CHAPTER ELEVEN
❛ 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙷𝙰𝙽𝙳 𝚃𝙷𝙰𝚃 𝙵𝙴𝙴𝙳𝚂 ❜

THERE ARE GOOD DAYS. Days in which Marya wakes up and, for the most fleeting of moments, believes she is aboard her precious Repentance. Days in which she momentarily forgets about the Sun Summoner and the tracker kept prisoners underneath this very deck. Days in which she thinks the loud rapping against her door is Ravi trying to wake her up.

         There are bad days as well. Days in which Marya wakes up feeling sick, fully aware of the prisoners below, of the dangerous men aboard, of the deal she has made— the deal that is slowly starting to seem like a deal with the devil. These days are the ones where she feels Karim's absence like a hollow wound. Hollow wound, hollow chest, hollow bones, hollow heart. She doesn't know what it is about those days that bring back memories of Karim— after all, he was never particularly fond of the sea. He got seasick easily —as to how, she'll never know, given that he once was a skilled acrobat— and he claimed that riding on the Repentance brought him bad memories.

         But just as there are good days and bad days, there are worse days too. Days in which she wakes up screaming, panting, hyperventilating. It is just her luck that the whaler and the people aboard it are loud enough for no one to hear.

         Her room inside the whaler is small. Private, but small. This shouldn't be a problem— it never has been. And yet, she suspects there is something utterly wrong about this vessel. Maybe it is haunted. Maybe it is cursed. Because only once in her life has she ever felt this claustrophobic before. The damp air scratches against her lungs, her cold sweat clings to her skin, the walls close in on her. Closing, closing, closing...

         Marya is up and off her hammock before she can think better of it. She runs a hand through her face, fingers trailing off to her hair. She shuts her eyes and inhales deeply. Her chest rises and falls. Rises and falls. Rises and falls.

         She's not sure what time it is, but she can hear a soft rain pattering above the deck. Marya breathes in again. She focuses on the sound of the rain. On the steady rhythm it offers. Breathe in. Breathe out. It doesn't help. Saints, what is wrong with her today?

         "Breathe, damn it," she mutters, but she can feel her throat starting to tighten. Her hands feel cold, but there's an awkward flash of heat traveling in sparks throughout her body. Her breath trembles.

         Oh, no. No, no, no. Not now. Not here.

         "Breathe," she repeats to herself. It echoes like a scold, a command. But the only response is that of her heart, as it begins beating erratically inside her chest.

         Her breath is shallow. Her body is hot. Her body is cold. Her body trembles. Her body shakes. The walls are closing, closing, closing...

         "Can you count for me?"

         Marya feels her neck nearly snap from how quickly she whips her head up. She's heard his voice before— more times than she cares to admit. But this is louder. It carries an echo, a tangible quality, a presence, a—

         Her thoughts wither away the moment Marya's brown eyes meet with Karim's. There he is, with those wild curls of his, those big kind eyes, that small frown between his brows.

         He looks as bright as he always does. Golden. Sunlight and earth intertwined together. Karim lowers himself to Marya's level, still keeping a safe distance from her. Her back presses against the wall of her cabin— and since when is she on the floor?

"Count with me," Karim says softly, gently. Marya can feel her throat tightening, as if she has a stone stuck inside she's trying not to choke on. Her brother breathes in deeply, "One," he says, exhaling. "Come on, sora. With me." She struggles at first to even nod. Her breathing is shaky, but she tries her best to follow Karim's lead. "Two." Inhale deeply. Exhale. "Three." Inhale. Exhale.

         Karim nods encouragingly, a small smile on his lips. "Okay, that's good. Let's do that again."

         And so they do. Breathe in. Breathe out. Inhale. Exhale. One, two, three. One, two, three. She continues to follow Karim's breathing until, eventually, it levels out.

         Marya brings her knees closer to her chest, resting her forearms and her head on them. Her heart is still out of pace, but ever-so slowly, it is returning to its regular rhythm.

         At times like these, it's so easy to feel like a child again. The girl she used to be. Scared. Alone. Cowering in corners and squeezing her eyes shut, awaiting the moment she would wake up. Waiting for the sunlight to chase the darkness away.

         "Are you better now?" Karim asks quietly. Marya doesn't hear him move— her mind feels too foggy to be conscious enough of the world around her. And yet, she knows Karim has sat next to her. "You can just nod. You don't have to talk if you don't feel like it."

         Marya raises her head only slightly. Karim's dark brown eyes meet her gaze. He's tilting his head down, only slightly. That saying about Zemeni people being taller because of their open valleys might just turn out to be true— at least when it comes to him, anyway. Marya still remembers when they were the same height, arguing over inches. And now? Well, she often finds— found herself tipping her head back to meet his gaze.

         "I'm..." she starts, voice rough, still trembling at its edges. She coughs, embarrassed. "I'll be okay."

         Karim nods, his head leaning back against the wall. His eyes still linger on Marya. She can feel it.

         "What?"

         "You were dreaming," Karim hums softly.

         Marya turns to look at him. And there he is, with his dumb long legs stretched in front of him and his unruly hair atop his head. He's there. And now— well, now Marya's certain she's lost her mind. All these years, and she's finally lost it. All the shit she's gone through, and a stupid, awful, dumb fucking whaler was the thing to break her.

         Karim blinks back at her, raising a brow. Marya's heart stutters in her chest. He's not real. He's not. On some level, she knows that. But he's also here. He's sitting close enough that, if she wanted, she could reach out to him.

         She doesn't. Whether out of fear or self-preservation, she can't be sure.

         "I don't..." she tries, exhaling. She clenches her jaw, unclenches it. She brings her knees closer to her chest, a tired laugh rasping against her throat. "It's been a long time since I've had a dream, Karim."

         He purses his lips. "A nightmare, then."

         Marya closes her eyes. Her heart is still beating erratically, trying to find a steadier pace. Finally, it starts settling into a less unbearable rhythm. "A memory."

