“Raise anchor!” he shouts, now standing at the helm. He grips the wheel with one hand, the wind catching in his dark hair as he looks out across the open water.
The Noctis groans as the anchor is raised, and soon after, the sails catch wind.
“Set course,” he orders. "We sail for the islands!”
The hull turns and leaves the harbor of Cantora, just in time. The docks have filled with men in red, their muskets raised. While some shoot, some shout orders that scatter uselessly across the open water.
They don’t even see me lurking out of the water, just below their feet. Before going under, I glance towards the helm again.
Sable stands there, his posture relaxed, his gaze moving across the gathered guards.
Then his mouth curves.
He removes his hand from the wheel and brings it slowly to his chest, before extending outward in a smooth, exaggerated sweep. At the same time, he inclines his head toward them in a shallow bow. The gesture is graceful and mocking all at once. Sable Crowe, Captain of the Noctis. In all his sarcastic glory.
The wind catches his coat as he straightens, and even from the water, the satisfied smile that settles on his face is visible. It is the last thing I see before I go under and follow the dark hullof the ship. Cantora, with all its ropes and slimy eels, becomes nothing more than a shadow dissolving in the distance as I cut through the water.
My tail moves in smooth, instinctive sweeps, each movement becoming easier than the last. Water slips through the slits at the side of my throat and moves through me in a way air never could, its salt sinking into the center of my being.
My mother was right.
Eventually, I learned how to breathe like a daughter of the sea.
Epilogue
Sable
Thesandshiftsundermy boots as I make my way across the narrow stretch of beach, the waves folding over themselves in a familiar rhythm, two screaming seagullsfollowing me along the way. It feels good, not having to worry about the sea calling me to my wet grave anymore. Not feeling like a lost cause anymore. Instead, the sea has become something that exists alongside me, or maybe within me, but not in the way it had before. Now, I am free to roam the pirate islands without questioning how long I might be able to stay.
And it feels good to be home.
Sharp, jagged rocks rise along the shoreline, like a row of broken teeth pushing up from the earth. I pass them without slowing, though my gaze flicks toward them out of habit, just as it drifts over my shoulder a moment later, searching for something that is no longer separate from my body. My shadow stretches behind me, bound to my steps in a way that still feels new to me. It does not flicker, does not pull away.
It simply is there.
A quiet breath leaves me, something close to a laugh of disbelief. I had forgotten what it feels like to exist without that constant fracture in me, without the sense that part of me is slipping away, just beyond reach. With the burning, agonizing return of my shadow came the memories. Suddenly, I could remember giving Eryse the emerald gown. That I watched her sleep in her hammock in the orlop. How shamelessly I flirted with her, even though she was technically my captive. My shadow didn’t really care; all it wanted was to impress the pretty siren. It all came back to me, the good things and the bad. The bad things hurt way more.
I push them to the side, the memory of her threading through it all with ease. The way she looked at me when she didn’t think I was looking. The way she laid a hand on my back out on that balcony, when I wasn’t myself. The way she chose me, again and again, even when I told her to give me up.
She always saw right through the torment, saw the man behind the curse.
My steps slow as the docks come into view. Beyond them, the Noctis rests in the dark water, her hull swallowing what little light breaks through the low clouds above, her black, torn sails drawn tight, waiting for their next adventure.
She is still magnificent, even though the hunter bastards shot about a dozen holes in her hull. A faint smirk tugs at my mouth as I take her in, the way she sits slightly heavier on one side from the repairs that have been made. I’m sure if Saint had fixed her, she’d be perfectly even. He was the best carpenter I could have ever wished for. The thought of him pulls tight in my chest, the loss as present as it was the day he died.
I step onto the pier, the wood creaking beneath my weight, my gaze already drifting toward the helm. Lark, barely reaching over the wheel, stands there with all the confidence of someone twice his size, a hat far too large for him tilted slightly over his eyes.
My hat.
I pause for a moment, watching him, the way he grips the wheel as if he has full intentions to steer her elsewhere. I step onto the slanted gangplank and make my way aboard. By the time I reach the deck, he has already noticed me. His posture stiffens for a fraction before he straightens, as if preparing himself for a lecture.
“Sailor,” I say, my voice carrying just enough to reach him without raising it. “Where did you get that hat?”
His chin lifts, almost defiant, though the way his fingers curl slightly against the wheel gives his true nervousness away.
“A lady gifted it to me,” he says.
Of course she did.
