“Excuse me?” I say, raising an eyebrow, my voice low, controlled. But my breathing quickens despite myself.
“Oh no,” Vini says, his voice steady but full of defiance. “You’re not leaving me here. I disagree.”
“You disagree?” I echo, the shock slipping through my usual defenses.
“You do?” Zayan cuts in, just as surprised as I am.
I’m offering Vinicola an easy way out. Sure, I’ve invited danger into my life for as long as I can remember, but that was alwaysmychoice. Not anyone else’s. I’ve often thought about what makes a captain to be a good one. What makes people respect one. Fear is always a constant, yes. But there is also something else, something that people don’t really talk about. It’s a factor appearing in crucial moments, those that don’t require keeping the crew in line, those that are real. Those that are all or nothing.
This is a moment like this. And this is when a good captain should give its crew a currency that matters the most in our world. Freedom.
I respect Vinicola. He’s different than me. We probably don’t agree on many things. But I’m willing to give him that which I value the most—the freedom to leave this place untouched, without his blood spilled.
Yet Vini looks at me like I’ve just insulted him. He scoffs, pinching the bridge of his nose, taking a deep breath. His frustration rolls off him in waves.
“I sail with pirates, do I not?” he asks, echoing the very words he used when I first asked him to paint the flag. Back then, there was wonder in his voice. Now? Now there’s nothing but… anger.
I stare at him, trying to process this. “This isn’t just your typical adventure, Vini,” I choke out, my throat tight. “This place might be cursed. As in…reallycursed.”
“I sail with pirates, do I not?” he repeats, his gaze burning with a fierceness that catches me off guard. It stuns me. Breaks something inside me that I wasn’t ready to face.
“Yes, you do,” I finally admit.
“Then treat me like part of the crew.”
His words hit me harder than they should. It’s a simple request, really, but it’s more than that. It reminds me of when I asked Silverbeard for the same thing. It shows me his spirit, his defiance. Something in me softens against my will.
“But you’re scared,” I say, noting the tremble in his hands even from where I stand. He doesn’t want to be here—no sane person would.
“Of course I’m scared!” he squeals, his voice cracking just a little. “Did you see that thing?” He points at the wreck, shaking his head. “Anyone would be. Aren’t you scared, Miss Captain? Tell me the truth. Are you really not?”
I want to say no. I want to tell him I’ve got this, that nothing rattles me. But the truth catches in my throat. Zayan glances at me, that smirk creeping onto his lips, because he knows it too. I’m scared. We all are.
“You got me there,” I mutter. “So?”
“My mother always said that feeling fear is nothing bad. Being its slave is.”
Again, my soul gets pierced. For a moment, I can’t even pretend they don’t affect me. Tears prick at the corners of my eyes, uninvited, unwelcome.
Damn it, Gypsy, get it together.
“You should introduce us to your mother one day,” I say, trying to deflect. “She really does sound like a vineyard of wisdom.”
Vini’s expression softens, just a little, and a fleeting smile crosses his face. “She’d like that,” he says quietly. “Maybe after we finish with this compass business.”
I crack a smile. “So you don’t want to back away?”
“I’m a free soul, Miss Captain, just like you. I don’t want to back away.”
I take a deep breath, steadying myself, and nod. How can I really argue with that?
“Alright then,” I say. “We go together, then. No one gets left behind.”
Zayan grins, already convinced. He fiddles with his gun, his expression practically screaming,I’m glad I didn’t shoot this guy after all.
We gather our supplies—what little we have left. Not enough to make me feel prepared, but just enough to keep us from being completely defenseless. I strap my gun to my belt, the last line of defense, and I can’t help but give it a quick once-over. It’s seen better days. Just like me. Zayan mirrors the action, checking his gun with that casual confidence of his, like we aren’t about to wade into a death trap.
I hand him his dagger back, fully expecting him to pocket it, but instead, he surprises me. He presses the handle into Vinicola’s trembling hand.