         "Ah," Karim clicks his tongue. "Just as bad, then." He looks at her, meeting her brown eyes with a sympathetic look. He leans his head against his legs. "Do you want to talk about it?"

         Marya shakes her head quietly. "No. Not really."

         "It will make you feel better," he adds. "Talking to someone about it."

         "What good will it do, relieving those moments?" she asks, her voice sharper than she would've liked. Karim furrows his brows, and Marya turns to look at the ceiling. "What does anyone stand to gain?"

         Karim pauses for a beat, as if considering it. "You carry so much weight on your shoulders," he says finally. His voice is a murmur, a whisper of the winds. "When will you learn to let some of it go?"

         She looks away, resting her chin on her knees. Her fingers twitch. Her throat tightens.

         The rain beats down outside.

         "It was Adjala," she mutters, so quietly she's certain no one has heard her. "It was a memory of Adjala."

         Karim is silent for a moment. His tone matches hers. Small, quiet. "Not a pleasant one."

         Her hands tighten around her legs. "No."

         Adjala's pale corpse flicks through her mind. Hollow cheeks, empty eyes, lifeless limbs. Something acid claws its way up her throat, and Marya forces herself to meet Karim's gaze.

         Golden eyes, golden skin, golden hair. An angel, for all intents and purposes.

         Her voice trembles. "I miss you."

         His expression softens. "Don't cry, Marya," Karim whispers, so tenderly it nearly breaks her. He gives her a lopsided smile. "We'll find each other again," he promises, "Always have. Always will."

         Marya turns away, wiping her eyes with the back of her palm. She scoffs. "Ever the optimist, aren't you?"

         Karim chuckles. "One of us has to be."

         Marya sighs, the barest of smiles curving her lips. She leans her body against the wall, breathing in. Her brows furrow.

         "Marya," she repeats suddenly. "You called me Marya." Her head turns in Karim's direction. Except he doesn't look surprised, not even remotely fazed. The truth is rapidly approaching, and she doesn't want to face it. Not yet. "You've never called me Marya before."

         Karim quirks a brow. "Because it's blasphemy?"

         "Because you're sentimental," she corrects, watching Karim as if he might slip away the moment she blinks. "You have a harder time letting... letting go of things." She licks her lips, trying to recall his words from what feels like a lifetime ago. "You once told me that names carry power."

         Karim furrows his brow, as if confused. "What's more powerful than the name of a Saint?" That's what she's always wondered. The name she was born with was the name of a girl that couldn't defend herself. A girl whose name was probably never written down anywhere, not ever leaving a register of her existence. The name she chose, however? "Sankta Marya of the Rock. Patron Saint of those far from home," Karim muses. "It's a good choice. Fitting."

         Marya shakes her head. "You're just saying what I think."

         "Is that so bad?" Isn't it?

         She doesn't want this to end. All Saints, she'd tear out her own ribs just to make it last a minute more. She'd dig her fingers into her own organs and pull them out for him. She's not ready to watch him leave yet. But she can't help herself. Even when she knows it won't help. Still—

         "Are you in Ravka?" Marya asks him. Her voice is hoarse, worn down. "That, that Corporalnik girl—"

         "Genya," Karim reminds her with a pointed look.

         "Genya," Marya repeats, "she said the Darkling has raided ports and cities in search for Grisha. Grisha to add to his army." Her chest feels hollow. Her bones feel bare. "Are you in Ravka, Karim?" Are you safe? Are you alive?

         Karim looks at her for a moment with an indecipherable glint in his eye. Then, he turns his head up. "Huh."

         "What?"

         Karim tilts his head. "It stopped raining."

         Marya furrows her brows and, despite herself, she finds her eyes shifting towards the ceiling. Karim's right— it's no longer raining. Distantly, she can hear stray raindrops tapping against the surface of the whaler.

         It was just pouring a second ago. How long has she been in here?

         "Karim—" Marya starts, turning to her brother. Her words die in her throat.

         He's gone.

Marya's body slumps against the wall.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━

         BY THE TIME MARYA WALKS OUT OF HER CABIN, most of the crew is already up and working on their respective tasks. This time around, Marya spots Sturmhond's Squaller Kovu by the sails, hands outstretched in front of him. Finally, Angus and Hilde will be getting some much needed rest before the Privateer's plans go into motion.

         The rain, as matter of fact, has long since stopped, but not without leaving traces of his behind. A few deckhands, Jira included among them, wipe the main deck of any potentially hazardous patches of water. The air feels cold and damp, but refreshing all the same. Clouds still linger above, lighter ones— at least for the time being.

         Weather won't be in their favor.

         Today's little encounter has left her more shaken than she would've hoped. Still, she silently thanks her Saints that everyone seems to be too busy to notice any difference in her demeanor.

         Ravka. Maybe she's being hopeful, being foolish— seeing patterns where there are none. Could Karim really be there? Marya has heard of a man in West Ravka— a General Zlatan, who turns a blind eye to raids in search for Grisha. Who allows for Grisha to be sold, all while keeping his distance to have enough leeway for deniability.

         West Ravka has been meaning to recede from the Old Country for a while now. Marya has never truly concerned herself with politics, but if the Darkling did in fact use the Fold as a weapon against Novo Kribirsk... well, she wouldn't be surprised if West Ravka's so-called revolutionaries retaliated by going against Grisha.

Misplaced hate. A centuries-old story.

         Ravka. Ravka, still, is better than ending up in Shu Han or— Saints forbid— Fjerda. Ravka, where Karim could get caught in the midst of one of three wars weighed on those lands. Ravka, where Karim could be killed by scorned soldiers. Ravka, where he could be taken to join the Darkling's ranks.

         Heartrenders are His favorite.

         She nearly flinches. No. She won't let anyone lay a finger on Karim. She'd rather die before letting something like that happen.

         Marya heads up the stairs towards the quarterdeck. One of Sturmhond's deckhands hurries down, shoulder bumping against hers. Her fingers tighten against the railing as she continues up.

