3. Gypsy

3

Gypsy

I never should’ve gotten involved with Zayan Cagney.

Looking back now, the whole thing feels like a mistake. Not just because of how it ended—though that could’ve been smoother—but because of the time I wasted on him. What seemed so right back then now leaves me with a bad taste in my mouth, like saltwater that never fully rinses clean.

But who am I kidding? The truth is, it wasn’t all bad. In fact, it was pretty damn good. And that’s probably what irritates me most. Every time we met, it felt like he burned all the bitter parts of me away, if only for a while.

Yet here I am, hacking through the undergrowth of this cursed jungle, wishing I’d never laid eyes on him. It’s over, and there’s no fixing it. The damage is done, and whatever we had is now nothing more than a mirage, gone the moment he thought he had the right to meddle in my business.

“Fuck!” I curse under my breath. That stupid, stupid man.

I push through another tangle of vines, more aggressively than necessary, trying to shove the memory of him out of my head. But it sticks. The way his skin glistened in the moonlight? The way the faint light caught the sparkle in his eyes? I feel a flush crawl up my neck, but it only makes me angrier.

I pick up the pace, cutting through the underbrush with frustration driving every step. I want to exhaust myself, wear down the irritation, but no matter how hard I push, I can’t shake him. It’s like the jungle is full of ghosts, and his is the one that haunts me the most. I hate that. I hate him. And yet…

The rustle of the palms above reminds me where I am—surrounded by darkness, the jungle pressing in. This one has a way of crawling under my skin. It’s darker than usual tonight, the sky a deep, menacing navy just beyond the treetops. The night bugs are louder too, their constant hum drilling into my ears, making the sweat and saltwater clinging to my skin feel all the more unbearable. Everything here feels off, like the jungle itself is watching me, waiting for me to make a wrong step.

And maybe I already did. After all, getting involved with Zayan was mistake enough.

I curse under my breath, swiping a vine off my leg that sticks like it’s alive. There’s a film left behind, slimy and uncomfortable, but it’s not enough to distract me from the real thorn in my side. That perfect storm of a man who wasn’t supposed to mean anything more than a distraction.

But he did. He was supposed to be simple. Just a body to warm mine, a way to forget the endless cycle of feuds between our crews. I told him from the start, a year ago, what I wanted: no strings, no complications. Just us, defying everything we were supposed to stand for. It was fun. It was supposed to stay that way.

Now look at me. Stuck in this cursed jungle, late to meet my crew, and unable to get him out of my head.

I should’ve ended it sooner. Ended him, really. If it weren’t for his damn crew—those Crimson Marauders—I would’ve made sure he paid for ruining everything. But power is fragile in the Whisperwind Sea. Pirates like Zayan and his crew cling to it, and even a single misstep can throw everything into chaos.

And I, despite how much I want him dead, know better than to invite that chaos.

Unlike other seas, we don’t see an upturn of new blood rising up to claim the waves. No, the old crews—the powerful ones—cling to their dominance like barnacles on a hull, stubborn and immovable. Pirates like Silverbeard and Roche have etched their names into this ocean, dividing the influence in half and making it damn near impossible to tip the scales without sending everything spiraling into chaos.

It wasn’t always this way, though.

There was a time when the Serpents and the Marauders were locked in a war that turned the Whisperwind Sea into a graveyard. The kind of bloody feud that carved itself into our bones, whether we fought in it or not. The flags may have changed, the winds may have calmed, but that war? It’s never really ended. Not for us. Whenever I see the Marauders’ flag slicing through the horizon, my heart doesn’t just sink—it bleeds. I remember the blood of my crewmates, their screams swallowed by cannon fire and the sea itself.

And even though Zayan and I were too young to truly fight back then, we bear the scars. The history between us, between our crews, hummed beneath the surface every time we were together. It was the unspoken pain that had soaked into our bones, the loyalty that still had the power to tear us apart, no matter how much we tried to deny it. All that shit we wanted to forget but couldn’t.

That’s why we decided to fuck instead.

It was easier to deal with the past when our bodies were tangled up in sheets, with his lips tracing the outline of my scars, and my hands gripping the muscles that carried the weight of a thousand sins. For those fleeting moments, nothing else mattered. The ocean could swallow us whole for all I cared. As long as we were together in the heat of the moment, the world outside stopped existing.

