CHAPTER ONE
❛ 𝙷𝙸𝚂 𝙽𝙰𝙼𝙴 𝙸𝚂 𝚂𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙼𝙷𝙾𝙽𝙳 ❜

         THE SHIP REEKS OF SICKNESS AND DEATH. It's no surprise, given the half-way dead corpses of Grisha hanging belowdecks. Bodies rotting away while hearts still beat— however faintly that may be. The air feels damp, bordering unbreathable. Too heavy to fill your lungs with, the stench of death sticking to it like a second skin.

Fjerdan voices echo above the deck, making one of the eleven walking-corpses perk up. She leans against her forearm, hands bound together with old iron chains. She can't make out the whole conversation, but she does manage to pick up on a few strings of words.

Headcount. Shu Han. Kerch. Ravka. Selling price. Headcount.

         A man by the name of Boden climbs down the ladder, a bored expression imprinted onto his features. Although man would be an exaggeration— the Fjerdan might seem unreasonably tall, but he cannot be that much older than herself. Like clockwork, he comes down once every night, with the occasional exception when another Grisha is brought aboard.

         This makes it the fourth time he's come down to the belly of the ship.

         One of the prisoners, an old Fabrikator, moans out something unintelligible, making Boden sneer. "Tig!" he snaps, the command ricochetting across the room.

         The boat rocks at a steady pace, like a cradle gently swinging side to side. Chains rattle with an eerie echo. The few Grisha prisoners that remain within the bounds of the ship sway with it like pebbles in a river, too weak to move against the current.

         A girl looks down at the ground, beaten. What had once been bright yellow and red Zemeni silks now hang like worn rags, dirty and damp with the sea air. She hangs from her cuffs, hairs of earth curled into what had once been an intricate braid crown. Her copper skin doesn't seem to have lost its color— not in comparison to other Grisha prisoners.

         All in due time, an unspoken voice whispers into the air.

         The girl finally looks up into the blue eyes of the Fjerdan as he passes in front of her. A faint bruise is forming above her nose, and with what appears to be all her remaining strength, she calls out, "Shimkopper,"

         Her tone is a poor attempt at mimicking Boden's, but it's enough to turn the boy's face beet red. So prudish, the Fjerdans. She had nearly forgotten.

         The insult lands her a strike against her face, making her head hang limply to the side. Her cheek stings.

         "You do not speak my language, drüsje." He responds in jagged Zemeni. "You are not worthy of it."

         "You speak of worth," she laughs, shaking her head. She pulls against her chains, attempting to get closer to his face. "Bedragar," she sneers in Fjerdan.

         Impostor.

         Boden narrows his eyes, taking a step towards her. She can feel his ale-stained breath too close for comfort. "Say that again, drüsje," he challenges, one of his hands lingering near a knife by his belt.

         "Bedragar," she spits. "That's what you are is it not?" She tilts her head, body swaying along with the ship. "A crew of impostors parading as the mighty drüskelle."

         "Careful, witch," the boy with the snow-blond hair and ice-blue eyes hisses. "Keep talking, and you might not make it to trial in the Ice Court."

         A chuckle escapes her sore throat. She turns to look up at the sky; instead, she can only see rotting planks of cheap wood. Saints, she misses the stars.

         "Are you a believer, bedragar?" She asks suddenly. Her brown eyes briefly dart back to him before continuing. "I'd say my prayers tonight if you are, because your country's god says that playing pretend drüskelle is one of the highest sins against his sacred law. The drüskelle are his holy order, are they not?"

         Boden straightens, a twisted snarl still playing on his thin lips. "What makes you think I am not drüskelle?"

         She shakes her head. "I've seen enough slavers in this life time to know one when I see one." She leans against her arms for support, body limp. "Selling Grisha is also a sin."

         "Would you rather have us burn you at the pyre?"

         She scoffs a laugh. "And lose the chance to engage with you in this pleasant conversation?"

         "I am drüskelle," he affirms vehemently, proudly standing in what anyone would believe to be real drüskelle uniform. Perhaps it even is— or was.

         The girl laughs. She laughs, and the ship seems to creak around the sound. In the blink of an eye, her body seems to try to recoil on itself, as if the energy is stolen from her very bones. Her voice drags across her throat like stones when she speaks.

         "How many Grisha have you even taken captive?" She shakes her head, scoffing. "Can't be that many."

         "Fifty-two," the man smirks proudly.

         "Fifty-two?" she huffs. "Were they all children? All as old as his sacred ash tree?"

         She's pushing her luck— a real drüskelle would've cut her tongue off for blasphemy.

         The impostor barely notices.

         "No," he taunts. "They were men and women of all ages and cities." His hand slowly wanders away from his knife, a cocky grin parting his cracked lips. "From the Wandering Isle to Ravka and Shu Han."

         "What about Novyi Zem?" She asks.

         The ship creaks in warning.

         "Countless Zemeni Grisha," he mocks. "Too many to remember, witch."

         She searches his gaze for something she doesn't seem to find. Not yet, at least

"Let me narrow it down for you, witch hunter," she drags out the name like an insult. Her brown eyes have a strange glint he does not care to place. "A Suli man traveling with a young one, just leaving Shriftport."

