CHAPTER SEVEN
❛ 𝚉𝙴𝙼𝙻𝚈𝙰 𝚂𝙰𝙽𝙺𝚃'𝚈𝙰 ❜

AS IT TURNS OUT, this ship is not actually Sturmhond's infamous Volkvolny. Marya could sense something was off the moment she realized the Captain's cabin was as barren as land in the Fold. Nevertheless, it was only once she stepped out of said cabin that realization hit her in the face. The stench of blood, bone, and animal fat was no longer hidden underneath the scent of explosives and battle.

This is not a pirate ship. This is a whaler.

And off to the side of the whaler, Marya could see her precious vessel being guided by crewmen she does not know. The harpoons and ropes still tie the two together, leaving the Repentance to look tiny next to the ship they ride on.

"What happened to your ship?" Marya asks, steps easily falling in line with Sturmhond's.

"Client asked for a whaler. So I got him a whaler."

Marya raises a brow. "You stole one."

The man responds with a grin. "Borrowed, bought, stole— who can keep track of those things these days?"

She shakes her head. The sun casts an tangerine glow over the True Sea, illuminating the two vessels. Sturmhond's Tidemakers don't seem to bother with creating another barrier of fog. Not when the sun will be going down soon enough.

Marya feels her nose crinkle as the stench of animal fat hits her again. She can't help the shudder that runs down her spine. She'll have to sink in a tub of incense and flowers to get the smell out of her hair.

"Hounds!" Sturmhond calls out with a booming voice. His crew responds with yapping and howling, making Marya straighten. He stands over the railing, casting all attention onto himself.

She wasn't wrong when she called him a peacock— after all, he seems to flourish underneath the attention. Yet the presence of the bright teal frock coat around his frame feels remarkably peacock-like. Gaudy gold buttons and enormous cuffs decorate the coat— that, along with a brace of pistols at his hips.

It only serves as a reminder of her lack of pistols and knives by her belt. Taken away by his crew, no doubt. And without the familiar weight around her waist, Marya has to consciously stop herself from rubbing her wrists. They still feel sore, the phantom weight of the chains still lingering. She inhales. Nothing a little sea air can't fix.

"I'm sure you've already acquainted yourselves with our new guests," Sturmhond voices, gesturing at Marya. She places her hand by her hip, missing the familiar weight of her pistols. "I ask that you treat them with the same respect you treat each other— they are our partners now."

Marya doesn't need to see below to sense the sudden confusion and anger emanating from the deck. She takes a step forward, making sure the crewmen and deckhands can see her standing besides the ruddy-haired Captain.

From where she stands, she spots Emerens and Neyar standing off to the side, eyes vigilant. They wear matching withering glares, and Marya doesn't miss the lack of a sword at her Quartermaster's back.

"We will need full cooperation from everyone here for this to work," Sturmhond stresses, eyes traveling amongst the reluctant frames of his crew.

The silence is deafening. He exhales loudly, gesturing with his hands. "Go on, then."

But Marya's crew doesn't move. They don't even flinch. Instead, they glare up at Sturmhond with that familiar heat, transfixed to their spots. Marya doesn't miss the way Angus flicks his wrist, ready to summon enough wind to throw the pirate off his feet.

"Squallers," Marya calls out, hand holding onto the railing. She casts a warning glance at the Kaelish man. "You will accompany Sturmhond's crew with the sails." She sets her jaw, carefully analyzing the postures and silent expressions of the others. "The rest of you, I don't want to see you picking any fights. Emerens, Neyar, with me."

There's a visible divide between the two pirate crews— a tangible tension. Like the Fold itself, standing between the men and women on the deck of whaler. Her Second in Command and Quartermaster share a brief look, before heading up to meet with their Captain. Marya meets them at the top of the stairs.

"What the hell is this?" Emerens hisses.

"What happened?" Neyar demands.

Marya casts a sideways glance at the Captain, who stands to the side, pretending not to eavesdrop on their conversation. Marya rolls her eyes, turning so her back faces him. "There's been a slight change of plans."

"Yeah, no shit."

Marya ignores the blond. "I trust you two will make it a priority to keep our people in check?" She looks down at the deck, at the unfamiliar faces with pistols and swords within arm's reach. To the familiar faces, all notably unarmed. "And making sure his people don't overstep."

Emerens narrows his eyes, looking over the Suli girl's shoulder. "Are trusting him or are we not trusting him?" His lips twist into a scowl. "Because I've already got my opinion on the matter."

"He's a rich pirate," Marya retorts. "Of course we're not trusting him." She exhales, voice dropping ever-so slightly. "We're sticking around so long as it is convenient for us."

Neyar stares at her, as if trying to decipher a riddle she can't even start to make sense out of. Her disapproval ripples off her in waves. "Since when do we help slavers?" she questions, an undeniable disbelief clinging to her voice. "You know how the others will feel about it."

Marya finds herself playing with one of her rings. "Then let them know he's not a slaver."

Neyar's posture relaxes slightly. "You're sure?"

Marya considers it. "Nearly." She places her hand on Neyar's shoulder. "Rest assured, if I'm wrong, I'll be the first to raise a pistol against him."

"Works for me," Emerens exhales, though Marya can tell he's not letting his guard down. None of them are.

