30. Vinicola

30

Vinicola

“ S o, what’s the deal with the alchemist’s debt anyway?” I ask Fabien, as we make yet another round past the shop’s window, like we’re the least conspicuous men in the entire port. Fabien, naturally, refused to wait inside the shop, claiming the air was ‘stale’.

Because what’s a bit of stale air compared to lurking pirates possibly wanting our heads on sticks?

But Fabien’s got a system, apparently. His grand theory is that if we keep walking in circles, no one will have the time to recognize us. Pirates, in particular, are apparently powerless against the sight of men in constant motion. It’s all part of his ‘blend in by standing out’ approach.

So here we are, pacing like fools around the alchemist’s front door, and I’m meant to believe this isn’t drawing attention.

“The debt started with a bet. I told the alchemist I’d prove there were gateways across the seas. He didn’t believe me. So, I promised I’d bring back something from inside a gateway to make him help me with whatever I needed.”

I raise an eyebrow, suppressing a chuckle as I glance over at him. “And he agreed? Just like that? No offense, Mr. Madman, but it sounds like a rather ambitious bet. I’d think an alchemist would be a touch more… skeptical.”

Fabien lets out a dry, humorless chuckle, his gaze sweeping across the horizon. “You’d think, wouldn’t you? But scientists—especially those tough enough to survive a pirate-infested island—know a thing or two about throwing away chunks of their lives in exchange for a promise of discovery. Make no mistake, though. He’s scum, like everyone here in the Archipelago.”

He says it with such conviction that it almost breaks something inside me a little. Sure, the islands are filled with double-crossers, swindlers, and rogues. But I happen to know there are a few precious diamonds glinting amidst all that grime—like Miss Captain. And, if I may be so bold, myself.

I may be many things, but a liar? A killer? A… cheater? No. I love love, and all the beautiful souls I’ve been fortunate enough to charm have known that when my song called me away, it was time to part. Perhaps a few have gotten a tad fiery over it, but I was always clear about my intentions. Always.

I glance at Fabien, raising a brow and putting on my most offended look. “Excuse me?” I say, lightening my tone as much as possible. “I am hardly scum like the rest of them. Think of me more as… scum-lite. Half the guilt, all the flavor.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Is that so? And what makes you so different, then? Besides a flimsy exterior and lighter eyes?”

Straightening up, I give him my most earnest expression, channeling the look of a man of profound integrity. “For starters, I have a moral code. I might be a drifter and a lover of… well, many things, but I don’t lie about who I am or what I’m after. I’m as honest as a well-aged wine, and in a place like this, that’s got to be worth something. Plus, I’m a brilliant cook, a decent dancer, and an exceptional storyteller. Truly, the whole package.”

He just looks at me, his eyelids lowering as though he’s already over this conversation. “So what is it you want?” he asks, his voice full of skepticism.

“From you lot?” I quip, raising an eyebrow.

“There’s got to be some reason you didn’t bolt when you had the chance. Sticking close to the Captain and her surly shadow—that doesn’t exactly scream freedom. I heard they offered you a way out.”

“You think I need a reason to stay?” I try for the perfect devil-may-care grin, tossing in a casual shrug for good measure. “Maybe I’m here because…well, maybe I like it here. The thrill, the company. What’s not to like?”

Fabien’s only response is a skeptical grunt, one laced with a disappointment so thick it squeezes my chest. I throw my hands up, palms out.

“Fine, if you must know,“ I say, letting my voice drop low. “It’s simple: they actually want me around. Unlike most.”

He raises an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “They want you around? Really?”

“Believe it or not.” I put on a breezy smile, though there’s a bit of truth sneaking through. “I may look like a man without much to offer, but—remarkably—people have needed me before.”

He snorts, adjusting the leather strap on his shoulder as he glances around. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“Charming, aren’t you?” I mutter, my voice lighter than I feel.

“Realist,” he corrects, his tone dry. “Truth is, you’re sticking around because they haven’t thrown you out yet. And it’s just a matter of time.”

Oddly, his words hit deeper than I expected. I look away, pulling in a breath as that flicker of doubt sneaks in, unwelcome but stubborn.

Sure, I know what Fabien Rancour is—a sad, bitter man who spews his poison without a second thought. One glance at him back on that shipwreck was enough to see that he’s not in the habit of cushioning his words. Hurting people? Just part of his day.

But somehow, despite knowing all this, his words lodge themselves somewhere annoyingly close to the heart.

I force a laugh, hoping it sounds easy, casual. “That won’t happen,” I say, my voice a touch quieter. “They… they’re different.”

If he’d gone for my songs, my talent, or even my face, I’d have a hundred retorts ready to fire back. But this? This digs into a different part of me.

