“Fish,” I repeat, my amusement slipping through despite myself. “We all eat fish, Fabien Rancour. None of us look like you.”
“Not nearly as much as me, I can assure you.”
I can’t help it—a laugh escapes me. “I’ll have to take your word for it,” I say, settling back in the skiff.
The whole conversation feels absurd, ridiculous even, but somehow it fits. The sight of Zayan’s tight-lipped silence, with Vinicola barely looking up, only adds to it. Zayan’s eyes are still burning into me, his hand resting near his blade, ready to strike if Fabien so much as breathes wrong.
But Vinicola? His eyes are trained on something else, not me, not Fabien, but the looming shadow of the ship that’s growing larger by the second. The way his gaze keeps flicking back to it, I can tell there’s something more going on in that nervous head of his.
Interesting.
I take that little nugget of information and tuck it into my back pocket.
Fabien docks the skiff and secures it to the side of the ship before we begin to climb aboard. As I grasp the coarse ropes, my heart pounds harder than I’d like to admit. Every instinct in me screams that this might be another huge mistake. Another bad gamble. Just like the compass was.
But then I set foot on the deck. The dull thud of my boots against the polished wood hits different—like this ship has been waiting for me. The air here smells rich, like expensive material, sweat, and something… more.
It might be just wishful thinking, some forgotten part inside me that always ached for grandeur and respect, but damn… for just a split second I feel like I’ve always belonged on a ship like this.
Hell, the size alone is a dream. You can just tell this isn’t a ragtag crew sleeping on ropes and eating stale bread. No, the men on this ship probably have real hammocks, decent rations, and a system that keeps them upright and running for days. Like Medusa’s Gaze—before the war, anyway.
But then I notice the difference. The deck is empty. Not a soul in sight except for one man, staring us down like he already knows what we’re here for.
“I see you’ve returned with company, young Master,” the old man says, his voice soft but steady as he steps forward, a gentle smile tugging at his weathered face.
I blink.What?I glance at Fabien, and it’s clear I’m missing something here. I mean… Vinicola did recite something about Fabien being of decent upbringing, but to call him young master? That’s unexpected.
“Please don’t tell me your name is ‘Forty Men,’ Mister,” Vinicola groans, dragging Zayan aboard with a grunt. “That would be a cruel joke, wouldn’t it?”
The old man chuckles lightly.
“This is Ridley,” Fabien says, eyeing him with something that almost looks like respect. “And no, the crew’s below deck. They don’t want to look at the cursed shipwreck. They’re scared.”
“Men like that usually are,” Ridley adds, his voice smooth but laced with something else. A quiet challenge. His eyes sweep over us, and I can feel him sizing us up, curious but calm. Not hostile, but…ready. He’s a killer that one, wrapped in a pretty vest.
I’ve seen his type before. Gibbons has that same look—laughing like the world’s a joke, but the moment you blink, he’s the first to stick a broken bottle in someone’s throat without a second thought.
Fabien exchanges a look with Ridley, something wordless but weighted. There’s history between them, something that runs deeper than just serving on the same crew.
“The goddess sent them here,” Fabien says, his voice dipping into something quieter, almost reverent, as he shows Ridley his open palm, like the answers to all this mess are scrawled in the black mark across his skin. “Thought we outsmarted her. Turns out, we walked right into her trap instead.”
Ridley’s lips press into a thin line, and he nods like he’s suddenly pieced it all together. Like whatever happened during the ascent makes perfect sense to him now.
It doesn’t make a lick of sense to me.
His eyes flick to me, then to Zayan and Vinicola.
“Ah, the goddess’s mark,” Ridley murmurs, taking Fabien’s palm and studying it. “So it begins again.”
My fingers curl at my sides, the strange, faint burn beneath my own skin reminding me of the mark still there. I try not to shiver. I fail.
“The Trials?” I ask, recalling what Fabien said at the shipwreck. The words taste like ash in my mouth when I say them, though. “Whatever they are?”
Ridley’s gaze sharpens. “Do you not know of them?”
“We know as much as he’s told us,” Zayan cuts in, his voice edged with bitterness as he gestures toward Fabien. He doesn’t even bother to hide the animosity. “Which is nothing.”
Fabien doesn’t rise to the bait, just stares at the ground like it’s more interesting than anything Zayan has to say.
