Vallin knew the direct translation of Halleveire monere, but it didn't mean much else to him at that point; he only kept the note to ensure his sanity, because it was written by her, in her writing, and it proved she'd once been here. She had not been something he dreamed up. She had once said the words I love you with what seemed like true honestly. She used to live on his ship, used to sleep next to him. She was not something he'd made up, and the note proved it. He was not insane.

Maybe he noticed the looks Bates began to give. Maybe he noticed the stares when he went to the common room to retrieve another bottle. Maybe he noticed, maybe he didn't.

One thing he did notice was the smell of salt on his pillows no matter how many times he washed them. He noticed the world pull away from him slowly, like it was foggy at the edges, so unclear and disproportionate. He liked it better that way.

In fact, there was nothing a little rum couldn't fix.

*

"Silta for angel's sake, wake up."

Novari jarred awake, her head spinning. She knocked her forehead into Slint's, worsening her headache.

"Oh, that's a great spot, thank you for that, Captain," Novari said, touching her forehead.

"We're in port, Silta. And you've slept in. All day. I thought you were talking to the contacts. I thought you were off the ship. Then I come back, and you're passed the fuck out in your room."

Novari smiled, rolling over to face him as her memory returned. "Oh, but you're wrong," she told him. "I woke up before sunrise today, discussed plans with both our contacts, organized our shipments—and then I went back to sleep."

Slint glanced down at her as he pulled open the curtains. It was almost dark outside. "Did you?"

"A high-functioning alcoholic, as said by you."

"I stand by it."

"Go on, Jon, tell me to get my shit together. Tell me you need me to step up. Tell me you can't deal with the alcoholism anymore. Give it to me."

"What you do personally is not my business."

"Oh, but you'd love it to be."

Slint turned around sharply, snatching her forearm and forcing her to look him in the eye. "Don't flirt with me, woman," he snapped.

"First of all, Jon, it's my personality. I flirt with Brynn, too—you're not special. And second, when you act like that, it kind of does make me want you."

Slint dropped her arm quickly. "Get up. We're going into port."

"For drinks?"

"I'll buy you one if you promise to not drink it."

Novari titled her head. She furrowed her brows. "But—"

"Get up, Silta. If you're not bonding with the crew in port, everyone will know there's distrust between my first mate and my crew. It's mandatory."

"Fine, Jon. I'll humour you."

Slint tossed her clothes from her dresser and spun around while Novari changed out of the ones she'd slept in. When Novari went to speak again, he held up his hand.

"No more calling me Jon."

"Liking that a little too much?"

"Don't. I've made myself very clear."

"It's you or Skinner. Take a hit for the boy."

"This is not a joke."

Novari searched his expression. "Fine." He was too serious to be fun, anyway.

Slint tried various methods to turn her to sobriety as they walked into port, the sun sinking below the horizon. Novari refused all his offers and counteroffers. She glanced back at the port, where the Starling was floating. Beside it, the black sky shimmered.

Novari looked around. She stopped. Slint paused to look at her. "What?" he asked.

Novari looked back at the shimmer. It was gone, but it had been there. Dread ran through her veins. "I want to go back to the ship," she insisted.

"What?"

"Let's go. Where's the crew?"

"They're at the pub already, Silta," Slint insisted. "What's going on?"

Novari glanced down the street, where a yell erupted.

"Silta."

"I think the Avourienne is here," she said quietly, as if any louder would make it real.

Slint glanced back at the port. "I don't see—" He pursed his lips, then tugged at her. "Move. They'll kill our crew."

Novari let herself be pulled along the street. The yells got worse, the sounds of conflict coming to life. Slint threw open the pub door, and Novari came pushing through after.

Everything was complete chaos. Brynn was being tossed against a wall, and Sheer was bleeding badly from her nose. Novari didn't care about them; she looked for him. She just needed to see him.

"Slint!"

They both turned. Novari felt herself freeze.

"Look, I know this looks bad," Bardarian drawled, making a gesture with his hand and spilling rum over the side of his mug. "But to be fair, yours did start it."

Slint shouldered Bardarian's arm away and gritted his teeth, ducking to attack his stomach—because that was Slint, acting without reason, without planning.

He was drunk out of his mind, but Bardarian still avoided the hit with a single sidestep. He watched Slint go crashing into the counter behind him, then glanced at Novari.

"You look familiar," he said, pointing a thick finger at her. "I think you're pretty, but I'm not entirely sure. Can't see all that well at the moment. Hold on—no. You look familiar." He took a step forward, let out a little snort of laughter. "Have I been with you before?"

Novari stayed frozen, because this was not who she remembered. This drunk, stumbling man was not Bardarian. Not with his hair so long it touched his shoulders, his face unshaved for weeks and his shirt stained with liquor. Unpresentable, unkempt. This was not Bardarian.