But sex was a distraction—a damn good one, but a distraction nonetheless. We both knew it. I expected it. He, apparently, only pretended to understand it when he should have craved it.

Somehow, in all of this, he tried to turn what was supposed to be fleeting and fiery into something... softer. Tamer.

I laugh, bitter and sharp.

Did he really think we could live in a fantasy where love, loyalty, and lust could coexist? In this world? With who we are? No. We’re pirates, criminals born of blood and betrayal. The only thing we know for sure is how to destroy each other, and yet he dared to hope we could rewrite the rules.

I grit my teeth, ducking under a thick branch, the bark scraping my arm as I push through.

“Love is for fools,” I mutter, clenching my fists. But his damn face still lingers in my mind, like the echoes of a storm I can’t escape.

Does he know? Could he even guess? The cold weight of a pistol pressed into my trembling hands years ago, crouched below deck on Silverbeard’s orders, fear wrapping around me like a second skin. He couldn’t possibly know. I’d never tell him something so… vulnerable. So pathetic. Not Zayan, not anyone.

Two bullets. That was all I had.

One for any attacker, if they broke through. The other… for myself.

Silverbeard never had to explain it, but the message was clear. If the ship fell—if there was no way out—there was only one path left. That second bullet always had a name. And I always knew exactly where it was meant to go.

I close my eyes, remembering the silence that used to come before battle. The steady hum of the sea, the faint rustle of sails, before the bloodshed began. Those days? They felt endless—an endless cycle of fear and steel, death chasing us with every wave.

But eventually, the fighting stopped. Not because of some treaty or victory. No, the killing just… fizzled out. Both sides finally realizing they couldn’t bleed forever. We didn’t win, and we sure as hell didn’t lose. It was a stalemate—born of sheer exhaustion, not some grand declaration of peace.

That’s why, no matter how much I wish I could, I won’t kill Zayan Cagney—Roche’s right hand. One shot, one moment of madness, and the fragile truce between the Marauders and the Sea Serpents would shatter into chaos. It’d only take seconds for old wounds to tear open, and the bloody times we barely survived would flood back in full force.

The peace we have now—if you can even call it peace—doesn’t erase the memories of those deadly times. We all know what war looks like, and even in the calm, it lingers beneath the surface. Marauders and Serpents, two forces that should never coexist, pretending to tolerate each other. It’s a delicate balance, and some pirates, with their hunger for action, are already restless.

It’s always the same with fools—they romanticize war until it destroys them.

No, killing Zayan isn’t an option. And, deep down, I always knew I wouldn’t kill him. Deep down, that’s exactly why I decided to tangle my fate with him of all people. He’s just like me. He’d understand my pain. He’d bring me relief.

Now, I glance up at the starry sky, my body still thrumming with the heat of my anger, and note the moon’s position. It’s past midnight, for sure—hanging high above like a silent judge, its face cold and unfeeling. Stars scatter around it, distant and indifferent, while a lone cloud drapes a thin veil over its sharp light.

The legends from the islands say the moon is a goddess, ruling the seas with The Lady in perfect harmony. A soft, feminine beauty, they claim. Maybe it’s because these sea-worn fools think of their lovers under its gleam. Maybe it’s because the silver shine reminds them of a gentle caress, something they rarely find in this brutal world.

But I’ve never seen it that way.

For me, the moon’s light has never been kind or comforting. It’s sharp, calculating. A man’s gaze, cold and unforgiving. It cuts through the darkness like a blade, revealing what you try to hide, showing no mercy for the choices you’ve made. Ruthless. Stern. Watchful. Just like the bastard I left behind.

This moon—tonight’s moon—feels like it’s judging me, mocking me for ever thinking I could just walk away. Like it sides with Evil and wants me to turn around and tell Zayan I didn’t actually mean what I said. Like it’s exactly because Zayan understands me that I shouldn’t push him away.

“Fuck you, moon,” I mutter, pushing my way forward. “And fuck Zayan.”

The village comes into view a few minutes later, oil lamps flickering from nearly every wooden building. It’s quiet, save for the distant hum of drunken songs, and the streets are mostly empty. Skullcove Haven may be the heart of this island, but it always wears a veil of calm after midnight. A deceptive peace, like the one I’ve been clinging to.

I make for the tavern without breaking stride, running a hand through my hair to smooth the mess and brushing off the last traces of salt from my skin.

As I step inside, the familiar stench of rum, sweat, and smoke hits me, thick and almost comforting. The sound of rowdy voices and off-key singing blends into the background.