         Karim. Hearing his voice had started to become part of her routine. Even then, she thought it was a sign of her slowly losing her mind. But actually seeing him? She's heard stories of phantoms, of apparitions. Of brave heroes watching their loved ones appear before them like angels or wraiths.

         Marya has reached a plausible conclusion. And so, the way she sees it, she's visited by two Karims.

         One is a gentle approximation of her brother— how she used to see him not too long ago. The healer. The tender one out of the two. The one with soft edges and kind words.

         The other one is a vengeful spirit. A spiteful, angry presence. A voice that echoes in her mind and haunts her thoughts.

         She wonders which one is really her brother.

         A plank creaks behind her. Her shoulders square despite herself— because she recognizes the sound of those steps.

         "I'm starting to think you're following me," she says after a moment. She turns around, now facing Sturmhond. The privateer stands near the bowsprit, red hair messy with the wind. "Everywhere I turn, you seem to be lingering by. Coincidence?"

         "I don't believe in chance." He raises a brow. "Do you?"

         Marya shrugs her shoulders. "It's a sure way to go mad," she answers. She would know.

         Those olive eyes of his linger on her face, her brows furrowed ever so slightly. He looks like he wants to ask her something, but backs down at the last moment. Instead,

"Have you told—" Sturmhond clicks his tongue, taking a step closer to her as he does an inconspicuous turn, making sure none of the Darkling's Grisha are lingering around. He leans his back against the railing, arms hanging loosely from the sides. "Have you told your people about the plan?"

"Mhm," Marya nods. "My Squallers and Tidemaker will help with the weather." The pirate glances at the canons, at the swords strapped to a few men's belts. "Jira and I will... look after the weapons."

"Brilliant," he grins. His heads tilts as he watches her, as if observing her in for the first time. Then— "Rough night?"

Marya furrows her brows. Her heart nearly leaps to her throat. What does he know? How does he know? "What?"

Sturmhond raises his eyebrow. "You look exhausted."

Her shoulders sag slightly with relief. She scoffs, shaking her head. "Thanks. Appreciate it."

"Worry not, darling. You make it work." The red-headed man shrugs, a mischievous glint dancing in his olive gaze. "I'd offer to give you better accommodations, but seeing as we will be leaving shortly, well..."

         "Not that it would change anything," she adds lightly.

         His brow twitches. "How do you mean?"

Not lightly enough, apparently. Marya clears her throat, casting a long look around. "Where's Neyar?" she asks, eager to change the subject away from her.

Sturmhond keeps quiet for a second, before a chuckle rumbles in his chest. "Glaring and brooding, probably."

Marya turns her head back to him. "She doesn't brood." Her scrunched up features meet with his knowing ones, making her release a breath. "Okay, fine, maybe a little."

"Last I saw, she was with— what's his name?" Sturmhond spins his fingers breezily. "The grumpy Squaller. Murderous glare. You know—" the privateer twists his face into an exaggeratedly deep scowl. Marya bites the inside of her cheek to prevent herself from smiling.

         "Angus," she finally supplies.

         "Angus," he repeats with a snap of his fingers. His lips curve upward, green eyes set on her face. His smile widens. "It's okay to smile, you know. Makes the whole mood a little less gloomy."

         "I thought that was your job, Captain."

         "I dabble."

         Marya brushes a few wisps of her hair back behind her ear. Her multiple golden earrings jingle with the wind. The Suli pirate exhales loudly, letting the ocean breeze fill her lungs. "Get me out of this ship and I'll do more than smile."

         "You mean I could hear you laugh?" Sturmhond teases, lips quirking upward. "Well, why didn't you say so?"

         "I do laugh," Marya protests. He makes a sound of disagreement. "What? I do."

         Sturmhond turns his head to the side, as if considering her. "It's not a real laugh, though."

Marya furrows her brows for a brief moment. She scoffs lightly. "Okay," she starts, "you wanna talk realness?" Brown meet green evenly. "I don't even know your real name."

         "Sure you do."

         "I do hope you're not actually saying Sturmhond is your actual name, or I might just start to feel sorry for you."

         The privateer looks momentarily offended. "Surely Sturmhond is not the worst name you've heard during your years, Captain."

         Marya considers this. "Fair," she concedes. "I did come across a fellow who called himself Sealegs. But you come a close second."

         Sturmhond chuckles. "I'll accept that," he says with a shake of his head. She can feel his eyes tracing patterns over the side of her face. "At the risk of you fleeing this heartfelt conversation, may I ask you something?"

         "Depends."

         "Your name," he says. "It's not your real name, is it?"

         To lie is easy. Simple. No complications, no added questions. But to tell the truth is freeing.

"No," she says finally. "You called it earlier— about my crew bearing the names of Saints."

         "Huh. Sankta Marya," he muses. "Should I bow, or...?"

         "I'm not entirely opposed to it."

         "Ah. Too late now, is it?"

         Marya can't help the bemused look on her face. "Probably."

         "I wouldn't call myself particularly religious, so I can't say I know of a Sankt Angus, or Sankta Jira," he continues, making the pirate besides him raise a brow. "Is it only your two closest people who follow this little tradition of yours?"

         Marya turns to the bowsprit, to the boundless ocean ahead. To the cold and ice that expects them ahead. "Anyone on my crew is allowed to take the name they please. Most of them decide to keep theirs— gives them a connection to their past, to their previous lives."

         "But you, Neyar, Emerens..." he starts slowly, tentatively, as if the mere prospect of asking her this will send her off running. "You don't."

         "No."

         "Will I get an answer if I ask why?"

         "No."

         He clicks his tongue. "Shouldn't have expected anything else."

         Marya turns to look at Sturmhond. Really look at him. He's Ravkan. He's a privateer. He's rich. He's a flirt. She's spent over a week with him on this whaler, even more time since they first joined forces. And yet, she knows she's barely scratched the surface. "What about you?"

         "What do you want to know?"

