises me, really. But it does. Something about that rock feels wrong—like it’s a piece of some other place, something that was never meant to see the light here, in this room, among jars of herbs and vials of dubious liquids.

As Fabien tosses the stone lightly into the air, watching it catch and glint before letting it settle back into his palm, he says, “Does this count as proof enough for you?”

Our alchemist friend goes rigid, eyes narrowing. Gone is the casual amusement; now he’s got that wide-eyed look, as though Fabien’s holding a priceless relic rather than a hunk of ominous rock. He inches closer, hand half-extended, but then recoils just shy of touching it, as though it might sear him.

“That… that’s more than sufficient,” he breathes, practically reverent. “What do you want?”

“Magnus broke,” Fabien says bluntly. “I want a new ecosystem. Bigger one this time.”

Another wave of maniacal laughter.

I’ll admit, I enjoy a good theatrical laugh when it’s called for, but this? This is unsettling. It’s missing that wink or ironic eyebrow raise, something to show us he’s in on the joke. I half expect him to pull a villainous monologue out of his pocket next.

Eventually, he collects himself.

“A bigger ecosystem, you say? That’s quite the request, Rancour. You know these things take time… It’s not just sticking a sprout in a jar. I need to measure everything—the ratios, the right mixtures, the entire balance it takes to replicate what you had before, maybe even make it grander.”

“We don’t have time,” Fabien cuts in. “But your debt still needs paying.”

For the first time, the alchemist’s grin falters, just a flicker, before it snaps back into place. His eyes slide from Fabien to the rock he brought in, measuring… something. “You’re right, of course,” he says, sounding as if each word costs him. “A debt is a debt. And I pay what I owe.”

With that, he spins to his workbench, muttering under his breath as he sorts through jars and vials, like some sort of demented apothecary. His hands fly across glass and metal, pulling out this and that, murmuring too softly to catch, but there’s an intensity in his eyes now—a dark focus that would be almost impressive, if it wasn’t so creepy.

“Give me an hour at best,” he says finally, not even looking back. “I’ll see what I can manage.”

This answer seems to satisfy Fabien Rancour enough.