Her boots clicked on the cobblestones as she came down the main street. She was used to Myrian ports, not ones in the Cobalts. She was obviously Myrian, and people loved to stare at Myrians. That, and the crest of the Avourienne was clear on her chest.

So she didn't plan this quite right. She couldn't wear this shirt, and she couldn't get into the event unless she was wearing something proper. Okay, so she'd improvise.

She didn't know this port, but it wasn't hard to find the General's building. It was massive, and everything in the town was centered around it. If the King was somewhere in this port, it would be in there. Upon finding the entrance, she took a step back and formed a plan. No one would recognize her face—probably not even the King, so she just needed to change her clothes. She glanced down the street, where the shop owners were selling things to the passing guests. Too bad she didn't have any money.

So she'd improvise a little more. She searched the crowd, looking through the guests to find a woman her size, which proved a difficult task. Finally, she found one a few inches shorter than her, which would have to do. She wore a simple, silky black gown that would blend Novari in as best as a Myrian woman could. She pushed through the crowd, coming up behind the woman, whose face was downcast as she dragged behind her husband. The man was checking his watch, a frown on his face, and Novari doubted he'd notice his wife missing until it was too late. Slipping through the crowd with as much nonchalance as possible, Novari reached up behind the woman's ears, as if she were just adjusting a friend's hair. When she pressed her fingers into that soft area of skin, the woman went limp, leaving Novari to take her weight and shuffle her into the nearest alleyway. When she looked back, no one even seemed to notice, the husband included.

Settling the woman down against the stone, Novari tried to find the best way to do this. Luckily, the woman was wearing a slip under, which kept her modesty as Novari took her gown off. After buttoning the dress up as well as she could without help, Novari put her crew shirt and pants on the woman. She wouldn't remember, but if she were wealthy enough to attend a sponsor event like this, someone would look for her.

Novari smoothed out the gown. It was tight over her hips and there was a bit of extra material on the waist, but it worked just fine. She spun around, catching her reflection in the closed shop's window, dark hair cascading over the thick straps of the dress. She really was far too pretty to be wearing men's clothes so often. Running her fingers through her hair, she twisted back the sections in front of her face so she could fight her way out of something if she needed to. Her boots had enough heel to show out from under the dress, so she kicked them off and left them in the alleyway. Barefoot, she came back out to the street, where the night was getting even darker.

Stealing a glance behind her, she caught sight of a man taller than the rest, but she spun back around before he could see her. Miller was dressed in an ethereal white getup, which should've been Novari's. Picking up the skirt of her gown and gently pushing her way through the crowd, she ducked as she made her way to the front of the line. She had to beat them in at the very least. When a man huffed at her cutting his position, she just gave him a quick glance, and he let her by.

She glanced back one more time, but her gaze snapped forward when she caught Bardarian's eye. Had he seen her? She was a little hard to miss. Trying to balance hiding her feet and not tripping on her skirt, she padded up the stairs as quick as she could without looking rushed, warm air smooth on her bare collarbones. Golden light spilled from the entranceway, glinting off the marble steps. She reached the platform, cutting in front of another man who didn't protest as she slipped by.

When the man at the door saw her, he lowered his chin, then his eyes. "My, my," he said. "You're quite the looker."

Novari ignored his hand, waiting outstretched for her invitation. "My, my, love," she said back. "What would my husband think of you?"

The guard grinned, nodding towards his hand, still waiting for her invitation. "Don't see him 'round here."

Novari sighed, offering him a wishful look. "We came through just a few minutes ago," she explained. "But I'd forgotten the wear the gift he just bought for me." She touched a pearl necklace her mother had handed down to her. "He sent me back out to fetch it."

The guard's eyes narrowed, but just a little. He hummed, eyes flickering down the steps. "Come now," he said. "I'd remember if you came through before."

"He's a very large man," Novari replied. "Covers me right up, I'm afraid."

The guard opened his mouth to disagree, but someone placed a heavy hand on Novari's shoulder, silencing him.

She tilted her chin back just a little to see Bardarian, stepping onto the platform. He looked calm and relaxed in his sharp suit, but one glance—even if it were only a fraction of a second—told her he was furious.

"See?" she told the guard, patting Bardarian a few times on the chest. "Like a pebble behind a boulder." There was no way he'd blow her cover now; he'd probably left Miller on the street in favour of controlling his rogue deckhand.