“Oi, let’s hear the Serpents spill about that brawl with the navy!” someone shouts, cutting through the din, and the room erupts with laughter. The voices grow louder for a moment before another barks back, “Pipe down, you lot!”

Slowly, the roar settles into murmurs, a rare calm blanketing the tavern as the crowd waits for a story. Normally, I’d relish the moment, bask in the attention. But not tonight. I stay in the shadows near the entrance, scanning the crowd, trying to avoid notice.

Except I fail. His gaze catches me—sharp, cold, unavoidable. My father’s eyes lock onto mine from the best seat in the house, up on the second floor, his view perfectly positioned to control the room.

As I meet his stare, the rest of the tavern starts to quiet down even further, heads turning toward me. The weight of their eyes presses against me, heavier than the jungle’s humidity had been just moments ago. I can already feel the judgment.

Silverbeard rises to his feet, all smiles, but it’s the kind of smile that could cut through steel. “There she is!” His voice booms across the room, forcing my spine to straighten instinctively. “Thought the tide might’ve taken my daughter!”

A low rumble of laughter follows his words, but it’s not carefree. There’s a tension lurking beneath it. The pirates part for me as I move through the crowd, their gazes lingering too long. Admiration? Suspicion? I can’t tell, but I know these people well enough to recognize danger when I see it.

Silverbeard’s words are as much for the crowd as they are for me. His message is clear: You’re late. You’ve disappointed me. His voice might be wrapped in warmth, but those few who know him best can hear the iron underneath.

I approach him with a tight smile, keeping my expression controlled, playing the game we always play. The last thing I need is to give these onlookers more reason to talk. I know how fast rumors spread in this place, how eager these people are to turn the smallest misstep into a scandal. The Serpents thrive on chaos, but only when it benefits them.

And I’m already walking the edge.

Silverbeard’s eyes narrow as I reach the table, and though his lips don’t move, the slightest twitch of his beard tells me everything I need to know. I messed up. I nod subtly, acknowledging it. But before he can say anything, an arm swings over my shoulders.

“We’ve missed you, Gypsy girl,” Gibbons slurs, his weight nearly knocking me off balance. I recover quickly, barely managing to keep us both from toppling over.

“Gibbons,” I mutter, bracing myself against his grip, “I’ve been gone for just a day. Not a damn lifetime.”

His nose is red, cheeks flushed with drink, and he’s grinning like the rogue he is. “Aye, but that’s enough for us to miss you. Ain’t it?”

I let a small smile slip past my guard, though I can feel Silverbeard’s eyes still on me, waiting. He’ll see it as defiance, no doubt. But I can’t afford to show weakness in front of this crowd either. Confidence is the only currency that matters here.

“I missed you too,” I reply, patting Gibbons on the back as I ease him off me. “But you know what I didn’t miss? Carrying your weight around. You’re heavier than a damned anchor.”

Gibbons laughs, loud and unashamed, swaying a little as he steadies himself. “Ah, but you know I can’t balance on land without ya. Help an old pirate out, will ya?”

“What do you think I’m doing?” I say, forcing a laugh that blends seamlessly with the crowd’s raucous cheers. They’re eating it up, of course. They always do. I keep my smile light, my posture casual, even though I can feel the intensity of my father’s stare from across the table.

I guide Gibbons onto the bench beside Silverbeard before sitting down myself. Gibbons might officially be our boatswain, but in reality, he’s more like my father’s shadow—his oldest friend, his right hand. He was the first to join Silverbeard’s crew, and no matter how much rum the man downs or how unsteady he is on land, he’s earned his place. Plus, with that peg leg and land sickness, walking straight was never really an option for him.

Silverbeard’s voice cuts through the hum of the tavern, loud and commanding as always. “Swizzle!” he calls out, summoning our cook from the balcony railing where he’s been lazily watching the crowd. “Share some tales from our voyages,” my father says, lowering his voice with a knowing smirk. “And feel free to spice it up.”

Swizzle grins, tipping his hat before heading down the stairs to gather everyone’s attention. “Oi, you want navy tales?” he yells, clapping his hands. “How about I give you something better? Stories you’ve never heard before!” And just like that, he launches into a tale about sirens and the Sea King himself, his voice weaving a web of fantastical lies.

