40. Fabien

40

Fabien

T ruth be told, the situation’s rotten—that’s the only way to put it.

The crew’s dragging their sorry feet, barely keeping upright, and that hollow look’s back in their eyes—the kind that says they’re this close to giving in, to letting the tide take them. We don’t have enough left in us to make it to the sister islands, let alone to outmaneuver the Marauders circling the horizon like vultures.

It’s bad. Really fucking bad.

And I know something has to give. But only one option claws its way to the front of my mind. One, I’d like not to think of at all.

I’d sworn myself to save it. To hold back until we were nose-to-nose with death, with no other way out. I thought I’d use it in the final Trial, at the point where survival hung by a thread and revenge was all that mattered. A moment so desperate I’d be scraping the bottom of my soul to pull it off.

But there won’t be a last Trial if we don’t even get to the first one.

If I’m going to see this through, if I’m going to have my justice, it has to be now.

“Fucking hell,” I mutter as I push past the men. They look as bad as I feel, and there’s only so much that can keep them going. They don’t have the years of anger I carry; they can’t drag themselves much farther.

I push through the exhaustion, heading for the captain’s quarters where Gypsy and Zayan are holed up. Zayan’s by the window, staring out at the horizon with that feral look in his eyes, and Gypsy—she’s got her boots halfway laced, her hair tied back, her face roughened by salt and wind. But the second she spots me at the doorway, her spine straightens, defiant, as if she’s got something to prove.

If Ridley weren’t manning the wheel, she’d be out there gripping it herself until it tore her hands raw.

“Fabien,” she says. “What is it?”

I don’t bother with pleasantries or even the damn door.

“I need you both. Now,” I say, and I don’t leave room for questions. They’re already forming in their eyes, but I don’t have the patience to answer them. Not yet.

This is a Hail Mary, a last gamble. And if they’re as worn down as I am, they’d better just follow without whining. The option I’ve got isn’t pretty. It’ll probably take more than they’ve got left. But it’s something.

Whatever they see in my face is enough to get Zayan moving. He’s behind me fast as we head below deck.

“What’s going on?” he finally asks, his tone braced, probably expecting more bad news. Fair enough. We’ve had no shortage of that lately.

“An option,” I mutter, barely able to keep my voice from fraying. “One way to cut through this mess.”

Gypsy’s silent, but I can feel her eyes drilling into the back of my skull as we wind down the narrow passage to the armory. The farther down we go, the colder it gets, darker too. It shouldn’t bother me, but right now, everything does. The weight pressing in, the air heavy with salt and rust—it grates on every raw nerve.

The sea bothers me. The memory of my parents drowning. The fear…

We reach the armory, and I wrench open the door. Gypsy sighs, running a hand over her face.

“Listen, Rancour, I don’t know what you’re planning, but—“

I don’t listen to her. Instead, I head straight for the far corner of the room, where half-rotten tarps and crates cover the floorboards. Ridley and I know what’s hidden here, but even he’s smart enough to keep his distance. As for me? Well, common sense isn’t why I’m still breathing.

Gypsy’s words trail off when I pull back the tarps, reach for the latch beneath, and yank open the compartment door. The wood groans, the sound cutting through the thick silence, and a small ladder comes into view, descending into a small room below.

I glance back, gauging their faces. Gypsy’s eyes narrow, a flicker of suspicion and curiosity warring in her gaze, though exhaustion dulls the edge. Zayan stares blankly, brows knitting as if he’s trying to peer into my thoughts. Good luck with that. In another heartbeat, he’s already craning his neck, angling to pry below.

“What is this?” Gypsy asks finally.

I level a cold look at her. “Remember the artifacts I mentioned?” My voice comes out sharp and rough. “There’s one down here that’ll do the trick. Use it right, and we’ll lose the Marauders.”

Her brows twitch at that, a faint movement, but I don’t miss the way she licks her lips, the way her eyes drift down as if already calculating what price this might demand.

“What is it?” Zayan asks. “How does it work?”

My mouth twists up, and I can only assume that an ugly smirk slashes across my lips. I glance at Gypsy, an unspoken question written all over my face, and she nods, her lips pursed.

“Ladies first,” I mutter, gesturing for her to climb down the ladder. Her entire face tenses, as if she still somehow doubts me—as if she thinks I might lock her down there for whatever reason. But after exchanging a look with Zayan, she does as I say.