Not many people knew what Bardarian looked like, especially if there was no famous ship near or telling uniform on him, but the guard still swallowed. Did he recognize Bardarian somehow, or was he just freaked out he'd been cozying up to a very large man's supposed wife?

"Excuse us," Bardarian said, stepping around the guard, offering no further explanation. He dug his fingers into the side of Novari's waist as they walked through the entranceway.

As soon as they passed under the archway, Novari broke away from him with as much finesse as possible. "Sorry—" She ducked away from him as he reached for her. "Sorry!" she spun out of his reach. As she slipped away from him, she called, "I'll be back on the ship before you!"

"Silta." He tried to catch up to her without making more of a scene than they already had. "Come here," he hissed.

Novari turned away, into the ballroom. Guests swarmed around her, so she used them to move as quickly as possible away from him. Oh, this was exciting. Novari Silta, brought in to this extravagant event on invitation by Captain Bardarian. One point Novari, zero Miller.

She felt the graze of his fingers on the back of her neck, so she ducked again, trying to get out of the main area so she could slip around a corner and find the King. She turned right, finding a less busy hallway. The sound of his footsteps tapped behind her.

"If you don't stop now, Novari—"

She took a quick right, trying to lose him. She took another turn, and she ended up back in the same hallway, mind spinning. It wasn't like her to get so easily lost. She whirled around, bumping into something hard. She glanced up, ducking away from him yet again, but he held to her wrist this time, wrenching her back.

"Bad shoulder bad shoulder!" Novari complained, prying off his fingers.

He didn't give, just brought her closer to whisper and draw less attention, "I was clear, Novari. I was so clear. No. That's what I said.

"You weren't listening," she insisted, trying to get out of his grip. "I just want to see my father—isn't that owed to me?"

"Nothing is owed to you," he replied, pulling her out of the way of a passing couple. "And you don't want to see your father; you want to kill him."

She tried peeling off his fingers one by one, but he just readjusted and held tighter. "I can't have this, stunner. I cannot have you blatantly disregarding orders because you don't agree with them."

The telltale sound of soldier's drill came through the hallway, and a procession appeared a moment later. Novari tried to see if it was him, but Bardarian spun her around so she couldn't get a visual, holding tight to her wrist with his hand. He placed his other firmly on her hip, guiding her around the corner.

"Is that him?" she asked, trying to see around Bardarian, who blocked her view.

"I can't have this—" He cut off when he saw her expression, cerulean eyes so serious. "You think this is funny?"

She shrugged, trying to roll off his hand. She felt herself again, felt the stars aligning once his attention was all hers again. "Not at all," she replied. She gestured to his suit. "Look," she said. "We match. I didn't even know what you were going to wear, I swear."

"This is serious," he told her. "This is bad for you."

"Very serious," she agreed, "and very bad." She finally twisted out of his grip, intent on following that procession. She knew her father was behind that. He had to be. "Listen," she said as she backed away, out of his reach again. "I just have to go kill someone, and then I'll be right back. I promise."

He was still trying to get her back, still calling after her, but she was long gone, following the sounds of those soldiers. She twisted down the hallways, feeling her ears prick as she honed in her hearing to the click of the boots. She came up behind them after a few turns, marching someone to the ballroom.

Not just someone. The King.

She knew it from the incredibly decorated soldiers around him, from the surety in the hallway. From the obsidian black hair that covered the back of his head. Her hair.

She glanced behind her one more time to ensure she'd lost Bardarian, then silently caught up to them. Four men, each on a corner of the King, no one to watch their backs. It was all just a show, of course. No one would attack in a royal building. No one had the nerve.

She took out the back left one silently, using what was becoming her signature retrograde knockout. She jerked him back and let him fall to the ground, then moved on to the second. She helped him down to avoid the noise. She was so close to the back of her father that she could smell him—the soap of his clothes, the wealth leaking from him.

Novari pulled out two knives. She'd have to do this quietly and silently. Her bare feet made no sound on the ground as she raised her right hand, her good arm. She aimed.

The knife hit the back of the guard's neck, and he fell to the ground. The King ducked immediately, shuffling back. The other guard turned and grabbed his pistol, cocking it just before Novari tossed the other knife.