         The rattling of chains and metal seems to pause for a beat, awaiting the man's response. A quiet witness, a lurking omen.

         "A Healer," she continues, "a boy with hair the color of earth, and eyes like the sun. Stolen from the ports near Red Harbor." She leans against her bindings with a newfound determination. She tilts her head to the side. "Does that ring any bells for you?"

Boden stares at her blankly, and for a moment, she wonders if she's spoken too fast for his ice-rotted brain to understand. Another laugh rattles through her chest; this time, it echoes differently. Like hollow bone.

"I'll give you another hint," she drawls out, her voice growing sharper, like sword against steel. "The little boy screamed and cried for Saints as the man was dragged onto a slaver ship just like this one." Her own bindings rattle above her as she lunges at Boden. Her chains keep her just inches away from the slaver. "Begging for Sankta Marya. For Sankt Emerens. For Sankta Neyar. For anyone who would listen." She searches his ice-blue eyes with an anger that wasn't there before. "Does that sound familiar enough?"

The Fjerdan stares down at the chained Grisha for a moment, before a hoarse chuckle echoes within his chest.

         "So what if I did take them?" He mocks, accent heavy on his words. "What if I heard them screaming, and begging, and praying to your saints— and I locked them in chains just like I locked you?" He grins widely, showing off his sharp teeth. "What could you ever do about it, witch?"

         Boden watches as the truth lands on the girl like a pile of rocks. Her resistance against her restraints falters, head hanging low in defeat. The man tilts his chin up victoriously, smirk on his lips as he turns to leave.

         He only makes it to the second step of the ladder before he hears her speak again.

         "Aren't you curious?" She asks quietly, calmly.

         The Fjerdan narrows his eyes. "About what?"

         She looks up at him through tangled curls of hair. "Aren't you curious how I know you aren't drüskelle?" She shrugs her shoulders. "You must be. That uniform looks old enough to have fooled people before."

         "I am drüskelle."

         "Have you been lying for so long that you yourself have forgotten the truth?" She shakes her head. "If I am to die, to be sold to Shu Han or the Kerch, your little mistruth dies with me. Don't you wish to know how I knew?"

         He doesn't answer, but he doesn't leave either. Instead, he waits. He waits, and that's enough confirmation for her to know.

Not drüskelle.

         "Drüskelle might be ruthless and twisted, but they are not cheap."

Slaver.

She scoffs a laugh, and this time, there's a lilt of mirth to her tone.

"That, and well— real witch hunters know that a Grisha's restraints..." her lips part into a grin, "must be a lot tighter than this."

         The chain binding her hands together gets enveloped by a murky haze. The cloud of dark particles dissipates as her restraints clank against the floor with a loud thunk.

         "Surprise," she drawls out.

         "Drüs—" Boden calls out, before promptly being silenced by one of the chains hanging behind him. The metal slithers like a snake around his neck. He struggles, dagger now in hand as he tries to take a swing at the girl. But she moves like the winds, like a shadow. And before he can gather his thoughts, she's standing behind him.

         The Fjerdan strains against his new bindings, and this time, the girl reaches for the two extremes of the chain and yanks it tighter around his neck.

         "Karim Thakkar," she whispers against his ear, voice carrying a deadly edge. "Where is he?"

         "Demjin," the Fjerdan growls out.

Not quite.

Her hands curl around the chains tightly. "A Suli boy. You stole him off the coast of Novyi Zem two weeks ago," she gives another forceful tug, making his body buckle. "Where is he?"

         Boden struggles. Only when his face starts turning purple does he call out. "I don't know, I don't know!"

         A chuckle scratches against her throat as she leans closer to his back. "Are you sure about that, slaver?"

         "I swear!" The man curses in Fjerdan. "We haven't been anywhere near Red Harbor!"

         She loosens his restraints ever so slightly. And much to the Fjerdan's horror, he watches as his dagger bends around, metal digging against his side. "See, you are the fourth slaver to say so. Why is that?"

        He screams as the dagger stabs across his hip.

         "Sten! Sten!"

         She remembers all the times the decaying Grisha of this ship begged him to stop. And despite the fact that her Saints would counsel mercy, she can't find it in herself to offer him a different fate.

         Screams and gunshots echo above the decks. Metal against metal. Bodies falling like sacks of flour. The corner of her lip twitches upward as the two glance above. "I believe your friends are busy at the moment. No help is coming, shimkopper." Blood pools by his side as she asks, "why do you avoid Red Harbor?"

         She yanks the chains again, hissing against his ear.

         "Answer. Me."

         "A pirate!" Boden gasps out. "A pirate is roaming that area!"

         Her brows furrow. "It can't be just a pirate," the confusion in her voice is promptly replaced with that familiar anger. "What's the name?"

         "I don't know, I don't know!"

         She scoffs. "I consider myself to be a patient person, but your whining is making my patience dwindle." The knife digs itself out of his stomach, clattering against the floor.

         "I don't know," he cries out. "I don't remember!" He's crying now, ugly tears mixed with sweat, blood and grime. "Hound-something!"