The Suli girl inhales sharply, then exhales softly. She looks down at the crew, at the faces she knows, at the faces that are missing. "Tell me."

Neyar's fingers fiddle in the edge of her belt, hovering over the spot of her notably empty sheath. "We have several injured and wounded belowdecks. Two dead."

Damn it. "Who's gone?"

"Lev and Aleksei," Neyar responds stiffly. "They got caught in the crossfire."

Marya runs a hand through her curls. Two dead. It could be worse— a lot worse. But it could also be better. Her chest rises and falls. "Let's give them a proper rest, then," she says finally. "Have someone carry their bodies to the center of the deck."

Neyar departs with a nod, heading down the stairs towards Damien and Jira. Marya is certain the Kerch boy has followed suit, up until she hears his voice. "Are you gonna explain?" he asks, tone surprisingly serious.

Marya opens her eyes with a huff. Brown meet gray. "Explain what?"

"We were their prisoners just a few hours ago," Emerens snaps, glancing back at the red-headed Captain. He seems to be talking to one of the Shu Heartrenders, just out of hearing range. Emerens' accusatory gaze flits back to her. "Why are we working with them now?"

"Plans change, Emerens," Marya dismisses. "I thought you of all people would know that." She turns to leave, back already facing towards her Second, when his hand latches around her arm.

"You were off your game when we boarded," he hisses. Marya's head snaps towards his, gray eyes meeting brown evenly. He glances around, voice dropping to a whisper. "You need to center yourself— and if that's coming from me, then we've got an issue, and you know that."

He's right, and Marya won't dignify his words with a lie. Because if Emerens is the one to point out how off she is, then rock bottom might not be as far as she thought.

"I'll handle it," she responds stiffly, and he lets go of her arm. She nudges her head. "Gather everyone below."

Marya is barely given a few steps of solitude, before a new presence hovers near her. The final rays of sunlight cast a warm aura around Sturmhond, pink and orange hues framing his face.

"Captain," he greets, watching as the shorter pirate approaches.

"We're doing a service for the fallen," she says in a clipped tone. Her hand curls around the railing. "You're welcome to join."

Sturmhond watches her for a moment, and Marya gets the distinct feeling she's under scrutiny. He eventually nods, pensive look on his features. He gestures at one of his deckhands to approach, giving him instructions Marya doesn't care enough to listen to.

Sundown is nearly upon them by the time the preparations are ready. It's discouraging, watching the bodies in the middle of the deck, surrounded by the stink of bone and whale meat.

There are five bodies on the deck. Lev and Aleksei on the right, and three others she does not recognize. From where she stands, she can see the stab wound that gave an end to the Tidemaker, as well as the two bullet wounds that killed the boatswain. They've laid out two separate sheets of blue cloth underneath them, with two other Ravkan Grisha of her crew standing the closest to their corpses.

Neyar is at her left and Emerens at her right when Sturmhond gestures for her to go ahead. She inhales, then exhales. This time, the scent of open seas fills her lungs.

Marya gently taps her forehead, then presses her palm against her chest. A symbol of prayer. She looks up at her crew, easily discarding the unfamiliar faces that stand opposite to them.

"To our friends," she begins, voice as loud and clear as the crest of a wave, "and those who hunt them in the dark." She licks her lips, forcing herself to look down at the pale bodies of the two Ravkan crewmen. Her hand curls around her necklace, the rusted ring hanging from the leather cord pressing against her palm. "May the waves carry them to a safe harbor, and let the Saints receive them on a brighter shore. We ask that you forgive all that can be forgiven."

A murmur echoes above the deck of the whaler.

"May the Saints receive them, and forgive all that can be forgiven," she hears her crew chorus back— even those she knows aren't religious. Angus and Fiona stand closer than ever before, staring at their Captain with newfound fervor in their eyes. Maksim, Anya and Raziya stand with their jaws tight and shoulders stiff. Off to the side, Jira, Bram and Darius glare at Sturmhond's men.

It's been a while since they've had a funeral among their ranks.

By her side, Marya hears Neyar voicing a similar prayer in Shu. Even Emerens brings himself to mutter a few words in Kerch, head held low as a sign of respect.

"Today we lay rest to our friends," Sturmhond suddenly starts, and Marya feels the way Neyar tenses besides her. The Captain raises his chin, choosing to gaze at his crew instead of the five bodies lain across the floors. "To Andrey. To Khair. To Milena." He turns to her, a nearly imperceptible gesture. "To Aleksei. To Lev."

She furrows her brows. When did he learn their names?

Marya looks down at the five corpses. Aleksei. Lev. Andrey. Khair. Milena. She commits each of them to memory. Five losses is nothing to an army. But to a crew? To a family?

Living at sea means living in close quarters. It means learning to coexist with people from all over the world. People with different beliefs, traditions, wishes and fears.

Five losses is enough to make a ship feel emptier.

"May the Saints receive them," Sturmhond announces, and Marya realizes she's zoned out.

"May the Saints receive them," his crew choruses, and Marya finds herself joining them.

Aleksei. Lev. Deserters of the First and Second Army. People who sought out a better future for themselves— one beyond wars, beyond battlefields, beyond the role of pawns for Kings and Queens. Andrey. Khair. Milena. People she didn't know. Three lives, ended in the blink of an eye.

         "To our friends," Marya repeats, louder this time. The words seem foreign to the strangers— and she's not surprised.