The King stumbled back, looking so weak as he reached for the gun of the dead guard. Novari put her foot on it, kicking at out of his grip.

"It really shouldn't be so easy to gain an audience with such a powerful man," she noted, flexing her fingers.

"Who the hell are you?" he snarled, drawing the longknife at his belt. Ceremonial, but still sharp. To her knowledge, her father had been an experienced soldier in his father's army before he took over the throne.

Novari slid her foot to the body of the dead guard, pulling up the knife and catching it in the air. "Guess," she said.

He took another step back, eyes sliding from her face to her body. How odd that he looked so different from her—his round eyes, his papery white skin—and yet so similar. She had the hips and shoulders Sirens didn't have, the incredibly dark hair, the sharp canines.

His voice turned borderline amused. "Oh," he mused. "You're mine."

"Your assassins are out of practice," she told him.

"She's gone, isn't she?" he offered, taking one more step back. There was no fear in his eyes, but there was caution. He was no believers of fairytales, but he did listen to his gut, and she knew that told him to get out of this without a fight.

"That she is," Novari replied. She took another step forward, picking up the second knife from the dead guard. How peculiar that under all his forces, all his posturing and tyranny, he was just a man, just as easy to kill as any other. She tilted her chin down, pointed to him with a knife. "And you're going with her."

He raised his longknife, but he wasn't ready to use it. He took another step back. "My son is thirteen," he said. "You'll leave this kingdom in anarchy, Vida."

Vida. Novari took another step. My legacy. That was the direct translation of the archaic Siren word, but over the years it had taken a turn in meaning. These days, it came closer to my last creation, or something that would soon be the death of you.

"It's as much my throne as it is his," she offered.

He lifted his chin. "You know nothing of this world, Vida. Nothing of war, of leading."

"The people would say you haven't a clue, either," she replied.

"The people don't know what's best for them," he said back. "You are no leader, not of a nation. You've the heart of a Siren, the temperament of your mother."

"You act as if she raised me wrong," Novari said. "As if raising me wrong is worse than never raising me at all."

And for a moment, she saw his jaw tic. For a moment, she felt him see her as more than a deadly creation; she felt him see her as talent he'd almost rid the world of. She felt him see her as a daughter, as a legacy his son didn't have the cold heart for.

Novari snatched her opportunity. "Can I tell you something?" she asked, drawing closer. "About me?" When he didn't reply, she continued, "I'm crafted for combat by some higher power, according to one of my friends. I have all these heightened senses, and yet none of that compares to this." She tapped the side of her head. "That's from you, isn't it?"

He took a step back, gauging her movement carefully.

"I'm nothing if not your daughter," she said, "even if you had no hand in raising me." She tilted her head, watched his face. "Imagine if you did. Imagine if you'd been the parent to teach me how to live in this world. I'd have grown up with the power; I'd have grown into the throne far more than whatever measly son you've made with whatever common woman you call your wife." She felt her eyes narrow a little, felt her jaw tighten. "I feel wronged by you. I feel betrayed by my own rules—the ones that have cornered me into the arms of some abusive bastard over safety. I blame it all on you, because at least my mother was there. At least she did her best." She searched his face, found what she wanted to find: good old-fashioned regret. "Your biggest mistake was refusing to make use of me," she whispered. "I would've been your pride and joy."

He stepped back, almost at the end of the hallway. "Perhaps you're right," he told her. "But there's no use to make of you now. You have your own motivations, your own desires. You're no longer something I can shape in the way I want. In the way this world needs."

Novari cleaned the knife on her gown as he backed into the wall. She spun one, getting ready. She'd kill him before he could have any more of a realization.

"What pleases you?" he wondered, kicking into self-preservation. "Money? A ship?"

Novari took one last step, kicking the longknife from his hand. It clattered to the floor, sliding all the way to the wall. All the sudden, the King lost his calm demeaner. She watched it melt away as he raised his eyes over her shoulder, feeling it was his end.

Novari felt her brows pull in as she realized he wasn't cowering in fear of her; he was looking down the hallway, at something behind her.

"Don't you dare kill him," Bardarian snapped, jogging down the hallway. He spoke to Novari's father, "I'm so sorry, that's mine, and I usually have control of mine, but you know women they just"—he reached Novari and started to wrestle the knives out of her hands—"don't listen when you need them to."

She let him toss the knives to the floor, still unbelievably upset that the King had been terrified of Bardarian, not her.