         "What are you willing to tell me?" she asks in turn. "Surely there was someone before you became this... this rich privateer person."

         "Someone?" Sturmhond repeats, almost absentmindedly. His hand goes to his ring, though his eyes remain on the sea. A strange look crosses his gaze and, for a fleeting moment, she mistakes it for vulnerability— that is, until she's reminded of who she's talking to. "Well, now I'm curious." He turns to her, that odd glint gone from his muddy gaze. "Who do you think I used to be before the seas became my home?"

Marya hums. "I'd have to think about it," she says, looking up at him. It's hard to picture the privateer before her as anything other than that. As someone without a crew to command. Without a bright teal frock with golden buttons. As someone without that wide grin he gets whenever he casts his eyes towards the ocean. "I know you're from Ravka. And I know you fight similarly to a soldier, so you probably were in the King's army. You also speak... differently. With a different cadence to any Ravkans I've met before."

"So you have been paying attention to me." His wide grin nearly makes her think she's made a mistake. She rolls her eyes, but is unable to conceal her growing smile. "Careful, darling, or it'll get to my head."

"It's a little too late for that, isn't it?" she questions, mischievous glint matching that of his eyes. "My guess..." She thinks. Really thinks. She tries to picture Sturmhond in Ravka, wearing everyday clothes. Regular pants, hunting boots and a white shirt. Marya imagines him, just a boy in some Ravkan town, standing out thanks to that dark red hair of his. Red like a fox's hide. Something tells her that he'd stand out with or without his hair. "Maybe you were a mercenary, back in Ravka." Upon seeing his surprised expression, she scoffs a chuckle. "C'mon. It isn't that far off from privateer. Plus, you strike me as the type that gets bored easily. Needs a change of scenery to function."

"Mercenary," he repeats with a tinge of humor. "I'll have you know that as a privateer, I have a license."

"Of course," she grins. "Was I close?"

"Eh," he shrugs loosely.

"Not a mercenary, then." She sighs, but there's a newfound lightness to it. "I'll figure you out. Eventually."

He raises a brow. A few weeks ago, she would've thought the expression on his face is a challenge. But now, she can't help but feel it's the opposite. "I'll be looking forward to it, Captain," he says, and Marya realizes her mistake. She let her curiosity get the best of her, but she's always had that rule, at least for those among her crew. No questions asked. Did it never occur to her that he could be running away? "My turn."

"Your turn?"

"To guess what life was like for you before you were a pirate."

Ah. She's aware enough not to let her small amused expression waver. But it's only fair. "Alright."

He plays off his initial surprise fairly well. He straightens. "You're Suli, right?" he asks. "I've heard you speak it."

         She raises a brow. "Perhaps I'm Zemeni and speak Suli to avoid eavesdroppers." The subtle jab at him is not lost in either of them.

         Sturmhond isn't at all discouraged by it. "It would be quite a strategy. I'll have to consider it for the future."

         "Ah, but you don't speak Suli."

         "A small obstacle to overcome."

         Marya laughs quietly. "Quite." She briefly turns away from him, missing the way Sturmhond seems to perk up at the sound.

         "So, you speak fluent Suli. You're an avid follower of the faith. You're a commendable fighter and quite the swordsman." Marya straightens at the comment, not bothering to hide the pleased expression on her face. "Not to mention you're a skilled Fabrikator."

         "Is this you trying to get on my good side?"

         "Depends. Is it working?" When she doesn't respond, he continues. "You also told me you were from Ravka."

         "No I didn't," she says, almost too defensively.

         "Didn't you?" There's a new spark in his eyes. The redhead tilts his head, giving her a disapproving pout. "Don't tell me you've already forgotten our first meeting in Ketterdam."

         He's right. "Maybe I lied."

         "Maybe," he says, and she can't tell whether he believes it or not. "But let's say it is the case. That would make you a Suli Materialnik, born in Ravka, a skilled fighter but without a soldier's training. You probably never trained in the Little Palace, which would mean—" he cuts himself off.

         Marya stares at him, ignoring the way her heart skips a beat. He's guessing, he's just guessing. And even if he did know, why does she even care? She shouldn't feel ashamed. She shouldn't. But if he's half as familiar with Ravka as he claims, he would know all about what tends to happen to Grisha who don't get the chance to fall under the protective mantle of the Little Palace. "What?"

         "Ah, nothing," Sturmhond amends. "I'm rambling."

         "Really? No guesses?"

         "I must say, it is quite hard to imagine you as anything other than... well, you," he says, and Marya has to ignore the urge to ask him what exactly he means. Green eyes focus on her. "But if I had to, I'd say you were an apprentice of some retired Fabrikator... maybe somewhere near the coast."

         "And then what?"

         Cold waves slap against the hull of the ship. Icy wind kisses her skin. A cloud of fog grows denser as they continue onwards.

         "Simple. You fell in love with the sea."

         Despite herself, Marya finds herself smiling. There's a certain relief inside her, now that she's aware that Sturmhond hasn't figured it out. But there's also longing inside her chest, burrowing itself deep within. She likes this version of her story. A Suli girl who worked with weapons. A Suli girl who had someone to teach her the ways of her gift. A Suli girl who chose the sea, and not the other way around. A Suli girl who had a choice.

         "You're a better guesser than I am," she says finally.

         "It comes with the job description," Sturmhond jests.

         "Tell me something about you, then," she starts again, despite her usual rules. She tells herself it's harmless curiosity, that he's more than capable of stopping her if she crosses a line. "If not a mercenary, what does ten year old Sturmhond look like?"

         "You thought I was a mercenary at ten?"

         "I can't say I would put it past you. You don't exactly strike me as the type that likes to waste time."

         He chuckles, the sound slowly dying at the back of his throat. The steady timbre of his voices fades. Sturmhond pauses for a moment, as if loosing himself in thought. Unconsciously, he once again reaches for the emerald ring on his finger. The same ring Neyar vowed to take for herself.