         "And those who hunt them in the dark," her crew responds just as loudly. Emerens, Neyar, Bram, Jira, Anya, Darius, Raziya, Angus, Fiona— they all hold their heads up, letting their words echo over the deck. And, like that, the funeral is given a close.

Marya inhales sharply. She closes her eyes for a brief moment, and she can hear shuffling across the floors of the whalers. Final funeral rites are due before deciding what to do with the bodies. Should they bury them once they reach Novyi Zem? Should they give them to the sea? Should they wait, and bury them back in their respective homelands?

Somewhere the water runs, Marya thinks. She'll give Aleksei and Lev a proper grave near the coast— somewhere the wind runs and the water kisses the ground. Somewhere flowers grow. Somewhere they can rest.

"What does it mean?" she hears suddenly, making her eyes snap open. Sturmhond stands besides her, eyes with a curious glint in them. Now that he's close to her, she notices just how tired he looks. She can't imagine she's any better. "And those who hunt them in the dark," he quotes.

Marya exhales, fingers reaching for the ring hanging from her neck by a faded leather chord. Her fingers glide down the sides of it. "We believe everyone deserves a chance to rest when the end comes," she responds simply, "after all, we're all someone's enemy, are we not?" Marya shrugs. "It's up to the Saints to determine whether they're deserving of it or not."

         "My, my." He raises a brow. "Quite the poet you are, Captain."

She scoffs, shaking her head. Not a poet, she thinks, and doesn't quite understand why the word makes her insides twist uncomfortably. "I want my crew to get their weapons back."

"Consider it done."

She eyes him for a moment. "I would be careful with them," she warns. "If my Quartermaster finds a single scratch on her sword, I won't be the one to stand between you and her fury."

A hint of a smile curls onto the corners of his lips. "Noted." Sturmhond turns to look at the people on his stolen ship. The faces he knows, the faces he doesn't. "Have you made your decision on which members of your crew will be staying with us?"

Marya quirks a brow. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you're trying to get me with less of my people around."

He scoffs a laugh, but something tells her he's not above that. "That's simply an added plus, Captain."

Marya purses her lips, but doesn't say anything. They've already discussed this— despite how much she may disagree with the idea of it. All part of Sturmhond's glorious plan.

The Suli girl gazes back at her people. Her index finger taps against her waist at a steady pace. A few members of her crew will go back on the Repentance— for two precise reasons.

First, to avoid arising suspicion. After all, a whaler only needs so many people to be manned. And if Sturmhond's client has only hired him to acquire and transport a package, it'll surely raise doubts if the crew is twice as large as it should be.

Secondly— and most importantly— to serve as backup. From what Marya understands, Sturmhond plans to stab his client in the back— and if he's as dangerous as he claims, they'll need an escape route.

Although, his loose explanations have left room for gaps— for doubts. And while Marya would not trust Sturmhond with something as menial as cleaning the deck, suspicion is certainly not the best way to start off a partnership. What's stopping him from ditching her? What if he's simply trying to get her on the ship with less of her own people around her? What was his plan before they made an alliance? Does this mean he has a bigger crew that he had to split when he stole the whaler? Where's his real ship?

"Keep as many Squallers as you can spare," Sturmhond says, and Marya can only nod— nod, smile, and pretend like she actually trusts the snake not to bite her when the time comes.

"I'll go get a few things from my ship," she says, motioning at Emerens— who, much to her relief, is carefully watching a few Grisha from Sturmhond's crew. "Emerens." His gray gaze meets her brown one. She gives him a quick sign. Keep your eyes open.

"Aye, Kapitan," he mocks, but does as told. He straightens, shooting Angus and Raziya a quick look. The Squaller and the Tidemaker nod subtly in response.

"Neyar," Marya says, and the Shu girl looks at her with an unimpressed look.

"I want my sword back," she says dryly, narrowing her eyes at Sturmhond.

"And you'll get it," she promises, also feeling the lack of a weapon by her belt. She misses it. Marya nudges her head. "Come on."

"Tamar," Sturmhond calls suddenly. Marya half turns, spotting a girl looking down at her from the rigging. Her stare and posture grant her the look of a bird of prey. Marya tenses her jaw. "Accompany them, will you?"

She turns to face the red-haired Captain with a poorly-concealed sneer. "What? Don't trust me?"

"With a face like yours?" Sturmhond chuckles, turning towards his quarters. "Never."

Tamar hoists herself down from the rigging, landing a few steps shy of Neyar. The Shu woman looks up at the sky, and neither of them miss the glint of the twin axes on her hips. "We're losing sunlight," Tamar says casually, nudging her head towards the neighboring ship. "Let's get moving."

The three women step near the edge of the ship. The Repentance is at a decent distance— enough to avoid crashing against the whaler, but close enough to make the jump manageable. Marya reaches for one of the ropes, pulling it first to check its state. Then, without a word, her fists curl around it and she launches herself forward. For just a moment, Marya is suspended across the air, body as light as a feather. For just a moment, Marya is a bird gliding across the air like it's her domain.

Her leather boots land with a loud thud. Her whole body shakes with her landing, but she manages to stay on her two feet. She exhales loudly. Saints, just a second on her ship and the smell already changes. Gone is the rotten air of blood and bone.