The King's jaw was tight, his eyes snapping, looking for reinforcements. "Yours," he repeated.

"Mine," the Captain replied. He waved his hand. "Deals and such. Look, you two have an excellent way of communicating, but I didn't see much getting done here, so I thought I'd step in. She doesn't need your money, and she doesn't need your ships, because I already have those things. Do you understand my point, Joe?"

The muscle under the King's eye twisted. "I think you say you're bringing my daughter into our war."

"In my defense, it really was just coincidence—but look, we worked well together, us. Me, stealing from you, and you, raging war on pirates without ever actually doing much about it. Come on, Joe, that wasn't war at all. That was a game." He shook his head and pulled Novari back a little more, as if he was worried she might reach out and choke her father to death. "But now the little game is up, I've taken your messy offspring on board, and obviously that's war, right?"

There were sounds down the hallway, men coming to see why the procession hadn't arrived.

Bardarian glanced behind him, pulling the pistol from his belt. He brought the barrel to the King's head, but he didn't flinch.

"That's war," Bardarian declared. "I'll burn every ship of yours I see, Joe. I'll tie the captains to the mast, let them be the new pirate flag. Nothing of yours will be safe at night, not with me lurking out there in the dark." He tapped the barrel against the King's forehead. "That's war," he said again, then took the barrel away.

"You'll never make it out of here," King Kain breathed.

"I'll walk right by your guards on the way out just as I did the way in. You should probably make a sketch of me or something to avoid that next time, no?" He gestured for Novari. "Come, Silta."

Novari stepped away from her father. Perhaps it was better to leave him to this fate, to let him suffer through his reign rather than ending it prematurely. She jogged after Bardarian, who put his pistol back under his jacket. Guards came around the corner, ignoring them as they fled by to deal with some pesky traitors somewhere in this building.

Bardarian put a hand on her waist to guide her to the exit. "You see this grey hair?" he asked, tilting his chin down so she could see the top of his head. "I'm naming it after you."

"You declared war today," Novari pointed out. "You've got bigger problems than me."

He glanced at her. "Not really. I have an invisible ship and the Champion of the Sea. I'd say I'm looking rather good."

Novari glanced up at him. At his dark eyes and his dark hair and his perfect nose. That title of hers, from his lips. "Did you eavesdrop our entire conversation?" she wondered.

He didn't look down again as he walked. "I heard what you said about Adrian, if that's what you're not-so-cleverly insinuating. Abusive bastard is one of your nicer insults, and if I'm the safety you spoke of, it's just all the more confusing. You and your abusive bastard seem quite in love to me."

"You know I want out," Novari snapped, turning to face him. He had to.

"My door is never locked, stunner," he said.

She shook her head. "It's not that simple." I'll kill you, doll. What would he do if she left him for Bardarian? What would her mother think of that kind of rule disobedience?

"Of course it is," he replied. "Open the door. Leave your coat on the hook."

"That's not what I want," she insisted, but of course it was. She wanted to feel at home again, feel safe somewhere, and her door didn't lock—but his did.

"I know what you want, Novari," he told her, causing her gaze to snap over. "You know what I want. Your rules are chains."

And they were, but they were also her safety net. They were her pride, her ego. She pulled on his arm, made him stop walking. Guards raced by them, hearing that there was a commotion somewhere.

"You pulled away," she hissed. "In your room—"

"You know why I pulled away," he replied, so calm, so put together.

"I don't," she insisted.

"So you're not that clever," he noted, and that caused her shock. "I won't be your twisted version of a rebound," he said. "That's why I pulled away." He reached out for her chin as he started to walk again. "Close your mouth, darling. You look like a fish."

Novari laughed, feeling it bubble up without her control. Everything was so simple to him, so easy. If he wanted something, he let it be known that was what he wanted, no pride or ego to get in his way. There was something refreshing about it, something very freeing.

He glanced at her as her laugh stumbled out.

"You're meant to be a theoretical," she declared, because there was a rule about this kind of thing, and the more she wanted him, the closer she came to breaking it.

"There's a phrase Sirens say, isn't there?" he asked. "A reason not to keep things a theoretical?"

Novari glanced at him. It was an older one, from the same antient language as Vida. "Halleveire monere?" she asked.

He snapped hisfingers. "That's the one."