A knife whizzed by his head, and Novari caught it before it wedged into the wall.

"That's impressive," he noted, still oblivious.

Novari took a slow step forward, watching his eyes. She found them to be a deep cobalt, but she wasn't sure if they'd always been that way. She let out a long, strained breath.

Bardarian blinked a few times, then his face turned drastically to serious. Then, with more anger than she'd anticipated, he spoke, "It's you."

It was all the power she ever wanted, watching some big man with an even bigger reputation melt away into nothing for her. She thought it'd feel like satisfaction, but it didn't feel like anything.

"I can't tell if it's real, you know," he said, frowning as he inspected her face with his eyes. "I see you all the time, but it's always just the rum."

"It's not the rum," Novari replied. She wanted to reach out and touch him. To take a pair of scissors to him and see the man that she remembered.

He blinked once, as if resetting. Then, in the most bland, unemotional way possible, he said, "You left me."

It made her sinuses sting, that simple declaration. She opened her mouth, but she hadn't formed anything worth saying yet. Before she could, Slint brought down a wooden chair over Bardarian's head from behind.

He stumbled forward, into Novari, chair splintering around him. He placed a hand on her forearm as he glanced behind him, elbowing Slint in the throat, who coughed and lunged again.

His hand left her arm as he reached back to Slint, slamming him against the wall.

Novari could do nothing but watch, glancing down at the place where he'd touched her arm. It had seemed like only a method of regaining his balance, but it felt familiar to her—the same type of gesture he used to use on the Avourienne, simply because he liked having his hands on her.

Bardarian was pulling Slint into a headlock, eyes on Novari. "You can have strategist," he snarled. He was mad as he said it, outwardly furious for one of the only times in his life. "First mate, Novari. Take my hat, if that's what you want. Come back to me."

Something wrenched Novari back forcefully enough to give her neck a slight snap and make her vision blur. Whirling around and blinking stars, she felt her body slip back into motion. She swung and hit bone, then kicked and hit something. She wrapped her hands around her assailant's neck, shoving them into the wall with a crack. Her vision cleared.

"You traitor," Britter spat, his voice cracking. "You were my best friend."

Novari held tight to his neck. Her head was spinning. She pressed harder, confused. Was she supposed to kill him?

Hands wrenched her back again, and now she found herself shoving Rusher away. The navigator's expression sparkled with vengeance as he came at her again. Headache whirling, she slammed him against the corner of one of the tables, blood running down his forehead.

Britter was back, his hands on her shoulders, attempting hit after hit. Novari ducked and kneed him in the gut, spinning away to sort through the bottles at the counter. She needed liquor. Something. Anything.

Rusher was back first, his elbow finding a soft spot near Novari's neck. Frustrated, she tripped him and swung the bottle of rum into his head, shattering glass. He dropped to the floor, unconscious.

Britter didn't seem to mind. He reached for Novari's hair, jerking her forward with strength she never knew him to have.

"I trusted you," he hissed, his breath hot on her face. "I loved you like no lover of yours ever will."

Novari kicked him away, and he stumbled back into a table, knocking it over. "Get them out of here," she told him. "I'll get mine out." She didn't want to deal with his words, his emotional breakdown, his awful feelings. Her eyes caught action to her right.

"You broke him, Novari!" Britter shouted back at her. "He's not and will never be the man he was, and it's on you."

Novari saw Slint, blood draining down his face, his hair matted. He threw out hit after hit at Bardarian, but he simply didn't have the skill nor size. He threw a weak punch before he was thrown over the counter. He crashed into the bottles, glass breaking for perhaps the millionth time.

You can have strategist. First mate. Take my hat. Come back to me.

He couldn't have been telling the truth. He was drunk. He wouldn't let her have it then, and he wouldn't let her have it now. She couldn't crawl back now. Was it because it truly wasn't what she wanted? Was it because of her pride, her unreasonable, life-shattering pride? It couldn't be.

Slint stumbled back over the counter, blood covering every part of him. Everyone was sure he was going to step away, but he only came back for more—and Bardarian, barely bothered, was going to give it to him.

Novari shook her head. It wasn't her pride. He wouldn't give it to her then, and he wouldn't give it to her now.

She came from behind Bardarian, wrapped her forearms around his neck and kicked back. She crashed into the wall behind her, and he reached to her arms to breathe. She held onto the chokehold with one arm, then slipped her fingers around his pistol—the one he always kept to the left of his hip. She cocked and fired into the roof of the pub, shattering the chaos with silence.

She dropped the pistol, flicked open her knife and brought it to Bardarian's throat. He stayed unmoving, complacent. He rested his hands on her wrists but didn't bother to pull.

Quiet ensued. The Avourienne crew were deadly still, dropping whoever they'd been fighting.