"I take it you're the one who nearly killed me," Marya says, just as she hears another thud behind her. The steps are too heavy to belong to Neyar. The moment she turns, she's faced with Tamar standing just a few paces away from her, eyes gleaming with an indescribable look.

Neyar lands besides them, letting go of the rope as soon as her feet make contact with the deck.

Tamar shrugs her shoulders. "I tend to make memorable first impressions."

Marya scoffs. "You certainly do." She watches the Shu woman with a closer eye this time. Despite his phrasing being off and his intentions being questionable, Sturmhond was right earlier— Heartrenders are rare at sea.

Over in Ravka, they're considered of the highest, most powerful order of Grisha. Something Marya disagrees with, naturally, but such is the belief in Ravkan shores. Corporalki rarely leave their countries— in Ravka they're treasured, in other countries such as Shu Han or Fjerda, they usually manage to lay low and survive the longest. After all, a Summoner can only be of so much use to a village. Water crops, create amicable weather— but one storm too-heavy is enough for people to turn on them. But a Healer? As long as they pull their weight, Marya has found townsfolk are willing to keep quiet about their gifts. Such is the nature of humans— they'll only side with you as long as you're of value.

Marya has been at sea for years already, hunting slavers for a rather large fraction of them. She's rarely ever encountered Corporalki— and even when she did, they never chose to stay at sea. It's understandable, when she thinks about it. There are a significantly lesser amount of hearts pumping blood in the middle of the True Sea— meaning their gift becomes unusually more obsolete. And yet, when you do find a Heartrender in open waters, well... their first encoutnet was enough of a reminder not to underestimate Tamar nor Tolya again.

She wonders what Sturmhond did to get them to stay in his crew.

"Tamar, yes?" Marya asks. When Tamar nods, she offers her hand. "I'm Marya. I don't believe we had a chance for introductions before— what with you trying to kill me and all."

Tamar shakes her hand, unfazed. "You tried to murder our Captain."

"Well, he's still alive and kicking, isn't he?" Neyar counters. Her jaw is tense, and Marya can tell she doesn't trust the Heartrender in front of them. Not that she thinks any differently.

Tamar raises a brow. "And you are?"

"Neyar. Quartermaster," she says coldly. "I believe it was your brother who tried to kill me. Stole my sword while he was at it."

         Ah, so that explains the passive aggressiveness.

Tamar's brows furrow, fleeting recognition sparking in her eyes. "Marya and Neyar?" she repeats slowly. Her stare lingers on Neyar. She asks her a few words in Shu— words that the Quartermaster pointedly ignores.

"Watch your step," she responds, brushing past the Heartrender. She looks up at the strangers manning the sails. Her jaw twitches. "If anyone touched anything inside my room..." Neyar warns.

Marya watches the Squaller moving her beloved ship, the woman standing at the helm. Two people she's never met before— for all intents and purposes, complete strangers. She doesn't like it. Marya and Neyar share a look. "I won't be the one to stop you."

The Captain's eyes linger on the men and women by the sails of her ship. Focus. This is not the place nor time for this.

         Marya sighs, running a hand through her curls. There's a stiffness in her bones that doesn't seem to be letting up. "Get your things. Meet me back here in a minute."

         Neyar's golden eyes linger on Tamar's frame, before reluctantly nodding. She heads towards the stairs, ready to find her cabin belowdecks. Marya spins on her heel, hand finding the door to her cabin before pushing it open. Close behind her, she can hear Tamar's steps— steps that don't even try to fall in line with hers.

"My own personal shadow," Marya mocks as the two enter her cabin. The scent of myrrh, clove and spices lingers in the air like a warm coat. She inhales softly. "Should I feel flattered?"

"Trust is earned." Tamar looks around, and Marya doesn't miss the momentary surprise in her face as she surveys the interior.

         She supposes it is a stark contrast to the Captain's cabin aboard the whaler. Shelves stacked with glass bottles— most of them filled to the brim with roots, petals, dried leaves and handmade powders. It's a large collection— one that has taken her time to acquire. Dark purple silks hang from her bed and window, old books written in Ravkan stacked upon any possible surface. Marya steps closer to the center table— a stolen piece from a Kerch ship. Beautiful craftsmanship that would've wasted away at some mercher's mansion.

         She shakes her head, reaching for a few items strewn across the wooden surface. "It's rude to stare," Marya comments, gathering a few essentials. Knives. Bullets. A pouch of incense and jurda.

Tamar lets out a low whistle. "I like it."

She chuckles. "Appreciate it." She turns towards her shelves, just to see Tamar lingering by her window.

         The final rays of sunlight cast an iridescent halo over the room, the colorful glass creating a luminous picture. Violet, blue, red and yellow crystal make up the intricate stained glass design.

Tamar's hand reaches forward, as if to trail the silhouette. "It's..."

"Custom-made." Marya cuts her off. She meets Tamar's gaze for a moment. Her hair falls over her line of sight, before she brushes it away with a breath. "Took a good long while to get it right as well, so break it and I break you."

Tamar chuckles, but retrieves her hand nonetheless. "Given how our last encounter turned out, I'd have no issue giving you a rematch."

         "You caught me off guard," she justifies. Her fingers curl tightly around one of her knives, before she places it inside her belt with one swift motion. "It won't happen again."