To give the two of them a semblance of peace of mind, I decide to go second, descending after her. Before long, the three of us are standing in a small, barely twelve-by-four-foot room with shelves along the walls and a single chest in the left corner.

With all of us here, it’s so tight there’s barely any air. It doesn’t escape me that I can hear the water sloshing against the hull on the other side of the wood, that the sea is closer than ever—a couple of planks separating it from my lungs.

But I swallow the fear and squat down by the chest.

The lid creaks as I pry it open, and inside, nestled among rags and scraps of old canvas, lies the artifact: a curved, yellowed bone, smooth and polished by centuries of salt and wear. A single, curved symbol is carved into it. Carved deep, worn just enough that they’re hard to make out in the dim light.

I shudder just by looking at it.

Gypsy leans in closer, her eyes widening. “Is that…?”

“A bone,” I say, picking it up carefully. Unlike what it may seem, the bone is heavy, weighing nearly as much as a cannonball. “A whale’s bone, to be precise.” I turn it over, tracing the symbol with a fingertip. “It’s tied to The Lady.”

Gypsy stiffens, a flash of fear crossing her face before she masks it. Zayan, on the other hand, clenches his jaw, his fingers twitching as if he can’t quite resist the pull of it.

“Let me see,” he says, voice low.

I hesitate. Passing this thing over? Instinct tells me to keep it close, but I force myself to hand it over. My mind whirs, searching for reasons why he’d want it—and then I catch myself. Even if he had some damned fool idea to smash it to pieces, we’re boxed in here, and I’d get to him before he could try. Besides, I suppose it’s time I start trusting these people. A little .

Zayan Cagney saved my life. He probably did it to save his own skin and keep Gypsy breathing, but it doesn’t change the fact. In one godforsaken moment, I’d been powerless, caught in the very position I’ve spent years bleeding to avoid. I gave everything to make sure The Lady would never have her claws in me again, not the way she did when my parents and I were thrashing in her waters with that monster beneath us.

But there I’d been, feeling that presence below, useless to stop it. And it was Zayan—of all people—who dragged me from that grip, the same man I’d dismissed as a cripple time and again.

The bone is important, but I pass it to him anyway, in good faith—a concept I thought I buried a long time ago.

“I’ve seen this symbol before,” he mutters, turning it over in his hands, the wariness in his gaze sharpening as he studies it. “When I was diving for sand, I saw it on a shark’s head.”

“Are you sure?” Gypsy asks, her eyebrows furrowing.

“Dead sure,” he replies, shooting a look my way. It’s as if only now he’s starting to believe—to really feel that this thing might be more than just a dead animal’s remains.

“It fits,” I say, glancing aside as a chill pulls over me. This symbol’s nothing new; it’s followed me for years, clawing into my nightmares. “The beasts under her command—they all bear her mark.”

“All animals of the sea are hers, aren’t they?” Gypsy’s voice breaks through, but the words barely register. I’m dragged back to the memory of pitch-black waters, the feeling of that cursed symbol lurking beneath me. My breathing feels shallow. Too shallow. My heart hammers in my chest.

The fear… it’s coming back.

My hands clench tighter, but it’s useless—I need to be out of here. “Let’s… let’s get out first,” I mutter, forcing myself to turn, already moving for the ladder.

Zayan offers to pass the symbol up to me, his hand outstretched, but I shake my head, refusing. He can handle it. I don’t need to touch that mark, not now.

I need to get out of here.

As I haul myself up the ladder, I fight to keep my breath steady. My fingers grip the rungs, almost numb against the cold metal, but each step up feels like dragging a boulder.

It’s only when we’re back in the main part of the armory and I feel the familiar scent of oil and rust and dust that I can calm down a little. All these weapons… they feel safe. Safer than whatever magic ever could. No tricks, no hidden costs, just iron and steel.

I rub the back of my head, trying to piece together what Gypsy was asking. Right. “She can control most animals,” I say, glancing at her, though the words taste bitter. “Sometimes even those on land, depending.”

“Depending on what?” Gypsy presses.

A flicker of irritation coils tight in my gut. Talking about the Lady—about how powerful she truly is—feels like baring my throat. Exposing just how little control we actually have. I hate it.