“Wouldn’t get too attached if I were you,” he mutters. “People always find a reason to walk away when it comes down to it.”

I swallow hard. “Then maybe I’ll surprise you, Fabien. I’ll stick around so long it’ll annoy everyone.”

A shadow of something—pity? boredom?—flickers across his face before he shrugs, clearly uninterested in my defiance. “Suit yourself,” he mutters, turning his back.

The truth? I know I’m not like them—Miss Captain, Zayan, even Fabien himself. They have their roots, their places, even if they never admit it. Me? I’m the wanderer, drifting along with nothing but my songs and a reputation I can’t quite shake. I’ve been good for two things my whole life: singing and… other pastimes. Like a worthless pigeon hopping from one square to another, always moving, never belonging.

I promised my mother two years ago I’d bring my father back. Told her I’d find him, along with the money he was meant to bring home from selling all that wine with his privateer friends. So far, I’ve only managed to lose myself out here and leave her alone.

That? That wouldn’t happen to someone like Miss Captain or Zayan. I can’t imagine it would, not for them.

I’m about to say something witty to pull myself out of this mental drift when I catch Fabien’s gaze shifting, his sharp eyes locking on something in the distance. His whole posture changes, every muscle tensing, and his hand moves instinctively to the hilt of his dagger.

My heart skips a beat, and I can’t help but lean in, lowering my voice. “What is it?”

He doesn’t answer right away, his focus zeroed in on a group of figures emerging from a nearby alley, their faces shrouded in shadows but their intent as clear as sunlight. Five of them, moving toward us with that sort of swagger that says they aren’t coming for a friendly chat. My breath catches; their eyes are fixed, but not on me.

No, they’re looking right at Fabien.

His jaw sets, that simmering anger drawing his eyes into a cold, narrow stare. It’s clear he recognizes them.

“I thought you said we’d only run into your enemies in the dark?” I quip, my voice coming out tight, barely masking the fact that my heart’s drumming like a madman’s tambourine.

“No,” he corrects, his voice flat and deadly, “I said they’d stab you in the dark. Never mentioned they wouldn’t stab me in broad daylight.”

His words come out ice-cold, with that twisted humor of his barely covering the killer edge simmering beneath. Right before my eyes, he’s shifting—transforming back into that mad, knife-wielding terror who had me pinned at that shipwreck. I can see each detail: his thick, dark brows lowering, nostrils flaring, chin dropping. Every feature sharpens, like a predator zeroing in on prey.

And the worst part? The other guys don’t so much as blink. They’re closing in, radiating hostility. And in their eyes, there’s this glint—a nasty kind of recognition, like a grudge they’ve been nursing since long before I came along.

What does one do when caught between,

Two sides whose eyes in rage are keen?

Murder in their gaze, not slight,

But real slaughter, a barbarian’s might.

.

On one side, five monsters, fierce and lean,

On the other, just one, but his power’s obscene.

Five wolves or one Cerberus near,

Which should I dread, whom should I fear?

My mind races, trying to find a way out of this, but all I can see are two choices, both of them bad. I could stand and face these rough-looking types with Fabien or bolt and hope they decide he’s the one worth chasing.

I mean… it’s not like they’re after me, right? They’re not even glancing my way, probably wouldn’t know me from a wet cat in a downpour.

But the idea of running feels all wrong. Feels low. Mother would never let me live it down.

Fabien pulls his weapon, steel glinting in his grip.

“W-what… what did you do to these guys?” I stammer, edging back a step.

He doesn’t answer right away, gaze fixed on the men approaching like he’s gearing up to dive into their midst. His grip tightens on the dagger, every inch of him tensed and ready to spring.

“Told you hunting artifacts can get ugly,” he finally replies.

Before I can get a word in, the men close the distance, fanning out like they’ve rehearsed it. One of them—a towering fellow with a beard thick enough to lose a parrot in and a nasty scar across his cheek, steps forward, a cruel smile spreading across his face.

“Well, well, well,” he drawls, his voice thick with malice. “If it isn’t Fabien Rancour, the man with a face you never forget. You’ve got some nerve showing that mug around here.”

“That so?” Fabien’s voice drops low, and a look that can only be described as “itching-for-trouble” sharpens his face. I watch as something clicks inside him—the kind of something that never leads to a peaceful resolution. His eyebrow cocks up, and his smirk turns downright villainous.

Here we go.

I take a very subtle, dignified step back, easing myself a little further out of the direct line of harm. Of course, I’m not abandoning Fabien. Absolutely not. I’m simply… evaluating my position so I can, ekhem, support him best. From a safe distance. Possibly the side-lines, ideally behind something solid.