         Marya reaches for a book cast halfway open on her table. She eyes the cover carefully, before stuffing it into her bag as well. She doesn't like Tamar lingering inside her cabin— the way she looks at things, as if trying to get a read her. Trying to figure her out.

Tamar's sharp gaze focuses on one of the maps cast over her table.

         "Let's go," Marya says suddenly. She opens the door, waiting for Tamar to go through it first. Once they're both out, she adds, "I don't think your Captain appreciates being left waiting."

"In that, you'd be correct."

The voice comes from above them. Marya turns around, only to see Sturmhond leaning against the banister with a grin on his lips. His teal frock follows his movements as his green gaze scours the place.

"Gorgeous ride you've got here," he says satisfactorily. There's an air of smugness to him that grates at Marya. "The Repentance. I like it."

         Her jaw twitches. What the hell is he doing on her ship? "You're starting to get on my nerves."

Sturmhond quirks a brow. "Only starting?"

She meets his gaze for a moment, as if waiting to see his next move. Before either of them can add anything else, wooden floors creak behind them. Marya turns, finding Neyar walking from belowdecks with one of Sturmhond's crew trailing after her. She narrows her eyes. The stranger keeps his distance, but there's no doubt that he serves the same purpose as Tamar.

         Keeping an eye on them.

"Did you get everything you needed?" Sturmhond asks, but Marya makes a point to ignore him.

Instead, she looks over at Neyar. "Got all essentials?"

The Shu girl nods, gesturing at the twin leather bags strapped across her waist. The corner of her lips lift upward. "Snatched a few things from Emerens' quarters too."

"Good." She nods, turning back to the ruddy-haired pirate. "Head back with the others— I'll be right with you."

         Neyar doesn't protest. Sturmhond shoots Tamar a nod, before moving back towards the quarter deck. Marya's hand latches onto the railing, following the man up the stairs.

         Sturmhond says something to the woman at the helm— something she doesn't quite manage to catch. Marya peers at him with cautiousness. He moves around her ship as if he's been living in it for years— as if he's memorized every nook and corner of the Repentance.

         She doesn't like it. She doesn't like it at all.

         Sturmhond must sense Marya's hard stare, as he turns away from the helm and towards the Captain. He looks at her with a strange glint in his eye.

         "What?"

"Zemlya Sankt'ya," he says, and Marya finds herself straightening. The words roll off his tongue with native ease. Perhaps he has been wandering around her ship for longer than she thought. Or perhaps he simply has a keener eye than she initially gave him credit for. Otherwise, she doubts he would've noticed the words delicately carved onto the edges of the helm. "Land of the Saints." He glances back at the helm, at the woman driving her ship, before striding towards her.  Marya feels her back growing taut. "I thought you weren't fans of Ravka."

"What makes you say that?"

He shrugs. "Call it a hunch."

"Ravka," Marya repeats, as if the word sounds foreign to her. Back in Ketterdam, she told him Ravkan was her native tongue— she wonders if he still believes that, if he ever did at all.

         Land of the Saints. Zemlya Sankt'ya. As it turns out, most miracles and martyrdoms have happened on Ravkan soil— with a few exceptions. But what does that even mean? Saints aren't a Ravkan treasure. The Suli were there long before that nation came to be. Centuries before the borders between Ravka, Fjerda and Shu Han even existed. Before mindless kings and warmongering queens were sitting on thrones sending people off to fight pointless battles.

         Marya exhales, looking up at the pirate with an impassive look. "Land is land," she says easily. She sidesteps him, ready to head down the stairs and back onto the whaler. "It's not about who inhabits it."

         She doesn't hear what Sturmhond responds, but she can feel his gaze on her like a thousand pricks on her body. Despite their loud mouths, Sturmhond and his crew are more clever than they let on. They keep their gazes sharp and focused, as if waiting for the moment she'll let something slip.

         It's like walking on eggshells. One wrong move, and they'll know where to push. Where to hit to make it hurt.

         She looks up at him from below, fist already curling around a rope. "I'll send a Squaller and two other members of my crew," she says with finality, leaving no room for argument. "By the time they get here, I want your people off my ship."

         Sturmhond chuckles, but nods nonetheless. He doesn't look nearly as convinced as he may think.

         By the time Marya swings back onto the whaler, the woody aroma of the Repentance has been wiped and changed for the stench of animal fat and blood. She scrunches her nose, thankful she had the mind to pocket a pouch of incense.

         A dull thud lands next to her, and Marya doesn't need to move to know it's him. The scent of pinewood, rum and oak is enough for her to know. That, and ever since she agreed to this partnership, he seems hellbent on becoming her shadow wherever she goes.

"If you—" Sturmhond begins, but is swiftly cut off by a scream.

Marya and Sturmhond's head snap so quickly their necks nearly splinter. Over on the opposite side of the whaler, they catch a glimpse of a large flame soaring across the deck, narrowly missing one of Sturmhond's crew.

The sound of pistols clicking and swords unsheathing is deafening. Marya watches as Grisha, both from her and his crew alike, pull their hands out in front of them in a defensive position. Summoners, Fabrikators and Heartrenders hold their arms out. Men and women aim their guns and knives. One move, and this alliance goes to hell before it has even begun.

"Stand down, stand down!" Sturmhond commands, and the circle of people seems to let up.

But someone is still screaming.

