I let out a short, humorless laugh. “Couldn’t care less if he died or not. All that matters is we’re still four for the Trials. It’s thenumber that counts, Vinicola, not the man. If he died, we’d be worse off.”
“But hedidn’tdie,“ Vinicola murmurs, “and you’rehappy.”
I scoff, trying to brush off his words, but they linger in the air between us, like someone vomited and it hasn’t aired out yet.
“You’re projecting,” I mutter, folding my arms and turning to the dimly lit shadows of the ship’s lounge.
The celebration roars around me—laughter, clinking glasses, voices swelling into a chaotic hum that grates like broken glass. It’s all so loud, so mindlessly cheerful, and I’m caught in it.
My hand brushes against my coat, where the hourglass sits. There’s something carved inside—an inscription, twisted into the glass. I don’t know what it says yet, but my entire body is aching to get away from here, hide myself somewhere quiet and peaceful, and decipher the meaning.
But I stay, bound by this pesky happiness, I’m still hanging around.
That cripple Zayan turned out to be more than his limp, saving the day in a way none of us could’ve. He even saved me, for fuck’s sake.
“Yeah, I kind of know you already, okay?” Vinicola pipes up beside me, his voice so light it practically dances over the noise. “I’ve studied your expressions. I know when the grump is real and when it’s just a mask.”
I don’t respond right away, the words sticking in my throat like dry bread.
Studied me, has he? I knew he’d be insufferable the moment he opened his mouth, but this level of probing—the insistence on understanding me—is a new, special breed of irritation.
“Think what you will,” I say with a shrug. “But whatever emotion you think you see, it’s disgust. Because I’ve had to sit through the hero and the captain fucking. Again. That’s it.”
Vinicola raises an eyebrow, his smirk fading just slightly, his eyes narrowing as he studies my face. I can practically feel him picking my words apart, trying to figure out if I’m serious or just throwing him a bone to chew on. Truth is, it’s both. There’s a twisted satisfaction in tossing something out there to keep him guessing. Keeps his meddling little mind busy.
How’s that for knowing me? Good luck figuring that one out.
“Nah, when you’re disgusted, you crinkle the corner of your mouth,” he says, leaning in with that same infuriating curiosity. “This? This isn’t it.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
“Don’t you have something better to do?” I snap, narrowing my eyes. “Go write some songs, or irritate someone else for a change.”
He only holds up his hands in surrender, still grinning. “Alright, alright, no need to get prickly. I get it. Your comfort zone’s particularly sacred. Consider me gone.”
Finally, he turns back to the drinking crowd, and I take a deep breath. Good riddance. But no—I don’t let the relief show. I just fold my arms, keeping my gaze on the crew, pretending he never even got to me in the first place.
We’re still inside the gateway, and I chose to stay here for a reason. Ironically, it’s safer on this side, under the Lady’s twisted watch, than out there where my own history leaves us exposed to too many unseen threats. Here, we’ve satisfied her demands—completed whatever trial she set for us—so there’s no reason she’d toss us out now. Not unless someone screws up.
Besides, no one dares to touch the compass besides Gypsy and Vinicola. It’s an unspoken rule by now. The damned thing revealed itself to them, and that’s how it stays. Gypsy, from the moment she dragged it away from that vendor, and Vinicola, when he dug it out of the sand. The two of them are the only ones the goddess tolerates as guides, for whatever twisted reason.
It seems fair to respect it.
Just as I’m letting my mind settle back into a semblance of peace, Vinicola’s voice sneaks in again. “You know, I don’t think they’re coming back from the captain’s quarters any time soon. So if that’s what you’re waiting for…”
Relentless. The man’s a walking plague, like a sore that keeps festering. After all this time, I don’t have the energy to keep up the deflections, to keep the usual wall up. The truth is, he’s just so fucking…persistent that he tires me out.
“Why the hell would I be waiting for them?” My voice drops to a low growl, tired but thick with warning. Anyone else would feel the chill. Anyone but him.
He doesn’t even flinch. Instead, he just grins, undeterred, leaning in. “Because,” he quips, almost gleeful, “you want to apologize, don’t you?”
I nearly choke on my own breath. Apologize? Me?
I fix him with a hard stare, hoping the silence will knock some sense into him, but he only smiles wider, entirely too pleased with himself.
“Excuse me?” I breathe out.
“You know, after all that talk you had with Miss Captain before we got here? Then holed yourself up in the armory without a word?”