“Depends on how close they are to the sea and whether they’ve fed on what she provides,” I say, barely masking the edge in my voice. “Anyway, the animals we’re talking about here aren’t just any beasts. They’re built for war—she creates them that way, molds them to serve her.”

I nod toward the bone Zayan holds, pale and polished from age. “That? It came from one of those creatures.”

Zayan studies it, brow furrowed. “And what do we do with it?”

“We use it to call whatever’s replaced it.”

I already start to leave. There’s too much to do, preparations to make before we even think of calling up one of her beasts. But Gypsy’s voice cuts through my thoughts.

“Wait a moment.” She raises a hand, blocking my path. “It’s the first I’m hearing about the Lady ruling over animals. Her beasts? Don’t you think you should explain a bit more?”

The flicker of irritation flares into something hotter, sharper. I clench my fists, feeling the muscles in my shoulders tighten as my jaw locks. There’s a part of me that wants to snap, to tell her that I don’t owe her any explanations. The Lady’s creatures aren’t bedtime stories. I didn’t sign up to walk these people through the horrors I’ve seen.

But fuck… Fuck!

“Take your hand off me, Captain,” I grit out, the words edged with warning. She pauses, her gaze lingering just long enough to make it clear she’s weighing her options, then drops her hand. And maybe that’s exactly why I decide to share what I know.

“For all I know, her beasts vary in species,” I say, the words hard, clipped. “There’s no one-size-fits-all. She creates them for specific tasks—creatures that cut through hulls, capsize ships, track blood in the water like hounds. They take no sides but hers.” I lean in, letting my voice drop lower. “Unless you make them.”

Gypsy’s face pales, but her gaze doesn’t waver. “And this thing… it’ll make them? Why?”

A harsh, humorless laugh escapes me. “It’ll make just one beast obey. And just once. Why? Who knows? A shaman claimed that when one of her creatures dies, she creates another. But if you’ve got the rune the last one bore, you can make the new one heed your call—just once. That’s all.”

Her gaze shifts to Zayan, his eyes narrowing, and then back to me. “So we’re summoning another… whale?”

“Exactly that,” I reply.

Her expression shifts, caught between grim acceptance and a faint undercurrent of dread. “Then it’s bound to be massive.”

“Yes. That’s why we have preparations to make.”

This time, as I turn, she doesn’t stop me.

When we reach the deck, the chaos is impossible to miss. It bleeds through the air like the stench of rot. Groans, curses, half-spoken commands—they’re a dissonant chorus against the rhythm of the waves. Crew members stumble about like half-drunk fools, their eyes dull, yet wary. They don’t look at me. No, they look at her, and every gaze is filled with the questions they don’t dare voice.

A few of the braver ones approach Gypsy, throwing up reports like offerings, each worse than the last.

“They’re gaining, Captain,” one mutters, voice trembling just enough to betray him. .

“Won’t be long ’til they’re in cannon shot range,” another pipes up, voice a notch steadier but no less fearful.

Gypsy nods sharply, her gaze already set on our new plan. I catch her gaze—a flash of something unspoken passing between us. She’s got her role to play, and I’ve got mine.

“You lot, get the cannons ready,” she orders, her voice low but commanding. “The rest, follow us. We have a task to do.”

Before long, the men get to it, gathering up the thick rope and weaving it into a fishnet with the whalebone at the center. That rope, in turn, stretches out and knots at key points across the ship: the mast, the railings, even the prow. It’s secured everywhere we’ll need it.

In theory, it should work. It’s just enough to keep us from capsizing when a creature of that size takes hold, to keep the net—and us—from snapping under the strain. In practice, I know damn well that iron bolts would hold better than half of these knots. But there’s not enough time. The Marauders can’t get close enough.

All I can do, is shout at the top of my lungs, “Bolt the rope wherever you can!”

But before anyone can heed my order, the first round of cannonballs roar into the air.

“Fuck!” Gypsy yells, turning her head so fast, she nearly loses her balance. The cannonballs slam into the water just shy of the stern, sending sprays of icy saltwater over the deck. The men stumble, some crying out as they shield themselves.

Gypsy grits her teeth, face set like iron. “Hurry up, damn it!” she snarls, her voice slicing through the noise, leaving no room for hesitation. “Rancour! Do the damn thing!”