I glance over my shoulder, assessing potential “strategic retreats.” The alley behind us is barely an alley, narrow and winding, with only an alchemist’s shop offering any semblance of cover—unless palm trees are considered good hiding spots. (They’re not.) To add insult to injury, we’re at the highest point of this blasted island, leaving us exposed. The rocky path below us winds steeply down toward the market, crisscrossing toward the harbor in a chaotic tangle that offers escape routes for only the very desperate or the very doomed.

How is it that this place manages to be both conveniently hidden and inconveniently open at the same time?!

Meanwhile, the fine gentlemen approaching us spread out in a charming semicircle, thoughtfully cutting off all reasonable escapes. One of them catches me scanning the exits , and when my eyes finally meet his, he grins—a particularly sinister smile that suggests he’d quite enjoy making this my last stand.

My heart picks up its pace, pounding away like a war drum, and a cool sweat creeps down my brow. Right. No need for panic. Just be myself: friendly, harmless, absolutely no threat to anyone’s mace-bearing enjoyment.

Yes, Vinicola, just show them you’re a polite young man who’s all charm, zero threat.

I may now be the grand champion of the Trials, set on some noble, Lady-ordained path, but I can’t forget my true calling. Just be the usual me. Easy.

With a deep breath, I smooth my expression into what I hope is a pleasant, nonchalant smile. I even dip my head slightly toward the man with the mace.

“Hello…” I greet him, keeping my tone as airy and breezy as I can manage given the circumstances. The man has a mace after all. “You.”

The burly fellow narrows his eyes, his mouth curling into a wolfish grin. He clears his throat with a sound that’s all gravel and menace before sending a glob of spit sailing right by my boot.

“Please, not again,” I mutter, my smile faltering as I glance at the offensive splat. What is it with pirates and spitting? Is there some sort of underground code I missed? Rule number one: never skip a chance to hock a loogie?

Thankfully, before I can dwell too much on that, someone says something to Fabien again, and I seize the chance to turn my gaze toward him instead. The man with the scar stands in the middle of this pirate mob. Judging by the way he stands, he’s the ringleaders of sorts.

“That so,” he says. “You don’t step foot on my island without me finding out. Everyone knows that. You know that, too, don’t you, Lost Boy ?”

Fabien’s hand tightens on the hilt of his dagger. The whole air around him practically hums with hostility.

Lost Boy . Some call him like that because of his vanishing-as-a-kid thing. Somehow, though, hearing it flung at him like that sounds nastier than I thought it would.

“It’s not your island,” Fabien replies. “It doesn’t belong to anyone.”

Scarface chuckles, but there’s no warmth in it. “Not mine? Are you sure about that?”

Fabien’s voice turns downright icy. “I didn’t come back for a reunion. I’m here for business, and I don’t have time for petty grievances.”

He’s disgusted, practically glaring down at them like they’re a pile of rubbish he’s already sizing up for disposal. Terrifying? Yes. Weirdly reassuring? Also, yes.

Of course, I’d rather not see anyone’s blood spilled today. So, I swallow hard and muster my best, calmest tone. “Gentlemen, maybe we can all just calm down and—“

Scarface interrupts with a dismissive wave. “Shut it, lapdog. This isn’t your fight.”

So much for diplomacy. I was hoping to get through the day without unnecessary violence, but fate clearly has other plans. And maybe—just maybe—I inch a little closer toward the bloodbath now.

My nature leans to kindness, not to seek out strife,

But trouble seems to find me, a shadow in my life.

Now among these cutthroats, silenced like a ghost,

Perhaps I wish for trouble to haunt them the most.

In shadows they have thrived, where honor has no place,

But let the trouble find them, and meet them face to face.

May their whispers turn to screams, their laughter to regret,

For the trouble they’ve unleashed, they shall never forget.

I bite my cheek. Oh, what I’d give to shake off these ridiculous thoughts, to swat them away like flies, but here I am, frozen in place. Stuck between a simmering anger—undoubtedly the byproduct of far too much pirate influence—and a very real, very unhealthy fascination with what’s about to unfold.

“Fight?” Fabien snarls, each word a cold promise. “I’ll give you a count of three to get the fuck out of my sight.”

Oddly enough, I almost like this side of him. Fabien Rancour may be certifiably mad, but his brand of madness offers me faith.

He’s going to take out these poor souls, isn’t he?

“One,” he barks, his face shifting, his entire being morphing into something unholy. The man’s got enough rage fermenting in him to fuel a tavern for a year, and it’s all spilling over now, transforming him from pirate to beast, with a wild gleam in his eye that can only be described as feral.

“Two,” he growls, voice so low it rumbles through the air, making it vibrate with barely-contained violence.

And before he even gets to three— sching ! His weapon meets Scarface’s neck with such a clean cut it’s practically art.

The man drops dead.