I refuse to believe that.
So, I don’t care what this storm looks like, even if it’s the wildest, fiercest thing I’ve ever faced. I don’t care that we’re riding a ragged little schooner, barely holding together, with a warship breathing down our necks. None of it matters.
It’s all just coincidence. It has to be.Coincidence.
“If I hadn’t told Silverbeard about the compass, you would’ve sneaked it on board,” Zayan presses, his voice sharp. “This storm would’ve hit you and your crew. You might be reckless, but you’d never risk their lives on purpose. And I know you don’t believe in the tales, but look around! Does any of this seem normal to you?!”
“The compass is just a trinket,” I snap, though my heart’s racing faster than I can manage. I know my voice sounds thin, unconvincing. Even to me.
“For fuck’s sake, Gypsy! How long are you gonna say the same goddamn thing?” His eyebrows knit together, the frustration in his voice making something in me twist. “You think the sea just decided to go mad out of nowhere? This storm—it’s drawn to the compass, and you know it!”
The ship lurches violently, a massive wave crashing over the deck and drenching everything in its path. My hands grip the wheel so hard my knuckles burn.
But it’s not just us fighting for survival. A scream rips through the storm—high, sharp, and too melodic to belong to one of the drunken merchants on the privateer ship.
Vinicola.
Zayan’s eyes meet mine, and in that split second, we both know. Vinicola went below deck, right where the water’s probably rushing in.
“Shit!” I curse under my breath, my gaze darting toward the hatch where Vinicola disappeared moments ago. A mixture of dread and fury grips me—if the ship’s taking on water, we’re in more trouble than I thought.
Zayan’s already moving before I can order him, the sharp clink of his boots on the wet wood barely audible over the storm. He heads straight for the hatch, yanking it open with a force that sends the hinges groaning. For a split second, he looks back at me, his expression unreadable but his eyes hard, like he’s daring me to stop him.
But I don’t. Not now. Not with Vinicola below deck, screaming like the world’s about to swallow him whole.
Damn fool. I’ve grown to like him.
“I’ll get him,” Zayan barks through the noise. For once, there’s only raw urgency in his tone. He disappears below deck, leaving me alone with the storm and the chaos around me.
Control? Right now, I don’t have a damn shred of it.
Another wave slams into the ship, nearly knocking me off my feet. I steady myself, jamming my boot hard against the deck, blinking against the salt spray and the rain. Through the sheets of water, I catch sight of the privateer ship again. Battered but holding strong, their hull a stubborn wreck that refuses to sink, even with the flames we sent tearing through them. They’re closing in again, like death on the wind, and I’ve got no idea what it’ll take to break them faster than this storm can break us.
I glance back at the hatch, half-expecting Zayan and Vinicola to emerge, but there’s no sign of them. The silence stretches, gnawing at my nerves. It must be hell down there, items flying and sliding, water gaining…
Fuck.
Suddenly, the hatch slams open, and Zayan hauls Vinicola up onto the deck, soaked and sputtering but alive.
“Water’s coming in fast,” Zayan shouts. “We need to start bailing or we’re going under.”
Vinicola, pale as a ghost, nods weakly. His eyes are wide, frantic, and I can tell he’s barely holding it together.
“Miss Captain,” he stammers, his voice thin. “I-I don’t know how long we can—“
“Shut up and grab a bucket,” I snap, cutting him off. “Both of you.”
Zayan’s already moving before I finish speaking, grabbing the nearest bucket and shoving it into Vinicola’s trembling hands. “You heard her, bard. Bail or drown.”
Vinicola nods, his fingers shaking as he grips the bucket like it’s a lifeline. I can see the panic etched on his face, but there’s nothing I could even think of to tell him. We’re running out of options.
The waves are higher, angrier, and the schooner’s groaning under the weight of it. Every gust of wind feels like it’s dragging us deeper into the abyss, and the privateers are still closing in.
I brace myself against the rail, heart pounding as I slip my hand into my pocket. My fingers brush against the cold metal of the compass, and for just a second, it catches the light—just a flicker in the dark.
Could something so small really be cursed? Could this little piece of gold be the reason we’re neck-deep in this shitstorm?
Fuck.