Marya steps through the wall of people, reaching the center. Whatever she had been expecting to see, the sight in front of her is a surprise.

         Emerens has his arms around Anya's waist, struggling to hold her back. But the Inferni thrashes in his grip, screaming as if her voice knows no bounds. Marya doesn't miss the tears in her eyes.

"Anya." Marya says, voice as sharp as a sword's edge. "That's enough."

The Inferni pays her no mind. "He killed him," she cries out, voice an amalgamation of grief, anger and vengefulness. The Ravkan girl struggles against Emerens, body shaking. Whether its because of rage or sorrow, Marya can't tell.

"He killed him." Through tears, Anya glares at a man a few paces away from them. "He's the one who killed Aleksei."

"Your little friend killed two of ours," the Zemeni man bites, a snarl pulled onto his lips. "I put him down, and I would do it again."

Anya screams again, flames igniting above her hand as she frees it from Emerens' grasp. Steps shuffle and weapons are raised.

"ENOUGH!"

The flame in Anya's hand extinguishes, blue eyes looking at her through a curtain of tears. She stares at her Captain, and Marya takes a step towards her. "Anya, I'm only gonna say this once." Her hand reaches for the Inferni's wrist, carefully pulling it down. "Stand. Down."

         Marya's watchful gaze meets with Emerens'. He still holds Anya in place, but there's a dangerous glint in his gray eyes. Something that tells her he doesn't just want to let go of her, but he would love to join her.

         Realization feels like a flash of lightning, like electricity against her spine. The whaler is silent— completely and utterly silent. Fists tighten around pistols and knives. Out of the corner of her eye, Marya can see Neyar's hand on the hilt of her sword, jaw so tense it might splinter.

This is bad. This is very, very bad.

"Back to your posts," Sturmhond orders, and there's a reluctance in his crew's movements.

"That means everyone," Marya adds, and it takes them a moment before her people shuffle along the deck with that same unwillingness. Hands still linger near their guns and swords, and Marya at least finds it in herself to be thankful that her crew have gotten their weapons back. At the very least, if a fight breaks out, it'll be a fair one.

"Let go of me," Anya sneers, voice wavering and cracking. Emerens swiftly does as told, leaving the Inferni with a glare and a shaking frame.

"Anya—" Marya starts.

"Don't," she snaps, yanking her hand away from her grasp. Marya has never seen her so out of it before, as if caught in a daze. "Don't touch me."

Anya stumbles off, probably heading belowdecks. Marya follows her steps with her eyes, jaw clenched. She can't say she blames her for her behavior— not when she knows the close friendship she held with the Ravkan Tidemaker.

"You need to keep your people in check."

Sturmhond's voice is enough to make Marya want to bite his head off.

"And you need to manage the mouths of your crew," she retorts, glare setting on the taller man. She does a quick once-over of him. "It seems they take after their Captain in that regard."

His voice carries a new edge. "At least my people have the good sense not to set others on fire."

"He's fine," Marya scowls, not even casting a glance at the man Anya tried to murder. "The fact that he hasn't been reduced to ash says plenty." This time, she allows her gaze to travel towards the Zemeni man. She can't find it in herself to hide her contempt. "Tell him to keep his tongue in check." Her eyes return to Sturmhond. "I'm not stopping Anya the next time."

"Maksim," she says, turning towards a brunet boy lingering near the hatch. She exhales, expression softening ever-so slightly. "Go check on her. Please."

Maksim nods once. "Yeah. Yes, Kapitan."

Marya inhales, then exhales. Her heart is beating faster than it should, and she'd be lying if she said this whole situation isn't leaving her on edge.

"Anya, you said?" Sturmhond works his jaw with his knuckles. "She's a ticking time bomb. Rigged to blow the longer she stays on here." Brown meet green, and his eyes look darker than before. "I want her off this ship."

His words nearly make her laugh.

"You want, you want," Marya mocks sourly. She can't help the snarl that pulls at her features. "I want to snap your man's head off. I want to use the buttons of your coat to choke you to death. I want to be on my way and never have to see you or your crew again." She glares up at him, and from up close, she can see the half-hidden contempt in his gaze. "Clearly, this situation is not making either of us content."

"If all of your crew are as explosive as her," he says, voice eerily calm. He tilts his head, "then I don't think this is going to work."

She wants to gut him like a carp. "She's not explosive. She's grieving," she scowls. Her heart hammers against her ribcage like a wave against a mountain. She inhales, exhales. Calm yourself. You need this partnership to work. Breathe. "She and Aleksei served together in the Second Army. Grew up in the Little Palace before being taken by drüskelle." Marya glances back at the hatch, and she can't help the image her mind conjures. Anya crying her eyes out over Maksim's shoulder, holding each other like the world might split in half. She breathes out. "I don't think they've never been apart before."

         "Lovers, then," Sturmhond says, and something in his tone tells her he doesn't really believe it.

         "No." Marya's voice has settled now. Her breathing levels out, and the waves in her lungs ease slightly. Over Sturmhond's side, she spots Tolya and Tamar lingering near the edge, watching their exchange like birds of prey. "Not lovers. Kebben." There is no recognition in Sturmhond's gaze. "Your Heartrenders understand," she says, and turns to leave.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━

NIGHT FALLS FASTER THAN EXPECTED. After the scuffle on the whaler's decks, the day seems to bleed away into darkness. And, despite not getting proper sleep in days, Marya can't find it in herself to lie down.

