“You think he’s pinned it on me?” His eyebrow lifts, but his eyes are sharp, wary. “A little ‘kill the messenger’ complex, maybe?”
I shrug. “Wouldn’t put it past him. Silverbeard’s not one for forgiving perceived debts.”
But instead of making it count, he just shakes his head with a soft eyeroll, that smug smile of his growing a little deeper. “Nah,” he says, voice light. “Your father’s not that kind of man.”
He might sound confident, but I can see the tension hiding in his jaw, the way his fingers tap against my waist like a tell. He’s trying to play it cool, but there’s something beneath it—a hint he’s either hiding something from me or just dismissing the whole thing. Either way, it’s enough to make me press him.
“Isn’t he?” I challenge, my voice low, steady. “How can you be so sure?”
He lifts a shoulder, not quite meeting my eyes. “Had a talk with him, didn’t I? The one behind closed doors in the tavern.”
“The one I nearly killed you for,” I mutter.
He chuckles, his grip on my waist tightening just enough to make me feel it. “Yeah, that one,” he says. “But it wasn’t all bad. Turns out we came to an… understanding.”
“Anunderstanding?“ I repeat, a flicker of old disbelief rising. My father isn’t exactly the type for understanding—at least not the sit-down-and-chat kind. If he wanted something, he took it; if he had a grievance, he settled it in blood. And with someone like Zayan? It makes no damn sense. I don’t care how much intel Zayan had on the compass. My father’s idea of a ‘discussion’ usually involves threats, not words.
Zayan’s gaze settles on mine. “He’s more complicated than you think. I didn’t say he liked me, but we had a talk. He didn’t want to lose you, sure, but he knew you’d make your own choices. Once he saw you had the compass, he didn’t have much say inthe matter. Letting me go? Letting you go? Maybe he thought it was better than chaining you down.”
I blink, the idea simply ridiculous. Silverbeard, letting go? The man I know is a force of nature, never one to just…allow.
“As in what, exactly? He decided to hand me the freedom I’ve wanted all along?” I scoff, the notion too ridiculous to believe.
Zayan’s gaze flickers, steady as ever. “Maybe he realized he couldn’t stop you. Not with me here.” He hesitates, then adds, “I told him—I care about you. And that I’d follow you anywhere.”
I choke back a laugh. Tellingmyfather he cares about me? That’s rich. But I shove the thought aside, focusing on what truly doesn’t add up. Silverbeard would sooner sink his own ship than see me with a Marauder. If Zayan’s telling the truth, there’s a game here I don’t see yet—one Silverbeard’s twisted to his own advantage.
“Did you make a deal with him?” The question’s out before I can stop it.
Zayan’s brow creases. “A deal? No.”
I keep my voice low, biting. “I know my father, Zayan. Did he wrangle some kind of promise out of you?”
“No. No deal,” he replies instantly. “Why would I need one? I promised I’d keep you safe, deal or not.”
“Did he ask you to promise?” I press, narrowing my eyes.
Zayan’s face twists in confusion. “No. Pretty sure that was my idea.”
There’s nothing in his eyes to latch onto—no flicker, no hint of a lie. His hand stays firm at my waist, steady as if guilt’s never crossed his mind. For all his smooth talk, he’s clean here, like he hasn’t thought twice about this before I brought it up. That’s what makes it unsettling.
“Right,” I say, voice low and even. “So I’m just supposed to believe Silverbeard—the man who’d sell his soul for a debt—let you waltz off without a price?”
He shrugs, a crooked sigh falling from his lips. “Gypsy, I don’t care what your father’s doing. I’m here for you. Silverbeard and Roche are dust to me.”
I hate it, but he’s telling the truth again.
I open my mouth to push him further, to find the loose thread in all this that we’re missing, but a sharp whistle cuts the air. A pair of men slink over to the merchant’s stall, shifty, voices low, hands hidden under their cloaks. My attention snaps to them, instincts sharpening.
Zayan’s gaze follows mine, his eyes narrowing as he slides his hand from my waist, his stance shifting, ready.
I lean close, muttering, “Time to vanish.” Without another word, we drift into the crowd, slipping through the shadows like we were never there.
The market’s a tangled mess of bodies, carts, and wares—salt-soaked fish piled high, barrels reeking of stale rum. It’s almost too easy to blend in here, way easier than it would be on Escindida, where every villager’s eyes are sharp as daggers, always hunting for a sign of a rival lurking around the corner.
We duck past a few traders, shoulder to shoulder, and for a flicker of a second, I’m reminded we’ve never done this together before. Not like this. Out in the open. Together.
Zayan’s hand settles lightly on the small of my back as we wind through the crowd. “So, what’s the plan, Flint?” he murmurs, his voice just loud enough for me to hear over the chaos. “Besides prying into my soul for how the talk with dear old dad went?”