"What's there to know?" he hums, sounding strangely distracted. His expression sobers up. "I worked by the countryside, near Sikursk. Harvesting crops, milking cows, fixing farm equipment."

"A farm boy," Marya says, and her words hold no contempt, no insult. There's a faint trace of surprise, but she hides it well enough. "Honest work— but quite a long way from the True Sea. You would've had to cross the Fold to even see it for the first time."

"What can I say? My need for adventure has always been my compass," he says, and Marya oddly enough finds herself relating to it.

A farm boy. Marya pictures a younger Sturmhond— a fifteen, sixteen year old boy with a bright head of red hair and a yearning for more. For adventure, for a vast ocean, for his true calling.

"You don't sound like a farm boy," Marya says bluntly, before quickly realizing just how bad that sounds. "You don't sound like any Ravkan I've met."

"Is that a compliment or an insult?"

"Take it as you want it."

The privateer flicks his eyes to the side, careful of anyone who may be eavesdropping. Once he's certain the coast is clear, he inhales sharply. "That's because I studied in the Palace."

Marya snorts. "Yeah, right."

"The prince was quite troublesome. A restless, misbehaving, chaotic little thing," he starts quietly, and only then does Marya realize he's being serious. "His tutor couldn't handle the prince, so they got a farm boy study with him. Someone to take his beatings for when he misbehaved."

Marya's bemused look fades, replaced by an expression that can only be described as a sudden coming to. Not pity, not comfort. An understanding, despite it being from the outside. Sympathy.

"Did—" she stops, watching him carefully. Her voice is gentle, quiet. "Did your parents somehow wrong the Royal Family?"

"That's the thing." He shakes his head, features impassive. "It was an honor," he says, and Marya doesn't miss the bitterness dripping from it.

It's admirable, really— how he manages to stay so composed. It's not his face or stance that gives him away— it's his voice. And, even then, something tells her he's let himself slip. As if he could not allow himself to keep his contempt hidden.

Marya is nearing the line. She can feel it. And if Sturmhond won't be the one to stop her from crossing it, then she'll simply have to pull herself back. Nudge the subject in a different direction.

"So you've actually met His Most Royal Highness?" Marya asks with a raised brow.

Sturmhond scoffs a chuckle. "You could say that."

"Is it true what they say, about the prince?"

"About what?" he looks at her, nearly taken aback. Or, at least, as surprised as Sturmhond would allow himself to look. If Marya didn't know any better, she'd say he dreads the question.

"That he's an arse," she explains, keeping her voice nonchalant. "I've heard Crown Prince Vasily is as dull as they make them. Dumb as a rock."

Sturmhond snorts loudly, making a few of the Darkling's Grisha standing by the main deck turn in their direction. Tamar, who happens to be standing among them, shoots Sturmhond a questioning look.

"What?"

"Nothing," he murmurs, smile evident on his lips.

"What about the other one?" she asks with a click of her tongue. "What is it, that name they call him?"

A beat. Sturmhond looks away. "Sobachka."

"Sobachka," she repeats. Puppy. "Prince Nikolai, yeah?"

Sturmhond straightens, arching a brow. "Now, love, since when are you so interested on the Royal Family?"

She shrugs her shoulders. "Since I know someone who could give me some useful leverage on them."

"So, this is about leverage?"

"In part," she concedes. "Not all of us have stepped inside Os Alta, Sturmhond. You can't exactly blame a girl for being curious."

"I guess I can't." He turns, taking a step forward to lean his elbow against the borders of the whaler. "Although, I can tell you there's a reason I chose the sea." He inhales deeply, closing his eyes for a moment. And there and then, Marya catches a glimpse of something she's never seen before in the privateer.

Sturmhond looks at ease. Strangely peaceful. Wisps of red hair fly back with the wind, chest rising and falling at a slow, steady pace. Then, "You can never grow tired of it, can you? The salt air. The boundless waters. The sound of a well-oiled machine beneath your feet."

She rests her forearms against the wooden railing. "Never," says Marya. "At least, I haven't."

         His olive eyes open, face tilting. "How long have you...?"

         "I've had my own ship since I was seventeen," she answers honestly. For some reason, it feels easier to tell the truth this time. "But the seas and I got acquainted long before that." Back when she was thirteen. She blinks away the thought. "You?"

         "Eighteen," he hums with a smile.

         "Eighteen," Marya repeats, a smirk curving onto her lips. "It seems I've got a head start on you, then."

         "So it seems." Up ahead, the fog grows dangerously denser. A blanket of impenetrable grays and whites. "Ever been to the Bone Road, Captain?"

         "Can't say I've had a wish to become another nameless shipwreck, so no, not really." Marya leans away from the edge of the whaler. "But there's a first time for everything, no?"

         The corner of his lips twitch into a beaming grin. "That's the spirit."

━━━━━━━━━━━━━

         THE FOG DOESN'T LET UP. Occasionally, though, thanks to some miracle wind, Marya will be able to discern something more than just the silhouettes of the dangers ahead. Sharp rocks. Crashing waves. Every pirate worth their salt knows that whatever treasures lie locked away in this very path are nowhere near worth the price it demands.

         Death.

         They should be headed for Jelka and Vilki— the Fork and the Knife. The very first signs of the harrowing stretch known as the Bone Road. The Bone Road— otherwise known as black waters and mist that conceals what many believe to be shifting phantom islands. Rocks that move with the intent to sink and kill however dares to trespass. Fjerdans believe these waters to be infested with demons— havfrue, sirens of white hair and sharpened teeth. Only fools dare to roam these waters. And yet, here she is, diving head first into what she thought was a place she'd never get to see up close— not in this life time, anyway.

         The whaler passes between two stone islands— deserted, abandoned, devoid of all life. Fitting for Fjerdan territory.

         She strides down the whaler, and is quite surprised to see that the Darkling's Grisha are not just lying around for a change. They must sense the change in the atmosphere, the dangers lurking ahead. Because even if they're not exactly helping either crew, they're still keeping a careful eye out.