         Restless energy, she can hear Karim say with a teasing edge. What was it that Amma used to call you?

         Marya gnaws at the inside of her cheek, knee bobbing. Up, down, up, down. The stars blink down at her. She closes her eyes.

         Zheka. Little rabbit.

         She shakes her head, willing the thought away. It's been years since she's heard that name— nearly a decade since she was last called it.

        Zheka, she thinks bitterly. Her mother used to say it with such care, like the word itself was honey on her lips. She can't help but feel the irony of it. Yes, naive little bunny, who walks into the middle of the forest, unaware of the beasts that could kill her with a snap of their jaws.

         Mayra exhales softly, turning to look up at the sky. No clouds in sight. Just the moon over the sea, the stars twinkling in the distance. Nights are growing warmer, meaning they can only be a day away from Novyi Zem— two at most.

         The barrel she sits on creaks underneath her as she shifts her body. Night air kisses her skin, reminding her where she is. Few people remain on deck— and this time, the night shift is equally spread between her crew and Sturmhond's.

         Up ahead, Marya can see Hilde manning the sails. The Fjerdan Squaller looks surprisingly pristine for someone who got knocked out clean. There's a cut above her lip and forehead, a bruise forming by her temple. She seems a little banged up, but otherwise okay. Marya notices Maksim's absence, but chooses to let it go. If anything, he's probably with Anya.

         "Can't sleep?"

         The wooden box beside hers creaks as the boy takes a seat. Marya lifts her legs off the barrel between them. The moonlight does little to illuminate Sturmhond's face. He's looking at her— that's as far as she can tell.

         "Maybe I just like the view."

         Sturmhond hums, exhaling. "We'll be arriving tomorrow afternoon."

         At least all the commotion hasn't gotten to her sense of direction. Less than two days worth of travel to reach Cofton. It means they'll be arriving right on schedule. Hopefully earlier— a few hours is all she needs to find a place for Lev and Aleksei.

         Despite the lack of light, Marya schools her face to look as impassive as she can manage. "This'd be a good time for you to explain the details of your plan."

         He chuckles. "That's for me to know, isn't it?"

         Marya's lips twitch. "I don't appreciate being blindsided." She turns to stare at the boy. Why's he here now? He doesn't seem like the type to do things without ulterior motives. She tilts her head, eyes narrowing slightly. "Who's your client?" she asks. "You called him a god." A false god, if she remembers correctly.

         She doesn't need lighting to tell the smugness radiating off him. "I'm sure you've heard of him." He pauses, lips quirking upward. "The Black General."

         "The Darkling hired you?" Marya scoffs, a small laugh bubbling up her chest.

         She's heard rumors of Ravka's general. One of his ancestors is said to have created the Little Palace. A sanctuary for Grisha. The idea itself sounds beautiful, but Marya can't help the unease that the name gives her. A training ground for soldiers— children tested across Ravka and taken from their families without thought. If the Little Palace is the sanctuary it claims to be, she can't help but wonder why she's stumbled upon so many Ravkan Grisha escaping from it— or why those taken by drüskelle and slavers don't wish to return. Maksim, Anya, Aleksei and Fatima are more than enough evidence of that.

         The Darkling. General Kirigan, if she's not mistaken. The current Shadow Summoner comes from a long line of men like him, always lingering too close to the crown. False kings and false gods. Marya finds it she doesn't care for either one.

And yet...

She's heard whispers of what happened in Novokribirsk. Of the Fold swallowing half a city like it was nothing. Of wisps of darkness eating away at life, slowly expanding beyond its centuries-old bounds.

All because of the Darkling's doing. And the Sun Summoner, if rumors are to be believed.

         She laughs. The Black General, the Darkling, General Kirigan— he has hired a pirate? What ever for? She's certain he has more than enough connections to the crown to do as he pleases without getting his hands dirty. Men like him would not associate with people like themselves. And so, Marya laughs— but Sturmhond doesn't.

         Marya's amusement recedes, leaving her with a strange feeling in her gut. He's not serious— surely, he's not serious. "Say it's a joke," she says, but the man only looks up at the stars. What kind of General would hire a pirate? Better yet, what kind of pirate would accept an offer from a man like the Darkling?

Marya gets the distinct feeling she will not like the answer.

"You're mad."

         Sturmhond shrugs, and now that he's close to her, she can see the loose smirk on his lips. "I prefer bold. Adventurous. Valiant."

         "The line between bravery and stupidity is dangerously thin, Sturmhond. And I get the feeling you take pleasure in playing jumprope with it." Marya straightens, a sudden seriousness lacing her words. "You want to betray the Darkling?" she asks in disbelief. It explains a few things. Why he needs more firepower— why he needs another ship. "I'm not sending my crew off to their deaths."

         "You won't," he assures. He meets her gaze, and exhales. "Come on, Captain," he coaxes, "I thought you were more daring than that." His muddy green eyes linger on her for a moment. On her eyes. On her nose. On the line of her jaw. He traces her features as if committing them to memory.

         She shifts on her seat, once again feeling under scrutiny. And so, she returns the gesture, and studies him with the same regard. Red hair that seems to have grown darker since their first encounter. Eyes that look a strange green tone. Broken nose that certainly must have more than a couple stories attached to it.