As Swizzle weaves his tales, I notice my father rising from his seat. His presence is like a storm cloud, and it pulls my attention, forcing the breath to catch in my throat. He strides over to Ben, our cabin boy, and extends his hand. Ben quickly places a pair of pistols into it, and my stomach twists. My guns. I totally forgot about those.

“Oh, the Gunsmith paid you a visit, huh?” I say, raising an eyebrow, feigning nonchalance. My heart pounds in my chest. The whole reason I was allowed to separate from the crew for the day was because I spread the word my pistols needed repairs, knowing full well they only needed a quick barrel cleaning. I just needed an excuse—one that kept me here long enough to get coin for the compass, buy it, and then meet up with Zayan.

Ugh… How could you forget about your fucking guns Gypsy?!

I brought them to the Gunsmith in the morning right before I preyed on the fatty sailors and then things happened and… Fuck.

“He said you didn’t come to pick them up,” my father replies, his brow arched in challenge as he steps toward me. His broad, heavy frame makes the whole balcony tremble with every step. One of these days, it’s going to collapse under him—now that would be a tale worth telling. “So, where exactly were you that made everyone wait for you today?”

A forced smile tugs at my lips, my mind racing for a quick answer when Cali, our carpenter, steps in. She places a hand on my father’s shoulder, her tone light as she winks at me. “Come on, Silver. Let the girl be. She’s young, not like us. Clearly, she was off with some boy.”

Whatever’s left of my smile fades.

Fantastic. Thanks, Cali.

Her attempt to lighten the mood backfires instantly. My father’s grip tightens on the pistols, his eyes darkening with suspicion. As fearsome as Silverbeard is to others, when it comes to his daughter, he’s just a man—a man easily undone by the thought of his girl with some dirty pirate down the dock.

“Didn’t know you became a shaman in my absence, Cali,” I say, forcing my voice to stay even. “How else would you know something so untrue?” I extend my hand, motioning for my guns. “I was at the blacksmith’s, getting these beauties fixed. Took longer than expected, so I strolled the beach to pass the time. Sat down. Fell asleep. That ain’t a crime.”

My father’s eyes flick to my boots—right where bits of leaves cling to the soles. My heart skips a beat.

“Did this beach have grass sprouting between the sand grains?” he asks, his voice low and probing.

Damn it. He’s always been a sharp bastard. But I don’t let my composure falter. Instead, I lean into the only advantage I have: his beliefs .

“Maybe it did,” I say, voice softening. “Maybe The Lady herself walked by, and all life sprang up to greet her. Maybe I saw her between the thickets at the shore.”

His eyes narrow, and for a moment, I think he’s about to call my bluff. But then he looks away, his brow furrowed as he knocks three times on the nearest wooden table—an offering to the sea goddess. Cali follows his lead, tapping her knuckles lightly against the wood. When it’s over, he turns back to me, his expression stern.

“Don’t jest about The Lady, girl,” he warns, his voice gravelly. “Pirates have met their end for less.”

“Pirates die because they make mistakes, not because of some goddess’s whims,” I reply coolly, sliding my guns back into their holsters.

“Stop this blasphemy, Gypsy,” he warns. But I can’t let it up. Not before he forgets what Cali has said.

“If she were real, she’d take us down a long time ago,” I mutter, wrinkling my nose at him.

Yes, my father is an intimidating man, but I am a bold one myself. There’s this thirst to irk him inside me that I can’t always explain. I like to abuse it when it suits me.

His jaw tightens. “We have her blessing.”

I roll my eyes. “Is it her blessing, or just our skill and grit? If she’s real, why do we spin lies about meeting the Sea King? Isn’t that blasphemy, too? For all we know, he doesn’t even exist!”

His temper flares visibly, but I know I’ve already steered the conversation where I need it to go. He’s breaking.

He opens his mouth, his thick white beard staying stiff beneath his lips, but no words come out. His silence lingers, and for the briefest moment, I feel a flicker of triumph. My father, the great Silverbeard, rendered speechless by his own daughter. But then his eyes harden again, the storm in them far from dissipating.

“Skill and grit may keep you alive in a tavern brawl,” he finally says, his voice low and menacing. “But out there?” He jerks his chin toward the sea, visible just beyond the tavern’s open balcony. “Out there, it’s not just skill, Gypsy. It’s luck, fate, and the whims of the gods. You don’t disrespect that.”

I let out a quiet breath, feeling the eyes of the crew and patrons on us. There’s no winning with him when it comes to The Lady, but at least I’ve pulled his mind away from my day.