Novari took a breath. His hair didn't smell like linen or wax, just rum. At first, he had felt so unfamiliar, so wrong. But like this, with his body still and his words lost in his throat, he felt like something she used to know. Like the feeling of something comforting that she'd long ago grown out of but still yearned for. His fingers didn't move, but his thumb was hooked around her palm, and to Novari it felt like it was on purpose.

Slint rolled over on the ground, spitting out blood. He caught Novari's eye for a moment.

She cleared her throat. "If you're from the Starling, get back on your ship. Now."

There was a moment of silence before they started to move. The crew of the Avourienne let them go, their gaze on Bardarian.

Novari glanced out at the crew remaining. She had nothing to say to any of them. There was betrayal in their eyes, terror and fear that she might just skip this torture and kill Bardarian once and for all. Uncertainty of the worst kind.

Bardarian's thumb slid down Novari's wrist, and she glanced down to realize he was going unconscious. She let go, and he stumbled forward, gasping for breath on his knees, just like he'd predicted in that room on Canale. He reached out to a table to steady himself, the weaker muscle in his forearm straining. Had he forgotten himself to such an extent?

Novari stepped around him. She did not look at him, not his longer hair or his thinner frame. She didn't look at his eyes or his face. He was not her to bother with anymore.

Novari leaned down and pulled Slint to his feet by his arm, blood draining from his face. He couldn't stand on his own, so she dragged him towards the door. He laughed as he stumbled, pointing out at the Avourienne crew.

"Who's the king now, you arrogant fuckers?" he shouted, blood spraying. "Who's your fucking king?"

Novari pushed him out the door and threw him as hard as she could into one of the roadside puddles. He splashed into it, laughing.

Novari left him there. Maybe he'd find his way back to the ship. Maybe he wouldn't. It didn't matter to her anymore.

Strategist. First mate. Come back to me.

He couldn't have meant it. There was no way he had known that was the real her and not some dream. There was no way he meant it.

But there was nothing a little liquor couldn't fix.

*

She wasn't sure if it were anger or frustration or heartbreak. She wasn't sure what emotion could drive her to this level of hate and self-destruction, but she hated everything. She hated Slint for going after Bardarian when he knew Novari would have to intervene if he wanted to live. She hated Britter for saying the things he said. I loved you like no lover of yours ever will.

It had been that way, hadn't it? There had never been any expectations with him, no pressure to be perfect or beautiful or anything other than what she was. Britter had been so simple to be around, someone who—for the first time in her life—understood where her mind may be going.

She felt anger creep in again. Britter should be fine. They all should be fine without her; they'd been without her before. Bardarian shouldn't have become a drunk because of this. He shouldn't have lost him. That's not her fault, it's his.

As Novari waited, she drank. One bottle, then two, then three. One more, until the world blurred in front of her. It was early to be drunk, but she didn't mind. If he were drunk, she could be drunk.

She waited for Slint, ready for a good scream. She wasn't the type to scream—she made a point of not doing it. But now, she wanted so desperately to scream at someone, something. To rip something apart with her bare hands, or maybe just her words.

Slint recognized the look on her face the moment he entered the captain's quarters. He gave her a dashing smile full of blood and crinkled his bruised eyes at her.

"You look mad."

Novari watched him move to his room, her head swirling. She was mad. But what was she supposed to do about it?

"You can't hurt me," Slint said, wiping his bloody face with a wet towel. "You can't kill me." He laughed. "I'm invincible."

Novari tilted her head, anger rising and rising. This wasn't how her life was supposed to go. She was supposed to be a queen. She was supposed to be strategist on the Avourienne, and after a few years, she was supposed to be first mate. Then she was supposed to kill Bardarian and take his fame for herself. That was how life was supposed to go.

"You're careless," Novari told him. "You act irrationally. You don't think."

Slint came out from his room and pointed at her as he passed by. "And you're still in love."

Novari blinked, for there were three Slints moving in her vision.

"You think I don't know?" he inquired, spinning around again, keeping his distance. "No, I'm not as smart as you, but I'm no idiot, either. You tricked the navigators into staying away from the Avourienne. You disposed of all our scouts that track the Avourienne. You didn't want to attack them. You didn't want to hurt him."

"We can't take the Avourienne," Novari said. "Not yet. You don't take that kind of news well, so I hid it from you."

He lifted his chin. "That's the thing with you—you lie so damn well. And you have a reason for everything. A backup for your backup. I saw you today, when all your backups failed, and the look on your face was utterly priceless. You love him."

"I protected you first."

He slammed his hands down on the desk, then moved towards her. "You had him in your hands," he snarled. "You had a knife to his throat and you didn't use it. You had the chance to kill him." At his last words, he brought down one of his fists into the wall right near her head. She didn't flinch, but perhaps it was the incredible amount of rum in her blood.