         "Trim the sails!" Marya calls out. A few deckhands give her one nod before doing as told. After all, the last thing any of them needs is to become another shipwreck.

         There is an uneasy silence aboard the whaler. It has only been a few days since the Darkling threatened to harm both of their prisoners. A few days since Malyen Oretsev had to agree to help him track the mythical Sea Whip. A few days since she had to nearly witness the Black General carve out Alina Starkov's skin.

Marya watches the sails above, gaze briefly catching on the rigging. From up there, Neyar shoots a look. Marya nods. She turns her head back to the deck of the whaler, but not before hearing Neyar's sharp whistle. The ship slowly turns west, making a few of the Darkling's people stumble.

She is quick to dismiss them, meeting Raziya near the main mast. Despite her deceivingly unremarkable appearance, Marya doesn't miss the faint glow of a Grisha using their powers. And if she picks up on it, there's no doubt the Ravkans will too.

         Marya's hand latches onto Raziya's shoulder. "Good job," she whispers.

         Raziya's hands pull away from each other. "How long?"

         "Just a little more." She nudges her head to the side. "Don't let them see you. Go to my quarters." Raziya nods, before promptly following her instructions.

The fog grows thicker.

         "Where's your Captain?" he hears that annoying voice of his demand. Marya turns, only to be met by Ivan's scowling face. "The General has not ordered you to change course."

         Be civil. Be civil. "That's probably because your General does not command this ship."

         Ivan sneers. "Filthy pirate."

         Marya can't afford to be angering some scorned Heartrender when they're so close to the end goal. And so, with the most pleasant smile she can manage, she says, "Tell your General that unless he intends to sink this ship into the watery deep, he'll have to settle for a light detour."

The pirate turns, ready to return to her post. "Zemeni trash—" Ivan starts, and Marya can feel him shift to reach for her.

         "I do not recall telling you to alter course." Marya stops. His voice is glass. Sharp. Without room for question. Marya can't help the way she holds her breath. She turns.

The Darkling's black eyes stare down at her expectantly.

         She straightens slowly. Even with the evident height difference, she doesn't allow herself to appear intimidated. Instead, she says, "You do not tell a raven how to fly. You do not tell a rabbit how to jump." She clenches and unclenches her jaw. "And you do not tell me how to steer this ship." Marya shifts her head to look at the sea, eyeing the fog that clings to it. "Do you feel that, General? That's wind coming from the East. The norm is for it to feel cold— but it feels warm on the skin, doesn't it?" Black eyes meet her brown ones. "That means there's a storm approaching. And I don't believe your grand plan involves going through all this trouble to find the Sun Summoner, only to have us drown because of a particularly bad storm."

         The Darkling narrows his eyes only slightly. He tilts his head, as if facing a newfound interest of his. "What did you say your name was, again?"

         "There she is," Sturmhond says loudly, making Marya turn. His hand holds onto her shoulder with a pat. "I've been looking for you." His green eyes briefly meet with hers, before turning to the Darkling. Sturmhond raises an expectant brow. "Well? What seems to be the issue?"

         "I was telling your Second in Command that it appears we've changed course," the man says coldly. He stares at Sturmhond, eyes narrowed. "Would you know anything about that, Captain?"

         "Of course," the privateer says nonchalantly. He makes a point to glance at Marya, before returning his attention to the General. He quirks a brow. "Any issue you have with how this ship is managed you take up with me."

         "My Squallers and Tidemakers can handle a storm."

         "And were we anywhere else, I'd gladly agree, General, but this is the Bone Road. Not a good place to be tampering with the weather." The silence that has fallen over the whaler is thicker than the last one. Eyes remain unmoving, focused on the exchange between Captains and General. "It'll pass— but for the time being, it's better to take a slightly longer path. A safer one." He clicks his tongue. "I'm sure a day or two are more than manageable for someone of your standing."

         The Darkling is unreadable, but something tells Marya he's scrutinizing both of them. His eyes zero in on her, dark scars on his face more evident than ever. A white, icy smile graces his lips.

"Two days."

━━━━━━━━━━━━━

         THE DARKLING'S HEARTRENDERS BROUGHT out the Sun Summoner as they do every morning. They hand her off to General Kirigan, who in turn, parades her in front of her tracker friend.

Find the Sea Whip. And every day you don't, I'll carve out a piece of her skin.

The threat is ever present on Mal's face. Marya has noticed it while she keeps an eye on him. The stubborn set of his jaw, the worry that lingers in his gaze. Today, he still looks anxious, nervous. But there's something new in his face— confusion.

"We changed directions," Mal says abruptly, while Neyar and Tolya hold his bindings. His chains have been switches for ropes— a recent change. Very, very recent. "We're heading in the opposite way— it'll get farther away if we stay on this course for too long," he starts to protest.

"Quiet," Neyar hisses.

Mal furrows his brows, expression a mix of confusion and anger. "He'll hurt Alina," he argues, voice lower this time.

"Oretsev, I mean this in the nicest way possible," Marya stares at him with a menacing look. "Be still, be quiet, and don't get yourself into any more trouble." She gives Neyar a sharp nod. "Be ready."

"Ready?" Mal repeats, brows knitted together. "Ready for what?" He lets out a sharp breath with the shove Neyar gives him.

Today feels different. Something tells her both crewmen and Grisha alike can feel it. Something electric in the air. The Darkling's two days are nearly up, which means their time is ticking.

Every second counts.

Raziya, Angus and Sturmhond's Squaller Kovu are nowhere to be seen. Instead, Hilde is the only one at the sails, blowing softer winds against them. The whaler moves at a steady pace, now that the waters seem calmer. Still, the mist that shrouds the vessel makes it feel as if they're steering among clouds.

Waves slap steadily against the sides.

Sturmhond, off by the opposite side of the ship, shares a look with one of his crewmen— a younger Zemeni boy standing as lookout with a long glass in hand.