“Yet the Sea King…” I start, cocking a brow.

“Silence!” he hisses. His teeth grit and a deep scowl tugs at his weathered face. I do as he says, thinning my lips and staring at him straight, but after a while, he speaks again himself, a bit softer this time. “All people care about are stories to amuse children or scare off merchants. We give them what they want.”

I bristle. “And the tale about The Lady is just another one of those stories. The difference is, you’ve fallen for this one, too, Father.”

He grunts, the sound deep and menacing, but a tiny crack has appeared in his demeanor. He’s had enough of this conversation. He’s clearly eager to drop the subject. I can feel the weight of his frustration in that single noise, but I don’t let it shake me. Instead, I glance at Cali, her eyes wide, locked on the tension between us.

Cali, like my father, clings to these old sea legends—the ones about The Lady, a goddess said to be the sea itself, powerful enough to swallow the world whole if she chose to. But she’s too superstitious to even breathe a word against her, fearing the wrath of a goddess that may or may not even exist.

She’s stunned.

I seize the moment to brush off Cali’s earlier blunder. “Next time, try not to make things worse, eh?” I mutter, my voice softer now. She raises an eyebrow slightly, but that’s the only reaction I get. No hard feelings—just a silent understanding between us.

Still, the tension between me and Silverbeard simmers. There’s something about these superstitions of his that lights a fire in my veins. Somehow, whenever Cali talks of them, I don’t mind it as much. But whenever it’s him…

Fifty years at sea, and he still can’t tell the difference between myth and truth. Fifty years of blood, sweat and tears, of hard work, of giving his life to the ship and the crew, and he thinks he’s just a pawn in The Lady’s plan.

He’s never laid eyes on any of those monsters he fears. He never saw the goddess. He always kept us all safe through his wit alone.

“Save your anger for the navy, not your old man,” Gibbons chuckles from the table beside me. He’s grinning like he always does, the rum settling into his blood.

“Aye,” I say through a tight smile. But the words don’t cool the heat crawling under my skin, and before I know it, my feet are carrying me away from the crew, down the stairs. I weave through the crowd, pushing past drunken pirates entranced by Swizzle’s wild tales of adventure. His mouth is as big as the Sea King’s supposed treasure, and every word he spews is just another lie to entertain fools who want to believe.

Half of Kaiterra is like that, if not more—they believe in the absurd. The other half takes advantage of it.

I stride toward the bar, keeping my hand close to the pocket of my breeches, the other brushing the hilt of the dagger strapped to my thigh. One wrong move from anyone in this tavern, and I’ll be ready.

It’s an unlikely scenario, given that this is our turf and our side of the island, but I could never rely on villagers for my safety.

The compass is still tucked safely against my side, its presence warm even through the fabric. If only Silverbeard knew I have it on me, all hair would fall from his face. He has always warned me not to take it out to sea, not to even hold it in my hand. But he won’t be able to stop me much longer. Soon, I’ll set my own course, far from the battles he still clings to.

I’ll create my own damn crew. I’ll steal a ship. I’ll forge my own path. I wasn’t born to fight old wars—I was born to explore new seas. And what better way is there to prove my courage than to defy the curse that supposedly has set on this compass?

I’ll prove to everyone that no such thing as infallible deities and their powers exist. Only wit and strength of the muscle.

I sidle up to the bar, still feeling my father’s judgment hanging over me like a cloud, but I shake it off. The bartender’s voice cuts through the noise, pulling me back to the present.

“What’s your poison?” he asks, his voice gruff but familiar.

“Beer,” I reply. My thoughts seem to be getting miles away, plotting, scheming, but I keep my voice steady. The last thing I need is to get any more drunk. Not tonight.

He raises a brow. “Not in a mood to celebrate anymore, eh?” I stare at him. “Oi, don’t give me such eyes, lass. Seems like the rest of your crew’s celebrating enough for the lot of you is all I’m saying.”

I let out a soft snort. “Aye, let them have their fun. Dizzy heads won’t do much good tomorrow.”

“Is that right? You’d think capturing the Sea King’s daughter and keeping her in a water-filled barrel below deck would call for a celebration. Quite the feat, don’t you think?”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes, playing along despite the absurdity. “Aye, quite the feat,” I mutter. “Just a beer for me, though.”

