Fabien
Truth be told, the situation’s rotten—that’s the only way to put it.
The crew’s dragging their sorry feet, barely keeping upright, and that hollow look’s back in their eyes—the kind that says they’re this close to giving in, to letting the tide take them. We don’t have enough left in us to make it to the sister islands, let alone to outmaneuver the Marauders circling the horizon like vultures.
It’s bad. Really fucking bad.
And I know something has to give. But only one option claws its way to the front of my mind. One, I’d like not to think of at all.
I’d sworn myself to save it. To hold back until we were nose-to-nose with death, with no other way out. I thought I’d use it in the final Trial, at the point where survival hung by a thread and revenge was all that mattered. A moment so desperate I’d be scraping the bottom of my soul to pull it off.
But there won’t be a last Trial if we don’t even get to the first one.
If I’m going to see this through, if I’m going to have my justice, it has to be now.
“Fucking hell,” I mutter as I push past the men. They look as bad as I feel, and there’s only so much that can keep them going. They don’t have the years of anger I carry; they can’t drag themselves much farther.
I push through the exhaustion, heading for the captain’s quarters where Gypsy and Zayan are holed up. Zayan’s by the window, staring out at the horizon with that feral look in his eyes, and Gypsy—she’s got her boots halfway laced, her hair tied back, her face roughened by salt and wind. But the second she spots me at the doorway, her spine straightens, defiant, as if she’s got something to prove.
If Ridley weren’t manning the wheel, she’d be out there gripping it herself until it tore her hands raw.
“Fabien,” she says. “What is it?”
I don’t bother with pleasantries or even the damn door.
“I need you both. Now,” I say, and I don’t leave room for questions. They’re already forming in their eyes, but I don’t have the patience to answer them. Not yet.
This is a Hail Mary, a last gamble. And if they’re as worn down as I am, they’d better just follow without whining. The option I’ve got isn’t pretty. It’ll probably take more than they’ve got left. But it’s something.
Whatever they see in my face is enough to get Zayan moving. He’s behind me fast as we head below deck.
“What’s going on?” he finally asks, his tone braced, probably expecting more bad news. Fair enough. We’ve had no shortage of that lately.
“An option,” I mutter, barely able to keep my voice from fraying. “One way to cut through this mess.”
Gypsy’s silent, but I can feel her eyes drilling into the back of my skull as we wind down the narrow passage to the armory.The farther down we go, the colder it gets, darker too. It shouldn’t bother me, but right now, everything does. The weight pressing in, the air heavy with salt and rust—it grates on every raw nerve.
Theseabothers me. The memory of my parents drowning. The fear…
We reach the armory, and I wrench open the door. Gypsy sighs, running a hand over her face.
“Listen, Rancour, I don’t know what you’re planning, but—“
I don’t listen to her. Instead, I head straight for the far corner of the room, where half-rotten tarps and crates cover the floorboards. Ridley and I know what’s hidden here, but even he’s smart enough to keep his distance. As for me? Well, common sense isn’t why I’m still breathing.
Gypsy’s words trail off when I pull back the tarps, reach for the latch beneath, and yank open the compartment door. The wood groans, the sound cutting through the thick silence, and a small ladder comes into view, descending into a small room below.
I glance back, gauging their faces. Gypsy’s eyes narrow, a flicker of suspicion and curiosity warring in her gaze, though exhaustion dulls the edge. Zayan stares blankly, brows knitting as if he’s trying to peer into my thoughts. Good luck with that. In another heartbeat, he’s already craning his neck, angling to pry below.
“What is this?” Gypsy asks finally.
I level a cold look at her. “Remember the artifacts I mentioned?” My voice comes out sharp and rough. “There’s one down here that’ll do the trick. Use it right, and we’ll lose the Marauders.”
Her brows twitch at that, a faint movement, but I don’t miss the way she licks her lips, the way her eyes drift down as if already calculating what price this might demand.
“What is it?” Zayan asks. “How does it work?”
My mouth twists up, and I can only assume that an ugly smirk slashes across my lips. I glance at Gypsy, an unspoken question written all over my face, and she nods, her lips pursed.