The boy, named Kellan if she's remembering correctly, lets out loud a cry. Nearly everyone aboard the ship jolts at the sudden call. "Two points off the starboard bow!"

"I saw it!" Marya hears Jira cry out. The Zemeni girl points to the right, eyes wide with disbelief. "I saw it!" she repeats, louder than before.

"It's over there!" one of Sturmhond's men shouts.

The Darkling's people and a few members of both their crews jump up and hurry off to the side.

"Where is it?" she hears Ivan growl among the clamor of loud voices that has taken over the deck.

Tamar strides past her, climbing up the rigging with a lantern in hand. The mist now rises from the sea, climbing onto the deck. It's nearly impossible to see the waters below them.

"It's the Sea Whip!"

Marya spares a brief glance at Mal, who now stands shoulder-to-shoulder with Alina. There's a confused look on his face his failing to hide.

Another row of surprised sounds and shouts echoes as a faint glimmer slides across the water.

"Saints, it's there!" this time, one of the Darkling's people calls out— an Inferni woman.

"Get a longboat down," The Darkling commands from the quarter deck.

Steps shuffle along the whaler, but it becomes harder to tell where they're coming from, or where they're headed. The mast has become shrouded with a gray mist, the light of Tamar's lantern barely visible anymore.

"Harpoons ready!" Sturmhond shouts.

Marya can barely see anymore. Her feet are hidden by the mist, and the world suddenly becomes this strange, off-putting nothingness.

"Where is it?"

"Nets!" the privateer commands. A series of thunks echo against the whaler.

"Clear the mist," she hears the Darkling distantly. Soon after, Marya's own clothes billow against the wind.

The mist lifts, and a wide grin appears on Marya's face. While the Darkling and his Grisha focus on the starboard side of the whaler, the rest of her crew centers around the port side— the side in which a another ship is rapidly approaching.

Gleaming masts, sleek sides and purple colors and a bird with wide wings on its flags. Euphoria explodes in her chest. Her Repentance. And, alongside it, a beautiful schooner flying the flags of a red dog— below it, an all-too familiar symbol. Blue and gold, the Ravkan double eagle.

Marya lets out a wild holler, nerves buzzing alight in her body. Her hand is on her sword as howls and yowls take over the deck.

The fight breaks out faster than she expected. Before she can blink, the Darkling's men have realized what is happening, and jump straight into battle.

         The barking and yapping grows louder as more people board the whaler from all sides. Marya watches as both familiar and unfamiliar faces descend from the rigging.

         "To me, hounds!"

         Pistol shots ring out. An exhilarating breath leaves her lips. Finally.

         The smell of gunpowder hangs in the as Marya lets herself drown in the feel of it all. Het sword swings in her hand, a natural weight. Despite the confusion, the Darkling's people don't waste a moment. One of them lunges for Marya. She slides her leg in a semi-circle, hitting the back of the man's head with the hilt of her sword. She kicks his body forward, sending him off the whaler.

         Her weapon swings with a graceful turn, incapacitating anyone that comes in her path. Off to the side, she sees Angus and Raziya resurfacing from her quarters, bursts of wind and water knocking soldiers off the vessel.

         Gunshots resonate by her sides. The bright blue of Etherealki keftas hurry in her direction, arms raised in front of them. Flames soar towards her. Marya brings her hands together, turning them in a wide arc before thrusting them forwards. Stray bullets from the fight are knocked off their course, finding their target at the center of the two Infernis heads. Flames manage to reach the edge of her sleeve, casting a scalding kiss onto her skin. Marya slaps it off, watching as the two bodies slump against the floor.

The Grisha keep on coming. Heartrenders, Inferni, Squallers and Tidemakers— none of it matters. Steel is steel, and the bodies keep on toppling as Marya cuts the air with her sword. She almost resents the fact that there are no Materialki to fight.

But, alas, her role at the moment isn't to kill and distract.

          "Jira!" Marya shouts, running towards the main mast. A voice feels impossible to hear amongst the yells and cries, among the gunshots and swings of a sword. And yet, just as planned, the Zemeni Fabrikator finds her just as easily.

Jira's braids fly wildly as she jumps to the deck, landing just a few paces in front of her. Her roughspun clothes are dirty with blood and gunpowder. She gives Marya a single nod of confirmation.

The two Fabrikators bring their hands together, palm resting against palm. They each swing their hands into wide semi-circles, before thrusting one arm forward.

The main mast gives a loud, crying creak. The metal base of the mast is already rusted, the coppery patterns on it evident from up close. It takes them less than a moment for the metal and wood to finally give out, snapping in half with a thundering crack.

"Incoming!" Jira yells, rushing to the side as the mast collides against the deck. The whole floor shakes, making them nearly lose their footing.

"Come on!" Marya shouts. The Darkling's soldiers have realized that most—if not all— of the weapons aboard the whaler seem suddenly rusted. And, well, it ought to be a coincidence, no? Even if the rust seems to have a clear pattern, it's not like anyone could've tampered with them, right?

While the Darkling's Grisha lounged around as if on a summer trip, their crew was deep at work. And now, it has given them the upper hand.

         Her work here is done. Now, the time to abandon this Saints damned vessel has finally, finally arrived.

         She runs to the port side of the whaler, towards her precious Repentance. Before she can jump, however, she catches sight of a Heartrender with his arms outstretched in front of Tolya, Alina and Neyar.

         "You're not going anywhere." Ivan.

         Marya doesn't think, she doesn't stop to wonder. Her sword clanks against the deck at the very same moment Ivan freezes on his spot.

         Alina furrows her brows, staring up at Ivan. Tolya's and Neyar's chests stop heaving, knowing looks on both their faces. Neyar grins a bloodied smile.

         "No one," Marya says, hand raised as an open fist. She's close enough to Ivan that she can see the sudden confusion in his face. "No one hurts my crew and lives to tell the tale."

