We round a corner, the streets narrowing into an empty stretch of dirt, leading toward the edges of the island where only the wind and whispers roam. Each step grinds against my nerves, winding me tighter.
Fabien knew exactly what he was doing, dragging Vinicola off where no soul would think to look.
Ahead, a sliver of voices trickles through the stillness—low, agitated, simmering with that twisted edge of threat. And there it is again, faint but clear: Vini’s voice, shaky but unmistakable.
Gypsy slows suddenly, one hand raised to halt me. Her gaze cuts forward, and I follow, spotting a small, rundown shack tucked between a couple of drooping palms. An alchemist’s haunt? Blood spatters across the wooden doors and drips down the building’s side.
And just there, sprawled on the ground, lies a body.
“It’s not Vini,” Gypsy exhales, a flicker of relief that eases my own tension by a notch.
“Then who the hell is it?” I mutter, fists clenching as my confusion tightens.
We edge closer, the thick scent of blood invading the air, almost thick enough to taste. Old sailors say blood is salt to the earth, and just like the sea, the Lady drinks her fill. Some say it’s only pirates she feeds on, but those fools will take any lie as long as it makes them feel lighter at heart.
But blood doesn’t discriminate.
The goddess can lay claim to just about anyone who sails under her skies, no matter their allegiance. This blood mingling with the salt breeze? Feels like it… belongs to her, somehow.
Gypsy catches my eye. We’re both tense, each step bringing us closer to the source of this little mess. Just beyond the shop, the sounds of a scuffle thicken, steel scraping and curses flying. The kind of noise that raises your pulse.
Gypsy signals to split up, and I nod, swinging left as she takes the right, my dagger tight in my grip. As I close in, voices become clearer. One of them is Vini’s, breathless and desperate. The other? Darker, coiled tight with some sick thrill that cuts to the bone.
Fabien.
But there’s more than just the two of them. It doesn’t even sound like they’re trading blows. They’re fightingtogether.
The realization hits, freezing me mid-step. If Vini and Fabien aren’t going at each other’s throats, then who—or what—are they facing down?
I slip around the corner, catching sight of it all playing out by the shop. Vini and Fabien, backs pressed against the wall, are fending off a group of scowling pirates, the kind who look like they’d bite through steel for a quick coin. Fabien’s face twists into something feral, his blade swinging with a precision that’s quite impressive. And Vini? Fear still clings to his eyes, but he’s holding his own, ducking and weaving like his life depends on it.
What’s this? They’re in sync, moving like they’ve done this before. Vini jabs, Fabien strikes—both of them shifting as if they’re sharing a brain.
It’s baffling.
What the hell…?
But no time to sit back and marvel. They’re outnumbered, and the longer this drags on, the worse it’ll get. I signal to Gypsy, who’s already slipping around the far side, that fire in her eyes telling me she’s just itching to get a piece of the action. Fine by me.
I keep low, weapon in hand, gliding forward as silent as a shadow. One of the pirates has his back to me, all his attention on Vini, who’s making it his mission to dodge and stay out of reach. Poor bastard doesn’t even sense me until it’s too late—I slide the dagger between his ribs, give it a twist just to make sure, and he drops with a wet gasp.
One down.
Vini startles, eyes darting to the crumpled body, then to me, relief flickering across his face for half a second before he’s back to fending off another pirate.
“Oh, God! You’re a sight for sore eyes!” he squawks, voice high. Hard to believe he’s even lasted this long—he sounds like someone who’d fall over at a pebble. And by the look on his face, I’d bet he believes it too.
Yet somehow, the idiot’s holding his ground, dodging like a rabbit on the run, slipping out of reach just when they think they’ve got him.
“What happened?” I shout, sidestepping a blade and driving the pommel of my dagger into a pirate’s temple. He crumples to the ground.
Second down.
Over the chaos, I catch sight of Gypsy, her eyes fierce as she plunges into the fray. She bends forward slightly as she drives her elbow into the nearest pirate’s gut, following up with a knee to his jaw that sends him reeling back. That’s when she glances my way, a wicked glint in her eyes that speaks louder than words.
She’s enjoying this.
I smirk, barely sidestepping another pirate’s swing. Give Gypsy a task of writing a letter to her father and she won’t know what to do. Force her to identify her feelings, and she’ll crumble. But send her headfirst into a brawl, and she’ll thrive.
