True strength is protecting those who cannot protect themselves, Maximus.
Mother’s voice drifted through my mind, soft and warm as summer rain. Lady Catherine Blackwood, kneeling beside a sick child in the lower districts, her silk dress stained with mud andworse. Years later, she’d died for those words, catching fever while nursing the poor when she could’ve stayed safe in her manor.
The second lash fell. Willy’s knees buckled, but he caught himself against the mast. A whimper escaped his throat.
Grandfather would have stopped this. One of the most respected fleet admirals ever to serve Sunada—who taught me that the sky belonged to those brave enough to claim it, who believed command meant responsibility, not cruelty. He’d commanded respect through fairness, not fear.
What would they both think of me now?
The third strike left an angry red welt across Willy’s shoulders. I forced my breathing to remain steady, my expression neutral. The Reaper couldn’t show weakness. The Reaper couldn’t care.
But inside, my family’s disappointment crushed me, stealing the air from my lungs.
Movement caught my eye—Ariella stalking away from the circle, her blue eyes blazing with disgust. She’d head straight to Stitches’ cupboard, prepare bandages and salve. At least someone here still had a conscience.
The fourth lash. Willy gasped, his knuckles white against the dark wood of the mast.
I’d become everything my family stood against. A man who watched children suffer in silence. A man who prioritized his own survival over protecting the innocent. The bitter truth settled in my stomach like poison—I was no better than the man who’d framed me for treason. Not really.
Ghost stood almost opposite. Though his green eyes weren’t on Willy’s bloodied back… They were fixed on me, studying my face with an intensity that made my skin itch. His fists clenched at his sides, jaw tight with barely contained fury.
Does he think I want this? Does he not understand how powerless I am here?
The fifth lash fell with a wet sound that turned my stomach. Willy’s sob echoed across the deck, and I died a little more inside while keeping my mask perfectly intact.
After what felt like an eternity, the tenth lash fell with a sickening crack. Willy’s legs finally gave out, and he slumped against the mast, his back a mess of angry welts and seeping cuts. The punishment was over.
Relief flooded through me like cool water.Thank the goddesses.
But Butcher didn’t step back. He hefted the cat-o’-nine-tails again, a cruel smile spreading across his face.
“No harm in a couple extra,” he called out to the crew. “Make sure the lesson really sticks.”
The eleventh lash ripped across Willy’s already torn flesh. The boy’s scream echoed across the deck, raw and broken.
My blood turned to ice. This wasn’t discipline anymore—this was sadistic pleasure. I looked at Viper, but he only held an expression of vague amusement on his horrible face.
The twelfth lash fell before I could move. Willy collapsed completely, his forehead pressed against the mast, shoulders shaking with silent sobs.
“That marks twelve,” I bellowed. “Stop now, because I need the whelp to be able to work today.”
Butcher turned to face me, the whip still raised. His small eyes glittered with challenge, testing whether I’d back down in front of the entire crew. The moment stretched between us like a taut rope—one wrong move and everything would snap.
“The boy’s learned his lesson,” I continued, my tone deadly calm. “Unless you think he needs to be unconscious to truly understand his place. But I’m not sure the crew wants to pick up the extra work Willy won’t be able to complete.”
The boatswain’s jaw worked silently. He wanted to refuse, wanted to assert his authority over mine. But challenging thefirst mate directly would cross a line even Viper wouldn’t tolerate.
“Reaper’s right,” the captain’s voice boomed. “Everyone needs to get back to work now, show’s over, kids.”
Butcher’s face flushed red, but he tossed the cat-o’-nine-tails to Jimmy and stalked away, his massive frame radiating frustrated anger.
The crew began to disperse. Willy remained crumpled against the mast, soft whimpers escaping his throat. Blood trickled down his back in thin crimson streams.
Across the circle, Ghost’s green eyes met mine. No words passed between us, but I felt the weight of his judgment. He’d watched me stand silent for twelve lashes. His disgust with me matched the disgust I felt for myself.
But the longer we stood there, locked in this silent exchange across the blood-stained deck, the more I realized that Ghost’s green eyes didn’t burn with judgment or condemnation. They weren’t cold with disgust at my cowardice. Instead, they held something infinitely worse—sympathy. The kind of look reserved for wounded animals trapped in cages of their own making.
And that gentle compassion in his gaze cut deeper than any blade ever could.
