That bite in her voice says it all. She’s even more rattled than I thought.
Vinicola clamps his mouth shut, eyes wide, but Gypsy’s already huffing and turning back, swinging her dagger at thin air like she’s not half-starved and dehydrated woman in a dangerous jungle. I’d laugh if it wasn’t so damn tragic. But let’s be real—threats don’t keep the bard quiet. I’ve told him I’d slit his throat before, and here he is, still not getting the hint.
“I’m just saying…” he mutters. “The chances of something watching us is pretty damn high right now. They seeus, and we don’t seethem.”
“For fuck’s sake,” Gypsy grumbles, swiping at another low-hanging branch.
“Eyes and ears,” Vinicola adds with a shiver. “And probablynoses. Lots of noses.”
I decide to step in before Gypsy does something she’ll regret. “Alright, that’s enough. Just keep moving.”
Somehow, that does it. First time in a while, he shuts up, letting us walk in silence.
The jungle closes in around us, the trees and undergrowth thickening like a vice. The air is stifling, almost suffocating, and I can see beads of sweat trickling down Gypsy’s temples. Vinicola’s panting like a mutt in heat, hair plastered to his forehead.
I knew the foliage would be dense the moment we dropped anchor, but I didn’t expect it to be this wild. The island’s not exactly massive—could barely fit three villages if anyone bothered to live here—but the life it holds thrives like it’s hell-bent on spooking us all. Even me. There’s this nagging sense of danger creeping through the air, like it’s whispering to me: one wrong step, and it’s game over.
I don’t know how long I stay locked in that feeling, but I focus on every little sound, making sure Gypsy’s taking the right steps. You’d think I’d be leading the way, but sometimes the back’s the most dangerous spot. In this chaotic little formation we’ve got, it’s safer to keep an eye on what’s lurking behind us, waiting to pounce.
We’ve got no clue what might be living here.
The silence stretches only a couple more minutes before it’s shattered again.
“At times like these, I can’t help but picture my mother’s face,” Vinicola mutters, breaking the tension. “I can almost hear her laughing at me, saying, ‘Vinny, I told you not to follow in your father’s footsteps. Now look at what happened because you didn’t listen.’”
I don’t bother digging into his words—honestly, I couldn’t care less. But Gypsy apparently finds it intriguing. Even in this sour mood of hers, she’s interested.
It’s…strange.
“Oh yeah?” She doesn’t slow down, still hacking through the jungle like it’s her personal punching bag.
Vinicola jumps at the chance to keep talking, obviously grateful to elaborate. “Yup. She always had this look on her face, like she knew I was destined for trouble.” There’s a pause, then he adds, his tone dropping to something softer, “she didn’t want me to go.”
There’s something in his voice that pricks at me—pain. I know that sound. As much as I’d hate to admit it, it hits somewhere close. I glance at him, despite myself.
Normally, the guy’s all grins and rambling, like he doesn’t know when to shut up. But now? There’s something else there. Something raw.
“Then why did you?” I hear myself asking before I can stop.
He doesn’t reply straight away. He just chuckles for a short while, instead, the sound nervous and baffled and also regretful.
He chuckles, and it’s that kind of laugh that’s more nervous than amused. “Saw my father twice in my life,” he says. “Once when he came back from the sea with his privateer pals, took half the wine we’d made, said he’d sell it. The second time? When I came here looking for him after ten years of nothing.”
Gypsy clicks her tongue. “Give a man some booze, and he’ll strip himself clean of morals.”
“Aye,” I mutter, still watching him.
Vinicola hums, nodding. “He told me stories of these seas, you know? Said it was a place where the sun barely touched the ground, where people could really be happy. I figured he’d come here.”
“Did you find him?” I ask, surprising myself again. Maybe it’s curiosity. Maybe it’s something else. As a man with no father, it’s hard to tell if I should envy or pity him.
Most days, I don’t even bother thinking about who my father was—or is. Doesn’t matter. My mother needed coin more than a son, so she sold me off to Roche. And maybe that was for the best. At least I got a real example of what a man’s supposed to be, even if he’s a pirate.
Still, the idea of blood ties grabs me sometimes, like a leech that won’t let go. What’s it like, having a mother who actually gives a damn? Someone who’d lose sleep because you’re gone too long. I’ve never had that.
Soft lives make soft men, I suppose. Maybe that’s why Vinicola turned out the way he did. But the thing is… he had something most of us don’t get.
Genuine love. That much is clear.