         "I'd heard about you, you know," he hums suddenly, and his tone has shifted into something different. "About a crew of ghosts that hunts slavers all across the True Sea. From the stretch of Novyi Zem and the Wandering Isle to the Fjerdan shores. You've rescued countless Grisha from slavers, drüskelle and mercenaries alike." His lips curl into a lopsided smile. "A noble cause."

"Flattery will get you nowhere."

Sturmhond doesn't seem discouraged with her lack of a proper response. Instead, he simply adds, "I was hoping we'd meet eventually."

Oh? "What about you?" Marya questions, tilting her head. Her eyes search his face. "Rich pirate. What's your cause?"

"Privateer. It's an important distinction." he corrects, and Marya raises a brow. "I find it whoever has the fattest purse has my loyalties."

Privateer or pirate, morals seem to be the same. "When loyalty can be bought, is it really loyalty at all?"

A nearly unnoticeable glint dances his eye. "Perceptive," he murmurs. His stare lingers on her face before he turns away. "You've yet to ask me a very important question."

"Which is?"

"The package we're transporting."

"You mean the one we're gonna be stealing off the Darkling?" Marya purses her lips, feeling as the whaler gently rocks beneath their feet. "I've heard the rumors."

"Have you?"

"You're putting a lot of trust into whispers of the Sun Summoner being real." It's a test— whether Sturmhond is aware of it or not. Her gaze lingers on the side of his face, awaiting his response.

He chuckles. "Oh, she is," he says, and for someone who she doesn't believe to be religious, he seems to be speaking the truth. "As real as the sun that warms the earth."

Marya has been hearing whispers of the arrival of the Sun Summoner for months. Of course, rumors like that are quite common. Just two years ago, she recalls hearing that a Grisha of the same kind had made an appearance near Balakirev. And a few years earlier, the same rumor had spread near Sikursk. The same stories have been shares all across the continent.

There's a Sun Summoner in Bhez Ju, someone would claim, I saw it with my own eyes. The lies came in all shapes and sizes— first it was a trick of the light, an Inferni that stood too-close to the ice, someone who mistook sunlight for Grisha power.

And yet, the belief has always been there for Marya. Of course believes in the existence of a Sun Saint— she'd be a fool not to. The universe requires balance— the earth demands it so. If there is such thing as a Shadow Summoner, why shouldn't there be a Sun Summoner as well?

The question stands whether this Sun Summoner in particular is the real deal.

Marya watches the privateer with cautious interest. He doesn't seem like a fool— and yet he believes this particular story to be the real one. As real as the sun that warms the earth.

"What happens to her afterwards?" Marya probes. "After we ditch the Darkling." She keeps a close eye on his expression, on the slightest tell of a lie. "I hardly believe you'll expect me to sit around and watch you sell her to the highest bidder." Sturmhond straightens at that, and Marya folds her arms over her chest. "You said you're not a slaver. It'd be a shame to watch you start now."

He pauses. The privateer leans forward, and the only thing that gives him away is how he fidgets with his golden ring. "She'll be hunted wherever she goes," he begins. "The Shu want to cut her apart, the Fjerdans want to burn her at the stake. The Kerch will auction her the moment they get their grubby hands on her— and the Zemeni cannot ensure her safety."

"You've thought about this."

"I always do," he responds with a wink. "She'll be safe in Ravka. The royal family will take her under their banner."

"The royal family?" Marya whistles. She shakes her head with a small laugh. "Aiming for the stars, are we?"

"What can I say?" He tilts his head, grin on his lips. "Never been one to shy away from a challenge."

"I can tell." Marya taps her leg with her index finger, thinking. "What if she doesn't want to stay in Ravka?"

He raises a brow. "You've thought about this as well."

"I always do," she echoes his own words back to him. "I won't be witness to a captured Saint."

Sturmhond holds his chest, a faux hurt expression crossing his face. "Have you so little faith in me, darling?"

She rolls her eyes. "Faith is not something I lack. Trust, on the other hand..."

Sturmhond leans closer to her, and this time, Marya recognizes the look in his eyes. A challenge. Moonlight sharpens his face, lips tilting upward.

He grins. "It seems I'll just have to earn it, then."

━━━━━━━━━━━━━

A/N.

so... a lot happened in this chapter. is that a good thing?? a bad thing??? who knows (certainly not me). i only hope it all doesn't seem too rushed lmao

thoughts? comments? marya n sturmhond's love language really is "i would be happier if i could kill u rn 🥰" huh + i've decided this story will be a mix of both the show and the books!!!! i'll be forever bitter that they couldn't give paddy a wig or something while he played sturmhond but alas here we are

i really didn't want marya's crew to be a bunch of faceless n nameless characters so here we are :)) my notes folder for this story literally has an entire page dedicated to the repentance crew.

anyways!! longest chapter yet!!!! i already finished w my exams and i'm starting to feel a lot better health-wise. turns out i had covid!!! which now turned into an ear infection!!!! 😃 i'm not kidding when i said i couldn't hear properly for over Three Days. still can't but now that i went to the doctor and i'm taking proper meds its getting better <3

[ Started: Jul 5th, 2023 ]
[ Posted: Jul 11th, 2023 ]

( word count: 8.4k )