The keeper arches his bushy brows but nods, a smile tugging at his lips as he listens to Swizzle’s ramblings with everyone else. He pours my drink and sets it down with a thud.

“One would think you got your kick from somewhere else already,” he mutters as he slides the drink toward me.

I raise an eyebrow, but keep my tone steady. “One would think you talk too much, keeper.”

His grin doesn’t falter as he leans in closer, his voice dropping to a hushed whisper. “All I ask is you don’t pollute my bar, Gypsy girl. You know the rules.”

My fingers tighten around the mug. “It was one bottle of rum,” I hiss back, my patience thin. “And you’ve got your return.”

“Aye,” he agrees, nodding, but there’s no relief in his eyes. His voice dips even lower. “But I also had a stranger sitting right there in your spot for hours, waiting for you. Cloaked up, face hidden. The folk is quick to judge. Quicker than you think.”

My heart skips a beat, but I keep my face neutral, the weight of his words settling in my gut.

Meeting up with Zayan here was risky, I know. But last time I entered Old Bayou and waited for him there, and tonight we flipped it around. All for a little thrill. Another thing to regret now.

I let my lip curl into a small, dangerous smile. “Maybe I’ll cut your tongue off first, then?” I murmur, quiet enough that no one else can hear over the raucous laughter in the room.

The keeper’s eyes harden for a split second, but he doesn’t back down. “Do what you must, Gypsy,” he mutters. Then, he steps back, puts a rug on the bar and starts rubbing it. His voice returns to normal as well. “My wife brewed this beer with guava. It’s sweet and fruity, not like the bitter swill from last time.”

Just like that, I’m off with a warning.

A man next to us looks our way and raises his drink. I cast him a glance, force a smile and raise my drink as well.

“Then I won’t be spilling it on your bar this time,” I say lightly, like I wasn’t almost on the verge of killing a man. “That malty, bitter stuff you served was nothing but bilge water. Fit only for feeding the fish.”

“The men liked it.”

“Men also tend to act first, think later,” I reply.

He nods, unable to argue the point. “Aye,” he replies with a smirk, “but I know a few women who tend to do the same. That’ll be a quarter of real.”

This bastard…

I fish out a coin and flip it to him. He catches it with ease, moving on to the next customer.

Fine, the tavernkeeper wants Zayan to never step foot into his building again? He doesn’t have to ask twice. Me and Zayan are never happening again, anyway. There’s nothing left to talk about.

I tilt my head back slightly, casting a glance at the crowd as they swirl around me, lost in their own revelry. Sizzle’s tale is wrapping up, and Gibbons’ booming laugh rises above the rest. I catch sight of Cali descending the stairs, boasting about beating some poor soul in an arm-wrestling match. She’s bound to win, as always, but the burly fellow takes her up on it, confident in his size. Little does he know, Cali’s muscles, honed by hauling slippery ropes and a diet of fish and salted meat, are a match for any man.

I can’t see Silver anywhere, so I reckon he’s still perched up on the balcony, watching everything like a hawk. But then, just as I turn back to the bar, I sense a shift in the air. The tavern’s usual hum quiets for a beat, and I notice the subtle parting of bodies in my peripheral vision. A ripple, as if the sea itself were making way for something—no, someone.

I don’t need to look to know it’s him.

“Here you are,” Silverbeard says, his voice low and carrying the weight of authority, as he steps up beside me.

“Here I am,” I reply, my eyes fixed on the bustling crowd, avoiding his gaze. His heavy form settles onto the stool next to me, and he signals the tavern keeper for some grog.

“If you didn’t want us to talk, you should have hidden better.”

“Who said I was hiding?”

“Your quick retreat says more than your words, lass. Thought I taught you to face storms head-on, not run from ’em. Cowards turn tail; we don’t.”

I grit my teeth, settling deeper into my seat. “You’re no storm, old man. More like a stubborn squall. Annoying enough to make me think twice about my heading, but still nothing I can’t handle.”

He raises an eyebrow, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “Aye, them squalls save lives when you’re dying of thirst.”

I give a bitter laugh. “Maybe. But too much rain and you drown.”

Silverbeard’s grog arrives, and he takes a long swig, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “It’s youth talking through you,” he mutters, his voice still carrying a trace of annoyance. But then, surprisingly, his tone softens. “We’ve had our differences, you and me, but we’re family. And in the end, family looks out for each other. That’s all I do.”