"Move your hand," Novari said.

"No," he whispered back to her, his face inches from hers. "You are not the captain of this ship, even if you act like it. I give the orders; I make the rules."

"You think you're the boss, do you?" she replied, matching his low volume.

"You need me," he told her, his shoulders flexing. "You need a man to be your figurehead while you figure out how to get what you want. You need me. Don't act like I have anything to fear from you."

"I can't hit you, Jon. There are worst things I could do to you."

He bared his teeth. "You and your threats. You and your secrets. You and your damn scheming. I will know every single action you pull aboard my ship from here on out. If you're getting rid of a scout, you tell me—and if you ever, ever have your hands around Vallin Bardarian's neck ever again, you will squeeze until he is nothing more than flesh and bone dead on the floor. Do you understand me?"

"I don't think I do, Jon. I think you're getting a little too comfortable."

"You won't touch me."

Novari lifted her hand and placed it on his shoulder, wrenching his arm away from the wall. "I won't touch you to hurt you, Jon," she whispered to him, leaning in so the words would brush his ear. "But if you think for a moment that I won't get in your head, you're wildly mistaken."

He went still, the muscles in his arms flexed and ready to fight, but she wasn't starting that kind of fight.

"You know, you're right, Jon," she told him, still pushing him back, still staying close. "I'm so in love that nothing else can make me feel anymore. Nothing makes me feel satisfied, gives me even a semblance of the peace I had with him. I hate every second of this life I've sentenced myself to, but when I finally see him again—when he offers it all to me—I chose to protect you. Do you see why you're the focus of my anger right now, Jon?"

"Don't call me that," he breathed.

They'd reached the other wall, but she didn't back up. She didn't have a plan, didn't have a course of action. She just had anger.

"I can call you so many things," she whispered, still by his ear.

"Don't do this," he said, strained. "You said you wouldn't do this."

"I never did, Jon."

He lifted his chin. "You want to mess with someone's head? Find Skinner."

Novari drew away a little, her lips inches from his. She tapped his shoulder, closer to his collarbone. "Skinner isn't my problem," she said, running a finger over his neck, up to his jaw. "And you know I have a thing for authority."

He searched her eyes. "Back up. We'll talk."

So now he wanted to talk, now he wanted to back up and calm down, now that he realized she was, in fact, still the boss.

"Make me forget, Jon," she whispered to him.

"I can't do that for you, Novari. I'm not him."

"But you wish you were," she replied. "You want to be him almost as much as I want him back. So let's both get what we want. You be him for me."

"You're drunk," he breathed. "You're drunk and you're going to regret this."

Novari lifted her chin to look into his eyes. "I'm no stranger to regret," she said.

He dropped his eyes. His confidence, his breezy seriousness, it morphed so quickly to the lust he'd gotten so good at hiding.

"Do it," Novari told him.

"Don't turn me into this," he begged softly. In his mind, she was a Siren, a manipulator of his very thoughts. He didn't know she was none of those things. This was simply a game she excelled at and he fell for.

"You said it yourself, Jon. I don't control you." She knew he'd give in. If she opened up that world to them, painted a pretty picture with her pretty eyes, they always did. It would forever be her fault, the cunning seductress. It was never their fault for making the first move, it was hers for making them make it.

He took no more deliberation, no more begging. He kissed her like he'd been waiting months to do it. He'd changed his mind like he'd never had to change it.

He tasted like blood, and he smelled like the slimy puddle she'd thrown him in, but maybe that was for the best. Maybe candle wax and linen were just too far away, maybe this was her new reality.

She could stop him, but she didn't want to. She wanted to inflict this disgusting heartbreak on him. She wanted to break him like someone else had broken her. It didn't matter if it was the right thing or even something that would benefit her in the end. She just wanted to feel.

She tucked her fingers under his shirt, and he lifted his arms. He made no complaints, showed no restrain. His act was just that.

Novari pushed him back towards his room. He stumbled, his authoritative manners dissolved the same way they always had. The way they almost always did.

She gave him a smile, sliding her fingers over his waist. "Can I call you Vallin, Jon?" she asked, running a finger down his chin. "Do you mind?"

"You're sick," he whispered back. "You're so sick."

Novari shut his door behind her with her foot. "I'm more than that, I've lost my damn mind. It's what love does to people, Jon. You'll see."

He didn't answer, his breathing shallow and distracted. He fell to the bed under her, his movements reminiscent of his true age rather than the one he played at. Both their ages, both their youth.

The anger wouldn't stop building. Slint didn't do this like Bardarian had. This would not heal her or put her on track to normalcy again. She knew it, but this was the only thing she had control over in her life. The only thing she could rip into pieces and tear apart from the inside. That was all she really wanted.

To break someone likeBardarian had broken her.