“Aye, let’s,” he replies, not missing a beat. He strides over to the tavern keeper, mutters something, then snatches a set of keys. Soon enough, he’s leading the way upstairs to a balcony, his crew casting wary glances my way. But there’s only one person standing in my path—a raven-haired woman, arms crossed, looking like she could tear a man in half.
I flash her a grin. Let her try.
“Weapons,” she demands, extending a hand.
I raise an eyebrow, slowly unstrapping my daggers, my pistol. “Am I getting them back?”
“Depends on what happens behind closed doors,” she replies, a sly grin tugging at her lips.
I laugh under my breath and hand her the lot. No use playing games here—liars always know their own kind.
Silverbeard and I step into one of the tavern’s few small rooms. It’s barely more than a box—four wooden walls, a crooked bed stuffed with hay, and a hammock swaying in the corner for the real sailors. The door creaks as it closes behindus, the sound too loud in the quiet that settles. The moment feels like a noose tightening around my neck, each step forward sinking me deeper into the clutches I created around myself.
Nowhere left to run.
For someone built like a mountain, Silverbeard moves with somewhat of a grace. He strides to a small table in the center of the room, pulls out one of two chairs with a squeal of wood, and takes his seat like a king on his throne. His gun, heavy and menacing, clinks as he sets it on the table between us, its barrel gleaming in the dim light.
Authority runs through his blood, same as it does with Roche. Command comes natural to them both.
“I’ve got to hand it to you, lad,” he says. His eyes still burn with that cold fury, though it’s tempered now, curiosity edging in. “Not many men would walk into the Serpents’ den on their own. You’ve got guts, or you’ve got rocks in your head. Which is it?”
I don’t sit. Not yet. I let the tension build, let him stew in the silence. “You tell me,” I reply, my gaze steady. “After you hear what I’ve come to say.”
Something shifts in his eyes—maybe amusement, maybe respect. Hard to tell with men like him. “Ah, a bit of both, then.” He leans back, the chair creaking under his weight, and gives me a look like he’s already peeling apart every word I haven’t said yet. “So, what do you know?”
This is it. The point of no return. I take one breath all to myself, just to memorize how it feels before the hell breaks loose. Then, I strip the smile from my face and look him in the eye.
“She’s got the compass,” I say, my voice low but steady. A moment of pause. Enough for him to fully take in my meaning. “Bought it from Old Betty today. Apparently had a tab running for some time now.”
For a second, Silverbeard doesn’t move. His face remains stone, eyes unblinking, his body frozen as if time itself hasstopped. Then, slowly, his hand drifts to his gun, his fingers brushing the barrel with a calm, almost ritualistic touch. My heart hammers against my ribs, but I don’t move.
“And you’re sure of this?” His voice, barely above a whisper.
Would I risk my life if I wasn’t?
I nod once, sharp. “I’m sure.”
He leans back further in the chair, the wood groaning under his weight. His fingers continue their slow, methodical stroke along the pistol’s barrel.
“If you’re lying to me…”
“I’m not.”
Another moment drags on. Silverbeard doesn’t do much, he just lifts his two bushy brows as his lips curve downward. Yet somehow, the atmosphere in the room shifts. It’s easy to deduce what this is really about, what truly turns him into a monster rather than a man.
His faith.
Everyone on these seas knows Silverbeard’s beliefs run deeper than the ocean itself. He wears feathers in his cap like a holy man wears prayer beads, never boards his ship with the wrong foot, and will slit the throat of anyone who so much as mutters the name of his ship wrong. Medusa’s Gaze is more than just a vessel to him—it’s a living, breathing entity, and Gypsy with that compass is like tempting the wrath of the gods. One goddess in particular—the Lady.
His very daughter defies that which is sacred to him. Which isabsolute.
At last, he exhales, slow and controlled. “You’ve just stirred a hornet’s nest, boy,” he murmurs, more to himself than to me. His gaze sharpens again, locking onto mine.
“I’m perfectly aware.”
His fingers leave the gun and move to the table, tapping against the table in an erratic rhythm. “And yet you dare,” hesays, voice dripping with mock amusement. “Think that’s clever, do you?”
I almost laugh at the absurdity of it. “Not clever at all. Quite the opposite, really.”