The words hit me, twisting something tight in my chest, but I won’t let him see it. I can’t deny we are family. I have thought of him as my father for a very long time. Still, the anger is still in me, and I listen to it like a fool.

“We share no blood. I’m just a kid you took pity on.”

There, I said it.

He doesn’t budge, though.

“Family’s family, blood or not.”

My heart squeezes in my chest again. Fuck.

“If you’re saying all that just to squeeze out of me who the boy is, it won’t work. There’s no boy.”

Silverbeard studies me for a long, tense moment, his eyes flicking across my face, searching for a crack in my defenses.

Ahh, okay… So that’s the reason for the sweet words. The knot in my ribcage loosens a little.

“If there were a boy,” he says, voice low, “I wouldn’t be angry. I’d just want to meet the man who’s earned your protection.”

I scoff, leaning back in my chair. “There’s no boy. And even if there were, I can handle my own battles, Silver. I don’t need your sword hanging over anyone’s head.”

“Alright, no boy then,” he concedes, taking another swig of his grog. “But, if there were, and if he ever hurt you, I’d make sure he learned what happens when you cross a Serpent.”

I chuckle despite myself. “Did you even hear me? I don’t need your worry. I can handle my own battles, Silver.”

“Aye, I know you can.” His voice carries a mix of pride and frustration. “But we’re a crew. We watch each other’s backs.”

I nod slowly, knowing this ain’t the end of the matter. Silverbeard smooths his beard with rough fingers, takes a deep breath, and straightens his spine, furrowing his brows and smacking his lips. He does all this very fast, like he’s restless and unable to stay still.

“I just need to know… Is it anyone from the Marauders? ‘Cause heavens forbid, if it is, then…”

Of course, he won’t let it drop. The Marauders. Zayan .

“There’s no boy,” I repeat, standing up. I feel the urge to storm out of the tavern again, but something in his gaze roots me in place.

“Everything I do, I do to protect you, girl,” he says. “This world ain’t kind, and the sea’s even harsher. I’ve seen what it does to those who think they’re invincible, and you’ve got the same look in your eye as they did.”

“I don’t think I’m invincible.”

“You sure as hell act like it.”

“I act like the world belongs to those who are on the move. As it does.”

Silverbeard’s eyes narrow, his patience thinning. “Nay,” he growls. “The world belongs to the gods.”

Here we go again… But I’ll indulge him this time. I won’t argue for once.

I meet his hard gaze, standing my ground. “Then let them have the world,” I reply, voice cool but steady. “I want the sea.”

For a second, there’s silence. Then his nostrils flare, the familiar scowl deepening across his face. He leans in, his voice low, dangerous. “Is he a Marauder ?”

My shoulders drop. This is too much. This man won’t rest until he digs through every inch of my defenses.

I start to rise, my legs itching to leave this blasted conversation behind, when I catch Silver’s gaze flicker past me. Something’s shifted in the room, the kind of change that makes every sailor’s skin prickle. Then, a gasp ripples through the tavern, and the raucous chatter dies, replaced by a thick, uneasy silence. My father’s eyes narrow, going cold and hard in an instant, the way they do when he’s about to strike.

No. It can’t be.

I don’t dare turn around. My grip tightens on the edge of the bar, knuckles white as my pulse quickens. The weight of recognition settles in my gut like lead before I even hear his voice.

“Oi, don’t stop on my account,” he says, calm and smug, like he’s walking into a bloody parlor, not a den full of Serpents.

Damn it, Cagney. What the hell are you doing here?

The tension in the room is suffocating. No one moves, no one breathes. I don’t even have to look to know it’s him. That cocky, reckless bastard with a death wish.

If I didn’t want to kill him before, I sure want to do it now.

Silverbeard’s jaw clenches, and I can feel his gaze boring into the side of my face. He doesn’t need to say it—he knows. I know. But we’re both too proud to acknowledge it. The boy is a Marauder.

For a heartbeat, everything’s frozen. Then, Silverbeard stands, slow and deliberate, drawing his sword with a metallic hiss. His voice is low, deadly, as he pins me with a look sharp enough to cut through bone.

“Last chance, Gypsy. Is it him? Is this the boy?”

I don’t answer. I can’t. My throat’s tight, and my mind’s racing, but before I can even think of what to say, Zayan—bloody fool that he is—steps forward.

“What if it is?” he says, voice laced with challenge, not a care in the world that he’s one step away from getting himself killed.