32. Fabien

32

Fabien

R idley’s already waiting aboard when we return, his gaze flicking to the blood smeared across my clothes. The metallic stench of copper hangs thick around me. The others are bloodied too—just not like me.

“Trouble?” Ridley asks, one brow lifting as he sizes me up.

“Nothing I couldn’t handle,” I reply, without sparing him a glance. My eyes are locked on a distant point as I brush past, setting my new jar—a quite big world of soil, grass, rocks, even a small pond—on the crate by the mast. It’s absurdly intact, unlike the rest of me.

The crew stares. They always do, like they’re still figuring out how someone like me manages to keep breathing. The sea should’ve swallowed me whole years ago, and failing that, my own damn self should’ve done the trick. But here I am.

I ignore them, focusing on my new ecosystem, turning the jar in my hands as footsteps close in behind me.

“That’s a lie,” Zayan’s voice cuts through. “Don’t believe him for a second.”

“He nearly killed us,” Gypsy’s voice follows, sharper than I’d like. The accusation stabs faintly, which is ridiculous. I don’t care what she thinks of me. Yet there it is—a twist of guilt seeping through the cracks, making me shift where I stand.

How could I have known the two of them would jump into the fray? I’d only been trying to protect myself—and Vinicola, who was too stupid or too loyal to get out. The pirates who came after me wouldn’t have rested until blood was spilled. I just made the first move, used the element of surprise before it slipped away.

“We made it back alive, didn’t we?” I murmur, still not turning. “That should count for something.”

“Oh, sure, we made it back,” Zayan groans. “But at what cost? Do you have any idea how fast word spreads among pirates? My old crew won’t rest until they have my head. They’ll come for me, Rancour. Do you understand what that means?”

“Very insightful, Mr. Zayan,” Vinicola interjects, his laugh tight with nerves. “In fact, maybe we should all sit around and discuss the implications. Just... not now? Maybe we could, I don’t know, actually get off this cursed island?”

I throw a glance over my shoulder. Zayan’s frustration is written all over his face, but he swallows whatever insult he was gearing up for and grips his blade, like he can draw comfort from the steel.

Ridley leans back, looking quietly amused. Why, I don’t know, and I doubt I want to. Gypsy stands beside him, arms crossed, her gaze fixed on me with an intensity that twists the guilty knot in my chest a little tighter. She lets out a slow breath, setting her jaw.

“Prepare to sail!” she shouts, her voice cutting through the quiet. Around us, the crew jolts to action. I could swear I hear a few relieved sighs. They probably hate it when I come back looking like I bathed in blood. Must make them wonder who’s next in line.

They throw themselves into their duties, the familiar sounds of ropes creaking, boots hitting the deck, sails rustling. But Gypsy doesn’t move—she’s still glaring at me, like she’s Silverbeard’s namesake Medusa, turning her stare to stone.

“What?” I bark, my lip curling. I probably look disgusted. Maybe I am, but not with her.

“That was reckless,” she says evenly, her gaze unwavering.

I scoff, turning away, letting my focus settle on the strange new addition to my world.

The glass jar sits there, looking innocuous enough, like a bit of art in a world too sharp for softness. The tiny pool inside catches the light, rippling slightly as the ship rocks on the water. It’s larger than I expected—two hands to carry, big enough to fit a small creature. A curiosity. And right now, it’s easier to focus on than anything else.

But her words linger. Reckless. The accusation scratches at something buried deep, something I’m not inclined to examine. Especially because it isn’t entirely wrong. It’s just that the worst part isn’t the risk; it’s the exposure. Pirates know who I sail with now , and by extension, Marauders and Serpents know about her and Zayan.

“Neither the Serpents nor the Marauders will follow us into the gateways,” I mutter, half to myself. “If that’s what you’re worried about, there’s no need. They’re not making it that far.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that they know about us,” she counters, voice sharp. “Doesn’t change the fact that we’ll face more enemies now. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’d rather deal with the goddess alone. I don’t want to juggle naval battles, Rancour, not with every petty thug you’ve pissed off trailing us for miles. What’s their grudge, anyway? Why’d you go toe-to-toe with pirates in the first place?”

I draw in a breath, keeping my voice low, steady, to match her tone. “I told you I’ve hunted these artifacts a long time. That doesn’t happen without… consequences. Yes, I’ve got enemies. I never said this was an easy sail.”

Gypsy’s eyes narrow, a tightness pulling her gaze. She uncrosses her arms, steps closer, voice dropping to a whisper meant only for me. “How many more like them?” she demands.

I roll my eyes. For fuck’s sake. Straightening up, I lock my gaze with hers. “You want a list of every thug I’ve pissed off? Because I’ll tell you now, there’s too many to count. Is that enough for you, Captain ?”

Her jaw tightens, but she doesn’t back down. Her voice lowers, each word clipped, steady. “You think this is a joke? You might have shared this ship with me, given me quarters and made me ‘captain,’ but this crew needs someone who knows what’s coming. And we’re both responsible for every soul we drag into this. Every fight you’ve picked along the way? Those aren’t just your debts anymore.”

Her words dig under my skin, scraping up a nerve I thought I’d buried deep. Responsibility. A word that used to mean something—before everything went to hell.

“Every fight, every enemy? That’s all they are—a means to get what we need. If you’re worried about loyalty, I’ll tell you now: anyone who can’t handle what we’re up against is dead weight. You might want them safe, Captain, but my aim’s survival, not sanctuary.”

But even as I spit out the words, there’s a bitter truth gnawing at me. She’s right. The burden of this crew—their lives, their debts—it’s a weight I carry, even if I refuse to let it show. The difference now is that I’ve got someone here to remind me of it, whether I like it or not.

“How many enemies, Rancour?” she presses, voice tight as iron.

The words cling to my throat, refusing to come out. I let the silence stretch, a defiant refusal in place of an answer. Gypsy’s eyes bore into mine, demanding… something. A flicker of understanding, maybe. But I can’t give her that. Not now, not ever. I’m not that kind of man.

“Guess,” I say slowly, forcing an ugly smile onto my face.

She scoffs, disappointment hardening her eyes as she steps back. “You really are a bastard.”

“That, I am.”

I feel a flicker of something sharp and unwanted—regret, maybe, or something like it. But it doesn’t matter. All that matters is that we follow the compass, enter the first trial, and survive it. Whatever she thinks of me now is the least of my concerns.

I wait, hoping she’ll get tired of this exchange and walk off to steer us out of this harbor, but she lingers just long enough to get the last word.

“You’re a weak man, Rancour,” she sneers, shaking her head. “Only weak men hide behind cruelty the way you do.”

Finally, she spins on her heel and strides to the helm, her anger radiating like heat. I stand there as Ridley, Zayan, and Vinicola all stare. Zayan’s disgust is almost palpable, while Ridley’s look is more surprise—like he finally sees me for what I am. And Vinicola… damn him, he actually looks empathetic, or something close enough to make me want to hit something.

I grab my jar and shoulder past him, brushing against him with a glare. “Save your pity for someone who needs it,” I growl.

He flinches, but stays quiet. None of them stop me as I walk off, not even Ridley, who’s spent his life trying to keep me from self-destructing. Fine. Maybe he’s finally seeing sense. I’m not worth his loyalty—none of them should be wasting their time on me.

Let them judge. I’ve got no one left to disappoint but myself.