         "Hound-something doesn't work for me, slaver." Voices echo above the ship, except this time, it's not Fjerdan they're speaking. "Should I carve another hole in you while we wait?"

         "Rain hound— or, or Tempest hound!"

         She exhales, exhausted. "Useless."

         The kicks up the dagger with her foot, catching it with one of her hands while the other holds the chains. She pulls it back, ready to finish him off—

         "Sturmhond!" he gasps, voice laden with a lack of air. "His name is Sturmhond!"

         She doesn't even realize she's slit his throat until blood splatters against her face. His tall body falls limply onto the ground; nothing more than dead weight.

         "Sturmhond," she repeats, lips adjusting to the odd syllables. Sturmhond.

         The hatch hisses as it opens, revealing a blond boy and a Kaelish girl. The two climb down onto the sublevel, the latter grinning.

         "Had fun?" The redhead asks.

         The girl drops the knife as she glances at the dead Fjerdan. Usually, she would whisper a prayer, something to grant his soul some rest.

         She turns away.

         "What'd you find?" the boy questions.

         "They didn't take him," she finally says, voice heavy. "He didn't know."

         "What a waste," he mutters in Kerch.

         In that, they can agree.

         "Did you get anything useful out of him?" the Kaelish girl inquires, green eyes glancing around the place. Dying Grisha left to hang like corpses. She wrinkles her nose.

         "Maybe," she answers distractedly. "A name."

         At that, the two straighten, eyes focused on the girl with the Zemeni skirts. She can feel Boden's blood seeping onto her clothes. What a waste, what a waste, what a waste.

         "Fiona," she says suddenly, and the Kaelish girl stills. "The chains are rusted and the bonds are not too tight. Could you handle the rest?" She gestures at the overwhelmingly unconscious Grisha on the ship.

         She nods her head. "Yes, Kapitan."

         "Emerens. With me."

         The boy and the girl climb up the hatch. The first rays of sunlight warm her skin as she releases a breath. She steps over one of the many dead bodies that litter the main deck. All Fjerdan, she notices, all slavers.

         A Kaelish Squaller mans the sails. She nods in acknowledgment. "Good to see you, Angus."

         "Likewise, Kapitan."

         She turns towards Emerens. "Where are the others?"

         "Expecting us near Weddle," the blond boy responds. "Neyar is under your orders to canvas the coast and interrogate illegal ships."

         "Good."

         She feels his gray eyes doing a quick once-over of her. He releases a breath. "You look like shit," he says, even as he offers her a gray piece of cloth.

         She takes it and wipes the slaver's blood off her face. "It's what happens when you're left under a slaver ship for four days," she hands it back. "You should try it some time. Does wonders for your skin."

         Emerens shakes his head, muttering something she doesn't manage to catch. She walks towards the edges of the ship, fresh air filling her lungs like it's her first ever breath. Her brown eyes flutter closed as she takes it in, heart finally easing up. No stench of dead bodies and grime up here. Only the open sea, boundless and endless.

         "The slaver," Emerens leans against the railing besides her. "What did he say?"

         "He said they couldn't get near Red Harbor," she turns to face him. He looks clean, she notes, the state of her clothes suddenly becoming all the more apparent. Saints, she misses her regular clothes. Maybe Emerens had half the mind to bring a somewhat clean change. "It matches with what the past ships we've taken on have said." Sunlight and saltwater kiss her skin. "Someone was roaming those waters— someone that intimidated most slavers away from the area."

         Neither of them need to say it out loud. Someone was stealing Grisha off Red Harbor—and if there was only one person roaming the bay, he might just be this person who took Karim.

         "You said he gave you a name."

         "A pirate," she nods, "who goes by Sturmhond."

         "Sturmhond," Emerens repeats blankly. He furrows his brows. "It sounds familiar."

         "It better," she inhales sharply. "Because it's who we're after now."

         She pushes her body off the railing, pulling her hair crown loose into a single braid. A cold rush glides within her veins. "Tell Neyar to ask all her informants. Call in favors, break their bones, I don't care," she shares a look with Emerens. "Find out who this Sturmhond person is, and where I can find him."

         She turns her head towards the Kaelish Squaller. "Angus— set sail for Weddle."

         "Yes, Kapitan Marya."

         The Squaller thrusts his hands forward as a gust of wind changes the course of the ship. Emerens easily catches up to her. "What's your plan?" he raises a brow questioningly."We find the pirate— this, this Sturmhond. Then what?"

         Marya breathes out, fingers reaching for the ring hanging from her neck.

         "Then, we kill him."

━━━━━━━━━━━━━

A/N.

captain marya u so hot..... u scare me a little tho

aaahhh chapter one is here!!!! i've been debating for a while whether or not i should post this fic so i let it sit for a week in my drafts and..... i'm still a nikolai simp. a total of zero people are surprised.

thoughts? comments? predictions? i love to hear your thoughts and i'm just,,,,, vibrating with excitement to write marya's story!! i have a few prewritten scenes for the future and i can't wait to show them to you guys :))

[ Started: Jun 11th, 2023 ]
[ Posted: Jun 16th, 2023 ]

( word count: 2.8k )