I stride toward the net without a second’s hesitation. It’s a monstrous, cumbersome thing, heavy as a dead weight—and with the ropes, it takes more than one man to even think of lifting it.

“Cagney!” I bellow, my hands already gripping the ropes. “Get over here!”

Zayan doesn’t waste a beat. He’s by my side, his hands latching onto the ropes, and together we haul the net into position, working in sync even as cannon fire hisses through the air behind us. Somewhere along the way, Vinicola pops up beside us, helping detangle loose strands that tangle with items on deck.

Then, he stares at the whalebone nestled at the heart of the net with eyebrows pinching together.

“Do I… Do I even want to know what this will do?” he asks.

But we don’t answer him. Instead, we focus on throwing it into the water.

“On three!” I yell, catching Zayan’s eye. His face is set, resolute, no trace of fear. Only focus, and a grim understanding of what lies ahead.

“One… two… three!”

With a final, brutal shove, we push the net overboard. It sinks fast, the weight of the whalebone dragging it beneath the waves, the ropes trailing out like tendrils. I brace myself, gripping the rail as the cold, biting spray drenches us. For a heartbeat, nothing happens.

Then, the Marauders fire another shot from their cannons. Another wave of shouts erupts on the deck. I can see Ridley crouching at the wheel. Vinicola screams beside me as water sloshes against the hull.

I’m starting to think it won’t work—that we’ll all have to face the battle, perhaps even die in the process. That maybe the shaman who sold me the bone was lying, just to make a quick buck on another superstitious fool.

But no. Something happens.

It comes—a deep, ancient rumble that reverberates through the water, shaking the hull, thrumming in my bones. My stomach knots as the deck trembles, the weight of it pressing up from the depths.

The creature answers.

A moment later, I see it—an immense shadow, stretching wide beneath the waves. Its outline blurs against the dim depths, but the sheer size of it is unmistakable, monstrous beyond anything natural. A few of the men gasp; some mutter desperate prayers under their breath. I spot Gypsy, rigid and grim, her jaw clenched as she braces herself.

With a surge that feels more like a quake, it rises, breaching the water. Its body is colossal, spanning nearly the length of our ship. Jagged scars crisscross its thick, dark hide, and its massive, ridged flukes spread out like wings.

Its head emerges, blunt and lined with deep grooves, giving way to a mouth so wide it could swallow half our hull. Instead of the calm, dim eyes of any ordinary whale, this thing’s eyes glow faintly, almost as if they’re empty.

It’s monstrous. There’s no other word for it.

The beast dives again, dragging us forward with a force that makes the whole ship groan as if she’s splitting apart. The ropes strain, sounding like they’ll snap any second, and water slams over us in sharp, cold sheets, biting our skin and blinding us. The hull creaks, an old complaint against this insane strain, and I know that the damn thing could tear us in half if it wants to.

The deck heaves, and every last one of us hits the boards.

“Grab hold of something!” I shout, bracing my feet against the wood, but it’s like trying to dig into ice. My boots slide, and I’m flung forward like a toy.

To my side, Vinicola’s barely holding on, clutching one of the ropes pulled tight from the beast’s pull, his whole body straining like he’s just inches from being torn off. He stretches a hand toward me, teeth gritted, face pale as chalk.

“Mr. Madman!” he shouts, his voice barely reaching over the chaos.

I don’t trust his grip. I don’t trust his strength, either. Hell, I barely trust this cursed ship to hold together another hour. But I grab his hand anyway, heave myself forward, and latch onto the rope beside him.

“What in the world is happening?” he stammers, wide-eyed.

I don’t bother answering. My jaw’s locked too tight to get a word out, and if I did, it’d be to tell him to shut up.

The fear claws back, deep and relentless. It wrecks me from inside out. It threatens to pull me under. Still, I hold myself with all the power I have.

But one thing’s clear—we’re moving fast. Too fast. Faster than any cursed wind should take us, faster than a sane ship could handle. At this speed, we should be leaving The Crimson Marauders in our wake, a safe speck in the distance by now.

We should be.

But no. We’re not safe. Not from her . Turns out the goddess doesn’t take kindly to mortals reaching into her bag of tricks and pretending we can command what’s hers.

She finds a way to punish us anyway.