There’s no law here but the one you enforce with a sharp blade or a quick wit.
I take a deep breath, breathing it all in, and start my descent.
The crate jerks, almost tipping to the side as I navigate down the uneven slope. Every muscle in my body is aching, screaming at me to stop, to rest, to let this damn thing fall apart and be done with it. But that’s not an option. Not today.
I bite back a curse as the sand gives way beneath my boots, forcing me to lean back to keep my balance. If I roll down this hill with the crate, I’ll be lucky if I don’t break my neck. The trick is to keep moving, but slow. The last thing I need is to get my bones broken at the rocks below.
“Almost there,” I mutter, more to myself than anything else. “Just a little farther.”
The village sprawls below, a cluster of shanty buildings and tents patched together from whatever the sea has spat back at the shore. The tarps, make-shift material roofs over the countless stalls, paint the view in multiple colors.
Most people underneath them don’t ask questions, don’t care who you are or what you’ve done, so long as you’ve got something to trade. They might be under my father’s protection, alright, but there’s no stronger currency than coin—and that’s the only thing that truly keeps this place running.
I’ll manage to earn my share without him ever knowing.
As I get closer to the village, the air changes. It’s thicker here, heavy with the scent of salt, sweat, and rotting fish.
I wipe the sweat from my brow and steel myself. This place might be familiar, but it’s never safe. Not really. There’salways someone looking to make their fortune at someone else’s expense, and I’ve got no plans of being the fool today.
The crate is barely hanging together now, the wet crack from earlier widening as the jagged splinters poke out. It won’t be long before the whole thing falls apart, so I’ve got to get to Old Betty’s fast.
As I trudge past the first few stalls, I catch sight of a few familiar faces. Most of them don’t bother to acknowledge me, heads down, focused on their business. A few nod in passing, recognizing me as Silverbeard’s daughter, but they don’t linger. My father’s name keeps people cautious around me, and that’s just how I like it.
I push through the crowd, feeling eyes on me from every direction. It’s not just the crate drawing attention. It’s the fact that I’m alone, no crew backing me up.
But I know how to handle myself. Besides, anyone stupid enough to try and cross me would have to deal with Silverbeard’s wrath—and that’s a fate worse than any scuffle in the streets.
I spot Old Betty’s stall up ahead, a dilapidated structure barely held together with driftwood and iron nails. The sign swinging above the door reads “Old Betty’s” in faded paint, her skinny, wrinkled self perched on a rickety stool just outside the entrance, puffing lazily on a pipe. Her sharp, beady eyes lock onto me the moment I step into view, a sly grin spreading across her face.
Old Betty doesn’t miss much, and she’s already clocked the state of the crate I’m dragging.
“Well, well, if it isn’t Gypsy herself,” she rasps, her voice thick with the weight of years spent dealing with the scum of the sea. “Looks like you’ve got yourself in a bit of a bind there, lass.”
I force a smile and lean against the crate for support, wiping the sweat from my brow. “Nothing I couldn’t handle. Besides, might just be worth your time.”
Her grin widens as she hops off her stool with surprising agility for her age. She circles the crate like a vulture eyeing a carcass, her gnarled fingers tapping the wood thoughtfully. “Might be worth it, you say?” she hums, puffing a cloud of smoke into the air. “Let’s see what ye’ve got.”
I cross my arms, trying not to let the heat rising in my chest get the better of me. My heart’s slamming against my ribs like it wants out, but I’m not about to show her that. I’ve dragged this half-rotten mess through hell, and if she doesn’t find something worth her precious time, I swear I’ll—
“Well, this ain’t much,” she mutters, pulling out a sack of half-decent rations. “But these’ll do fine for the right buyer.” She pulls out another small pouch, weighs it in her hand, then tosses it back in the crate. “You didn’t risk your neck just for breadcrumbs, did you?”
I suppress a sigh. “There’s more.” Reaching into my pocket, I pull out the captain’s gold ring, holding it up to catch the last rays of sunlight. It glints, a small, yet unmistakable promise of value. “This. Should cover the rest.”
Betty’s eyes narrow as she snatches the ring from my fingers. She inspects it closely, twisting it in the fading light, her lips twitching in what might be approval.
“Well, well. Privateer’s gold, is it? Bold move, lass. Might just fetch you a fair trade.”
I stand taller, feeling the weight of her words. “Enough for the compass?”
Her gaze sharpens at the mention of the compass, her lips curling into a tight smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
“Ah, now we’re getting to the real business,” she says, flipping the ring between her fingers with a practiced ease. “That same old compass, eh? Still haven’t given up?”
I smirk, even though my insides twist like the knot in my gut. “You know me, Betty. Not really a quitter.”
“Aye, that you ain’t. Forever chasing power, just like your old man.”
My jaw clenches. I am nothing like Silverbeard. Still, for the trade’s sake, I keep quiet about it.