         The kefta that Ivan wears, the same one all First Army Grisha don so proudly, keeps his body still in his position. Marya tightens her fist, and the red collar with that black embroidery starts to tighten. Tighter, tighter, tighter. She glances down at the fabric with sudden interest. "Fabrikator made, no?" she asks innocently.

         Tolya stands up, his hands drawing into a similar motion. Blood sprouts from Ivan's nose, mouth and eyes, before his choking body falls limply against the deck. 

         The Shu Heartrender and Marya share a nod. "Hvala ti," he says in her mother tongue.

     Gunpowder, sweat, blood and saltwater cling to her face. "Anytime." Her eyes turn to Neyar, who's hand is already back on her sword.

         Marya doesn't need to ask. "I'm okay," Neyar heaves, bloodied smile enough to scare away an army.

         She can only grin in response. "Get her on the Repentance," she says gesturing at Alina.

         "You— You're—"

         "Stop them!" the Darkling's voice rings like an piercing echo amongst the chaos.

         "Not done yet, apparently." She gives Neyar a nod, before mouthing, Go.

         The three of them hurry across the deck. There's less and less members of their respective crews aboard the ship, but some still remain. Her sword was lost at some time during the battle, but Marya can't bring herself to care. She has her hands, her pistol, her knives, some wrongs to right and a score to settle.

         An Etherealnik snarls as he turns his wrist with a snap. Marya reaches for her pistol, keeping one of her hands free. The sudden hit of water against her face blinds her for a moment, sending her backwards.

         By the time her vision clears, the man's elbow collides with her jaw. Marya's head knocks to the side. She's falling, falling, falling— so she does the best thing she can do; she brings the Tidemaker down with her.

Her head slams against the deck with a loud thud. Her pistol clatters away from her. With the mere seconds she has in her favor, Marya kicks the man off of her, grabbing a hold of one of his hands. His other hand reaches to free himself, but before he can get the chance, Marya takes one of the knives in her belt and stabs it through his hand.

The Tidemaker cries out, and it gives enough time for Marya to stand up. She looks down at the man, chest heaving.

"Stay down," she breathes out. She stumbles away, ears ringing.

She's barely a few steps away before she has to hold on to the side of the ship. The world spins around her. "Saints," she mutters, and in a strange moment of clarity, she wonders if this is how Karim feels aboard a ship. Seasick, dizzy, like the world is spinning off its axis.

It's because of the ringing in her ears that she doesn't hear it. Not in time, anyways.

The pistol shot rings out in the air.

"Marya!"

Marya's body hits the deck once again— except, this time, her head doesn't feel the dizzying hit of wood against her skull. A hand rests behind her head, and Marya can barely register the body resting on top of her. A flash of blue makes her raise her hands, before realizing it's not blue— it's teal.

Sturmhond's chest heaves on top of her, green eyes staring down at her. Wisps of reddish hair fall over his face. The long, narrow scar over his nose is close enough that if she moves, her own nose would brush against his.

"Are you okay?" he asks, breathless.

Marya lets out breath, a breath that soon becomes a laugh. Her eyelids feel heavier than before, chest still rising and falling unevenly. "Never better."

"Let's get out of here," he says, standing up with a flinch. He offers her a hand, one that she gladly takes. Sturmhond winces as he pulls her up.

Steel against steel. Gunshot, gunshot, gunshot. The whaler is chaos, and the bodies are piling up at a rapid pace.

Like a crack of thunder, tendrils of darkness curl around the whaler, waves and waves of darkness that kill the light in a blink of an eye.

         The Darkling stands across from them in the quarter deck, enraged. His eyes, black as the darkness that surrounds them, are set on both Sturmhond and Marya.

         "You," he snarls, with a type of fury that tells her to run. He curls his hand, a wide blade of pure shadow forming in front of him.

         Another shot rings out, this time, from Sturmhond's pistol. Marya flicks her wrist, redirecting the bullet away from his kefta and towards the Darkling's hand.

         Darkness breaks to nothingness. Through the cold, Marya feels the sun kissing her face.

         His face contorts in rage and disbelief. "Who are you?" the Darkling hisses, voice a river of poison. There's anger there, centuries old.

         The look on her face is inhuman. She feels delirious. "Captain Marya of the Rock." Blood drips down the side of her head. She grins, she bares her teeth like an animal. "Demon of the waters."

         And, with that, the two Captains jump off the whaler, landing with a stumble on the Repentance.

         She can barely hear the voices around her, can barely register the familiar faces. That is, until a pair of familiar gray eyes and blond hair comes to vision.

         The look on Emerens' face is brighter than anything she has ever seen on him before. He offers her a hand that she gladly accepts. "Welcome back, Kapitan." The ship starts to move faster beneath her feet as another sail is unleashed and Angus joins Maksim by the masts.

         Marya yanks Emerens closer to her, giving him a tight hug that he surprisingly returns. She breaks away from him with a wide smile.

         "Feels great to be back."

━━━━━━━━━━━━━

A/N.

this is by FAR the chapter that has taken the longest omg i just wanted to get it over with.

that combo with sturmhond was supposed to be MUCH shorter but!!!! hopefully it doesn't feel too rushed!!!!!!! nikolai really just stole dominik's backstory and lied to marya's face. hm. wonder how that will turn out for him. also marya telling her name to the darkling??? definitely not inspired by odysseus' mistake of telling the cyclops his own name after blinding him. definitely won't have any repercussions in the future. mhm.

anyways!!! i decided to alter both the show and the book and create my own little version of this scene :) i liked how this scene went in the book, but i also really appreciated the fact that alina had a lot more independence/ability to actually choose and dictate what happened with her instead of simply being dragged along for the ride. so!!!! this'll be a combination of the two.

also this fanart is EXACTLY how i envisioned sturmhond in this chapter

look at him. look. at. him. how can you not fall in love with him?????

anyways, thoughts? comments? theories? i really wanna know what u guys thought about this one n about whats coming >:))

[ Started: Aug 9th, 2023 ]
[ Posted: Sept 1st, 2023 ]

( word count: 9.2k )