I blink. “Uh, sure, I suppose that works.”
Fabien nods, as though any other response was unthinkable, and I fall into step beside him, still reeling a bit. I mean, I didn’t expect to end up part of his agenda.
See, I don’t really mind Fabien. Not like Miss Captain or Zayan, who’d probably see him as the devil himself. No, I don’t think he’s evil. He’s… hurting. So much hurt that it’s like he’s all hollowed out, nothing left but anger and disgust—like he’s a barrel that’s leaked all the good stuff and is just sour fumes now.
Does that make him easy to be around? No, not in the least. Fabien’s the kind of intensity that crackles too close, like a fire that doesn’t just stay in its place—it licks toward you, reaching, ready to burn if you’re not careful. Normally, I like a good flame, you know? Sit back, watch it dance, listen to it pop as it eats away at wood. But Fabien’s fire? It’s got a will of its own, practically tugging me in by the collar.
Ever since that time I sat with him, waited for his storm to pass, he’s looked at me differently. It’s almost like he’s relieved I stayed, but he hates that he feels that way. Poor bloke’s caught between wanting company and despising his need for it.
Usually, I’d say he’s delicate, like Zayan. But Fabien’s a different story. He’s got so much bottled up, it’s a wonder he doesn’t explode right there. It’s not that he doesn’t know his feelings—oh, he knows them all right. It’s more like he knows them too well, every inch of that anger and fire, and it’s about to burst out any second.
Terrifying? Absolutely. But you know what? It’s also beautiful, in that dangerous way. He’s like a volcano, rumbling and ready, and I can’t lie—it stirs something in me. I can practically feel a new song coming on just thinking about it.
Mother always had a saying for people like Fabien. She’d clink her wine glass and say,“Vinicola, the world’s got folks with fires so big, they could roast a whole flock of geese just by breathing near them.”
Fabien Rancour—yes, he’s exactly that kind of fire hazard.
Miss Captain catches my eye, tossing me one of those pitiful looks, as if she thinks it’s fate’s fault I’m stuck with Mr. Madman instead of joining her and Zayan. But there’s no truth in that pity. She’s the captain here. If she didn’t want me going with Fabien, she’d have pulled me into her little party. But no, this is clearly her way of arranging a bit of one-on-one time with Zayan—no nosy bards allowed, especially ones with sharp ears and softer hearts.
Oh, I remember their attempts to sneak away to the garden on board. Lovely, private, and apparently perfect for… whatever it was they were doing half-naked when I innocently sat down to write. Ah, the shocked looks on their faces. But who am I to complain? Love is love, and I’m all for it—my own or anyone else’s. They just weren’t quite as pleased to find me there, already mid-verse about thespontaneity of passion, as one could call it.
In my defense, they moved far too quickly for me to make a discreet exit.
“See you in a few hours, then?” I flash her a grin, one that I hope conveys the purest kind of understanding. It’s a knowing look, but there’s no edge to it. I’m not mad she chooses love over friendship. Good for her.
“Try not to tick him off too much,” she says with a raised brow. “Wouldn’t want you left in a ditch somewhere.”
“Yeah, he’s all about the Trials, but a little teammate murder? I wouldn’t put it past him,” Zayan adds, his smirk sharp as a blade.
“If I wanted any of you dead, you’d be gone by now,” Fabien grunts, which I’ve heard him say at least twenty times in the last few days. “We all sleep in the same room, after all.”
“With one eye open,” Zayan mutters under his breath, but he’s fooling no one. Every time he and Gypsy return from theiralone time, he’s out like a rock—so dead to the world a ghost would tiptoe around him.
Fabien doesn’t waste breath on small talk—just gives a sharp nod to Ridley, who slips off in the opposite direction. I fall in step too, leaving the lovebirds to their...tasks.
The island, well, it’s the same as any other hideaway for pirate rabble, save for one minor detail. The crowd here has a different edge—rougher, sharper, like they’ve swallowed nails for breakfast. There aren’t many ‘normal’ faces. And by normal, I mean sailors just popping over to stock up. Mostly, it’s pirates, through and through.
Other than that? Business as usual. We’re weaving through the marketplace, brushing past vendors shouting about their wares and sailors huddling in clusters, swapping secrets in low voices. The air is thick with saltwater, spices, and something fishy that goes beyond the smell. You can practically taste the death, decay, and double-dealing in every breath—it’s as if lawlessness itself has mixed into the air, becoming part of the very atoms here.
My heart gives a small, unwelcome jolt. I know exactly what that means. In a place like this, there’s a good chance someone might recognize me.
“Is this place safe for people like us?” I ask Fabien, matching his long strides with a bit more effort than I’d like to admit. My lungs are good, so I manage to breathe through the pacediscreetly, praying he doesn’t catch on that I’m nearly jogging beside him.
“People like us?” He doesn’t even look at me, his eyebrow slightly raised. “In what possible way do we belong to the same category?”
“Well, let’s see,” I muse, tilting my head as if pondering a great mystery. “Both of us are notable men from wealthy families, flaunting our outlander looks, and we both have a penchant for sticking our noses where they probably shouldn’t be. I’d say that brands us as birds of a feather, wouldn’t you?”
He glances over. There’s a glint in his eye, like he’s sizing up the absurdity of my answer.
“I’m known as the subject of some tiresome little story,” he says dryly, his voice dripping with aristocratic disdain. “And you… well…” He gestures vaguely in my direction, leaving the rest unsaid.
“Why, performing such tales, of course,” I answer smoothly, grinning like it’s the most natural conclusion in the world.
He smirks, just a little. “Don’t worry. You’re from a family most haven’t even heard of—an outsider, where I fit in just fine. But somehow, you manage to make yourself exactly the sort of irritating weakling everyone wants to put in his place.” He gives a mock sigh, his nostrils flaring slightly. “I’ll say this, though—keep to yourself, and you may survive without too much bruising.”
As we weave through the maze of market stalls, the ocean’s murmur fades under the bustling shouts and rickety laughter around us. My eyes flick over the crowd—shifty-eyed folks with hands that hover just a little too close to their hilts. Sharp-eyed, sharper-edged, the lot of them.
“And what about you, then?” I say, channeling my mother’s age-old advice:Keep talking, Vinicola; someone’s bound to listen, if only to make you stop.
