“Well, hell,” I mutter, watching that bold crimson smear across the sky. “Marauders.”
For a moment, I just stand there, taking it in. How in all hells did they track us here, of all places? Right at dawn, when we’ve barely stepped out of the gateway to another realm. But then it hits me—if anything, that’s exactly how they found us.
I think it through, quick and dirty: we didn’t sail far enough from where Fabien’s little thug parade had a Marauder caught among their crew. The docks were crawling with mouths eager to wag, and Vinicola’s fancy little sail design was like a damn beacon for anyone watching. And let’s not forget, the Lady herself is out there, eyes on the waves. This is her playground.Wouldn’t put it past her to toss Roche in our path just to make things interesting.
I exhale, steadying myself. I glance at Gypsy, and she’s already staring back.
“Silver?” I ask, my jaw tightening. If the Serpents are in the mix, this goes from bad to deadly.
“Doesn’t look like it,” she replies, her voice tight. “But who knows how long we’ve got.”
Right. If Roche is sniffing around, Silverbeard’s not far behind.
“What now?” Vinicola pipes up, voice wobbling just enough to strip the edge from his whining. Poor bastard’s afraid—and hell, I’d almost pity him for it. The Red Queen on the horizon would put the fear of The Lady into anyone with half a brain. Even from here, that black hull eats up every scrap of dawn’s light, like it’s hungry for something bigger.
Not that I need to see it to know every damn detail.
In my mind’s eye, it’s all there: the prow with that snarling wolf, eyes sharp and hungry, tracking you no matter where you stand. Its jaws hang open like it’s ready to devour the sea, and beneath it, carved in rough, jagged letters, The Red Queen bleeds crimson, dripping down like it’s fresh off the kill.
Funny thing is, I painted that name myself. Used to be some dainty script a few years back. I thought it deserved something a bit… messier. Let our enemies get a good preview of what’s coming their way when the battle’s on. Never thought I’d be the one looking down that beast from the wrong side.
“There’s only one thing we can do,” I say, locking eyes with Gypsy. “We run like hell.”
“What?” she snaps, eyebrows pulled tight, looking like I just spat on her boots. “We’re supposed to sailatthem!”
Well, that’s the last thing we need.
“Then make it a damn convincing detour,” I growl. “You know what’ll happen if they get close—they’ll tear us open with those cannons, no hesitation!”
Roche never hesitates. If violence might solve his problems, he’ll make sure it’s his first choice. Doesn’t always work, but he’s the type who’d rather regret what he’s done than what he hasn’t.
“We don’t have time for that!” she fires back, voice tight like she’s already fed up with whatever hell’s bearing down on us. But her hands are on the wheel, already twisting it, steering us into the escape route.
“We just have to… keep running till…” I force out, swallowing the edge in my voice as I grit my teeth.
“Until we reach the Trial?” Gypsy cuts in.
“Fuck... yes. Until we reach the Trial.”
But Roche won’t give up the chase. He’ll follow us until then and after.
Gypsy’s hands stay steady on the wheel, but the tension is plain in her clenched jaw. Her eyes flick from the horizon to the course she’s setting. And here we are, pushing Fabien’s ship to her breaking point, hoping it’s enough to keep The Red Queen at bay. Sure, it’s a damn fine vessel. But the real question is whether anyone here, even Gypsy, can match Roche’s skill. He steers his ship like it’s part of him, twisting through the waters with a finesse that’s near legendary.
Gypsy’s damn good—no argument there. But Roche? He’s been captaining longer than most men survive on these seas. Age and experience aren’t just numbers out here—they’re lifelines.
“Ready the crew,” she barks, her voice cutting through the tension. “Every hand on deck. If we’re going to outrun them, we need to push this ship to her limits.”
Ridley nods, taking off for the stairs to rally the others. Vinicola looks to me, swallowing his fear, trying to keep it buriedas he trails after Ridley. Rancour’s silent, just grinding his jaw back and forth, the only sign he’s feeling anything at all.
The ship lurches as she yanks the wheel hard, veering us off course in a way that sends my stomach twisting. The Red Queen’s still nothing more than a black speck on the horizon, but I’d bet my life it’s getting closer with every second.
“We’ve been through worse,” she says, glancing at me with that iron look in her eye. “We’ll get through this too.”
I step away from the helm, the muffled curses of the crew stirring below deck meeting my ears, Ridley’s scratchy bark leading the charge. They’re groggy, half-dead with the same hangover that’s gnawing at the rest of us—hell of a way to face what’s coming. I pass each of them, throwing out a quick nod or slap on the shoulder, noting the exhaustion in their eyes. But there’s a fire underneath, banked but burning. These men have sailed long enough with Rancour to know that when there’s no way around, you go straight through.
And we’re damn well going through.
40
