Anger, though—anger’s useful. Sharp as a blade and twice as clear. It’s a weapon. Keeps me focused, keeps the haze from closing in.
But now, those other damned feelings have latched onto me like they belong. I can’t shake them, and I hate the way they make me feel. Weak. Useless.
“All the more reason to let him know that, then,” Zayan says.
“Or it’ll just be a pointless letter he reads after I’m dead. Just another wound, salt rubbed into the scars. Cruel, don’t you think?” The words spill out.
“Maybe,” he says quietly, “but if it were me, I’d want to know. Letter or no, I’d want to know if you cared, even at the end.”
I pause, swallowing hard. “Why?”
“Because it’d mean that, even facing death, you thought of him. That he mattered enough to reach out, after everything.”
I toy with the bottle in my hands, watching the glass catch the last of the light. Tiny prisms dance on the sand.
“You’re right, maybe.” My voice is low. “And I do think of him. Sometimes.” A beat. “You ever think of Roche? He’s the closest thing you have to a father, isn’t he?”
His expression shifts, the warmth he reserves only for me flickering and fading. It’s gone by the time he answers.
“Roche is… complicated.” He stares out to the horizon, jaw tight, the softness gone. “He took me in when no one else would. Trained me, gave me purpose. But he’s nothing like your father. There’s no warmth in him—not the kind Silverbeard has for you.”
Warmth? For a second, I almost laugh. Calling Silverbeard “warm” is like calling a storm gentle. But maybe that just says more about Roche than it does about Silver.
“So you don’t think about him? Not even now, with everything upside down?”
Zayan shrugs, his gaze drifting back to the sea. “I think about him, sure. But not like you’d think. It’s not guilt or longing. It’s more… wondering what he’d do if he were me. He’s ruthless, yes, but smart. I learned plenty from him. Could probably learn more if I stayed.”
I set the bottle beside me on the rock, focusing on the quill and paper in my other hand. My finger traces the edge of the paper. It’s sharp enough to cut me, but I play with it regardless.
“Yeah, I bet he’s got survival down to an art,” I say dryly.
Zayan gives a faint scoff, nodding. “They both do.” He runs a hand through his hair, and I can feel him looking at me. “Fucking cockroaches, the two of them.”
I don’t look at him, just press my lip between my teeth, letting the thought sit heavy. I never told Silver how much he taught me, how he fed me every trick I know. Not that it would matter—I’m just the stray he dragged on board, the one he never had to keep. And I never once thanked him.
Maybe I’ll die before I get the chance.
“Silver taught me a lot, too,” I say. “How to look at a man and see ten moves ahead, how to know which words will cut deepest. For him, survival wasn’t brute strength. It was out-thinking everyone else, seeing the end before it began. That’s why no one can ever predict him.”
“Yeah,” Zayan murmurs, voice low and raw. “Roche was the same. Always said the mind was the sharpest weapon. Control a man’s mind, and you’ve got his fate in your hands.”
I glance down at the piece of paper again, dragging a finger along its edge. How do you thank someone for making you who you are, even if who you are’s a bit scraped at the edges?
Zayan tilts his head, catching that split-second hesitation. His voice is softer than I expected. “You don’t have to make it perfect, Gypsy. Just write what you need to say. He’ll get it.”
He’s right, of course. Just let the words out, get it done, and then I can close my eyes and imagine the memory sinks to the bottom of the sea.
I take a slow breath, tighten my grip on the quill, and dig in.
“Silver,”I begin, scribbling down the letters like I have little fins instead of fingers. The ink looks like hell on the page, nowhere near Vini’s fancy loops. But then, Silver’s isn’t much better. He’ll manage.
“Not sure when you’ll read this—or if you even will. Can’t say I picked the best place to leave a note, but we both know I’ve never had the knack for perfect timing. You’re probably off at Escindida with the crew… if you even want me back. And something tells me you do. You’ve never been one to cut the line, even when someone’s yanked on it just to see if you’d snap.
I’m sorry I didn’t listen when you talked about family sticking together, taking care of our own—and not slipping knives behind each other’s backs. Should’ve just told you about the compass from the start, at least had the sense to show you respect as my Captain. Instead, I played you right into a corner with no way out.
Too late to undo any of it, but I get it now. I see why you did what you did, why you were always lurking just over my shoulder. You were watching out for me the only way you knew how, giving me just enough rope to find my way—but never enough to let me hang myself with it.
And here’s the laugh—you were right to worry. Turns out, the goddess exists. Real as the damn tides, and twice as relentless.She’s set on hounding me, no matter that I never asked for her or her meddling.
