My expression darkens, my patience wearing thinner than threadbare canvas. “Apologize?” I repeat, practically spitting the word. It doesn’t belong in my mouth, not with the way I live. Apologies have never mattered, and they sure as hell don’t now. I don’t answer to anyone.
And yet—damn it—a small fracture stirs inside, just enough for me to catch myself lingering, not yet turning away. There’s truth in the accusation, a shadow of something I can’t quite banish. I know I’ve been a bastard to Gypsy and the others. Purposefully. I chose that. But still… Zayan saved my life.
“You do know what the word means, don’t you?” Vini chuckles.
I blink at him, feeling something unfamiliar clawing up my chest. Shame? No, that can’t be it.
“That’s it. I’m leaving,” I mutter, already pivoting, my shoulders tense. I need silence, a void—a place to reset. But I don’t make it two steps before he speaks up again, his voice softer now, without the usual teasing edge.
“Where are we going?” he asks. “To the armory?”
We?
I pause but don’t look back, my feet rooted despite everything. I can’t seem to shake him, no matter how hard I try.
The armory is supposed to be my sanctuary, the one place left on this cursed ship where I could have some quiet. With the captain’s quarters turned into neutral ground and Ridley’s company far too familiar, the armory had become my last retreat.
“Iam going to the armory,“ I say, making it crystal clear it’s only me going. “You, however, are going anywhere else.”
Without waiting for a reply, I start walking again.
I set a brisk pace, but his singsong voice trails after me. “You can’t call dibs on a common room, Mr. Madman. What if I suddenly need a pistol? Didn’t you say we’re free to take whatever we want from there? “
“I’m sure whatever you think you need it for can wait,” I grunt. But even as the words leave my mouth, I know I’m losing the battle. Throwing him overboard or shutting him up with a well-placed punch is an entertaining thought.
Though, oddly enough, I don’t think he actually deserves that.
“For what I want it for, it can’t,” he chirps.
“Hm.”
When we reach the armory, I push open the door and step inside, the sharp, metallic scent of oil and iron filling the space. Iignore Vinicola trailing behind as I go straight to the workbench and set the hourglass down with a solid thud, my fingers already tracing its edges.
“Go ahead, look for that gun you keep prattling about,” I say, not bothering to look up. But he just hovers, circling me left to right, always with his eyes on my hands. “Suit yourself, then.”
The hourglass is crafted with a precision only a goddess could manage—a delicate thing that shouldn’t survive a simple breath of air. The glass, as thin as a whisper, seems like it’d shatter with the barest touch. But it doesn’t. It’s tougher than it looks, a sturdy little thing.
I run my fingers over every edge, every etched line, twisting and turning it to inspect each inch.
“Why letters inside?” Vinicola’s voice breaks in, leaning in close enough I can feel his breath, and it grates.
“I don’t know,” I mutter, irritated, but honest. No matter how I turn it, the signs inside don’t make sense. They shift, flickering, looking different under each angle.
But I’m not about to give up. Patience has been drilled into me, layer by relentless layer, since the day I washed up on that desert island as a kid. If anything, this hourglass feels like a reminder of all the years I’ve clawed through, each second devoted to making me a patient man.
Those first years back home, I was just a scavenger—a kid ransacking knowledge from every pit and ruin, pouring my parents’ money into an impossible scheme no sane person would touch. I learned from people who would slit my throat without blinking, piecing together every clue, every tale, every cursed scrap about the Lady. For years, my studies were long nights and foreign books, names of the dead, whispers of rituals.
And then, the decade after? It’s been an obsession. My body became a weapon, tuned to handle any threat, anyone with knowledge or power. Every inch of me sharpened to onepurpose: to kill her. The Lady. That bitch. This trial is just another step, another wall to smash through.
So, no—a glass bauble and Vinicola’s wide-eyed wonder aren’t about to throw me off.
I’ll decipher its riddle, even if it takes all night.
But hours drag on, with Vinicola slouched on the workbench next to me, his voice so hollow it sounds like it’s coming from the bottom of a well. And I still don’t manage to crack it.
Vinicola yawns, rubs at his eyes, and stares at the hourglass. I lean back, arms crossed, trying to ignore him. But then he clears his throat, interrupting my thoughts.
“Alright, let’s recap. Maybe that’ll help.” His words come sluggish.
