He chuckles, not even fazed. “If an eagle were overhead, it’d see our trail winding like a serpent’s coil. Maybe the path we’re carving is some kind of key for the gateway we’re after. Ever thought of that?”
“Or maybe the goddess is just wasting our time,” I mutter, the edge of absurdity grating at me.
He considers it, tapping his quill against his chin. “Well, it does take long, doesn’t it? Do you think…maybe the length of the journey affects the size of the gateway? The wreck took no time at all compared to this.”
I shoot him a look, deadpan.
“Maybe you should take this up with Fabien,” I suggest, more to get him to stop than because I expect anything useful. “He’s the one who claims to know things.”
He tilts his head. “Fabien hasn’t spoken to anyone in days. He’d probably snap my neck if I tried again. I may be persistent, but I know when to back off.”
“His loss,” I mutter, easing one hand off the wheel to rub at my eyes. The sun and wind have left them gritty, and my spine aches from too many hours standing. I have a suspicion Vinicola lingers here on purpose, probably hoping to chat the ache out of my bones, but his rambling only stretches the hours. I suppose it’s better than silence, though, in its own way.
“True enough,” he agrees, the humor fading slightly from his voice. “If he wants to sulk in the armory, he can have it.”
“At least it frees up cabin space at night,” I reply.
Fabien Rancour’s been holed up in the armory since we left the pirate island. The moment our conversation ended, he took that jarred plant of his and practically barricaded himself. Ridley says it’s typical for him, but he’s never sulked this long before. Maybe my words stung deeper than I thought.
Maybe that beast of a man has a heart, after all.
Vinicola laughs softly at my comment, but there’s a strange edge to it now, as if even he feels the shift Fabien’s absence has left. I’ve tried to ignore it, keep my mind on the compass and the path ahead, but it’s like a thorn buried too deep to pull free.
What does it even matter what that grumpy piece of flesh thinks? He keeps himself apart from us, barely making any effort to belong. He shouldn’t get under anyone’s skin. We’re a crew, and he’s… well, something else entirely.
“Bet he’ll come out once we reach the gateway,” Vinicola says quietly. “He’s the one most obsessed with the Trials, anyway.”
I nod, but his words only dig into the knot of tension that’s been growing in my gut.
Could I trust Fabien for something as dangerous as this? For anything at all?
As long as I’m at the wheel, we’ll reach that gateway. Even if it means dragging this ragtag crew through fire and water, I’ll see it done. But after that? Whatever waits beyond the gatewaywon’t be some neat reward—it’ll be a trial, a game to test our survival. And I’m not too sure Fabien’s even on our side.
If it’s a test for the whole crew, we’re already half sunk.
I grip the wheel tighter, knuckles white against the grain of the wood, and that’s when I catch a faint, rhythmic clicking from the compass.
“Oh?” Vinicola notices it too, scooping it up from where it’s lain untouched on the deck for hours. “A shift? This quick?”
“Maybe we’re closer than we thought,” I say, eyeing the needle’s frenzied spin.
“The needle’s spinning wild. I think you’re right.” He glances up at me, his eyes shadowed with apprehension. “Should I tell the others?”
“Yeah, get them ready,” I say.
Vinicola hurries below deck, clutching his songbook under one arm. I’d wager he’s off to tell Fabien first. Seems like he’s got a soft spot for the bastard. It’s a wonder he’s managed to make peace with Zayan too, yet I can’t say the same about Fabien.
Fabien stands out like bad rigging—one weak link, and the whole ship feels it.
I stay at the helm, thoughts racing ahead of the ship itself. The sea ahead is calm, but there’s a weight in the air—a sense of something gathering just beyond the horizon. Below, I catch the rise of Vinicola’s voice as he stirs the crew with the news. It doesn’t take long for the men to cluster beneath me, glancing up with questions in their eyes and uncertainty in their stance.
I straighten, pushing any hint of doubt far back. They’re not champions of the Lady—whatever twisted title that is—but they’re standing in her line of fire just the same. So, they’ll get the reassurance they need.
“Whatever’s ahead, we’ll see you through it,” I say, letting the words hit them steady and sure. “According to Rancour, it’s usfour the Lady’s got business with, no quarrel with the rest of you.”
Some of the tension fades, but doubt lingers in their eyes. They trust me, but the Lady herself? Well, that’s another story. She’s as much a rumor to them as a storm that strikes in perfect weather. And just as fickle.
The others emerge from below—Fabien first, Zayan close behind, then Ridley, who looks like he’s aged ten years just from hearing the news. I nod at them, keeping my eyes on the horizon. Zayan bounds up the stairs two at a time, sleep still clinging to him, hair tousled, cheeks flushed like he’s fresh off a sprint.
