CHAPTER EIGHT
❛ 𝙵𝙸𝙽𝙰𝙻 𝙵𝙰𝚁𝙴𝚆𝙴𝙻𝙻𝚂 ❜

EARLY DAWN FEELS DIFFERENT at sea than it does on land. There's a certain vitality to morning in the True Sea that every other place he has gone to lacks. The breeze, the salt in the air, the refreshing feel of it all.

He plans on enjoying it while he still can.

Maybe it's because of this that Sturmhond he has spent more hours awake than he has sleeping. In all fairness, he's still not gotten used to the feel of the whaler. He could certainly do without the stench of death that seems to cling to the vessel like a second coat. He misses his beloved Wolf of the Waves. He supposes that, after spending upon hours working on the Volkvolny, he'll find himself yearning for it. Still, there's no better time to grow accustomed to the new feel than now. And so, Sturmhond has spent every waking minute memorizing and familiarizing himself with the nameless whaler.

Preparations are in order. Everything needs to be in place the Darkling's arrival. He should be giving out instructions to his crew— all while making sure Captain Marya's people fall in line alongside them. The last thing he needs is for things to grow tenser than they are. After all, last night's little situation was enough of a wake up call for him— he doesn't need another reminder of the resentment harbored on board.

Perhaps a peace offering would be best. But what can he offer that will be of value to them? What does he have, that Captain Marya's crew doesn't?

The first rays of sunlight warm his tailored face. He closes his eyes, inhaling the morning breeze. Most of the crew are asleep— odd, but with the commotion they've experienced the past few days, he decides he'll let it slide. They'll all need proper rest for what's coming.

His fingers drum against the wooden banister. What can he offer?

As far as he can tell, the only Corporalnik in Marya's ranks is the little kid, who he suspects is a Heartrender. Maybe that could make for a suitable peace offering. He could tell Tolya and Tamar to go around healing any injuries product of their brawl against her crew. Bruises, cuts, stab wounds— anything of the sort. Granted, he has the feeling the Shu twins would see playing nurse as a waste of their talents, but such is the life if they intend to keep a harmonious environment.

Sturmhond clicks his tongue. Even then, even if her crew grows amicable towards his, he'll need to take it a step further. It will all mean nothing if he can't earn Captain Marya's trust.

Earn her trust. With how things are looking thus far, asking a bird to cease flying would be an easier task— especially when she seems to be on high alert around him. Then again, he's been told he has the ability to charm a racehorse's shoes off mid stride. Earn her trust. It's a formidable challenge. Then again, he's never been the type to back out of one.

He supposes that, for the time being, he'll have to settle for her begrudging passiveness. He'll have plenty of opportunities to show himself as a trustworthy alliance. And what better way to bond, than to stab someone else in the back as a team?

Sturmhond shakes his head, watching as a few deckhands join him on board. The divide between his crew and hers is still evident— he'll have to do something about it sooner rather than later.

More people start to wake up, and he takes it as a sign to retreat back to his quarters. He needs to plan— and, for that, he needs quiet. Or, well, as quiet as a large crew of pirates, Grisha and otkazat'sya can get.

He turns around the handle of his door, swinging it open with little regard. His teal coat lies discarded over his chair, next to different maps of the Zemeni coast. His cabin feels barren— and he can't say he's a fan. Granted, he's never been particularly known for his sense of interior design, but even he can tell his quarters look as hollow as a seashell. Even then, a couple seashells would maybe liven up the room.

He shakes his head, willing himself to focus. They're less than a day away from it all setting into motion. Less than a day away from having General Kirigan wandering around this ship. Less than a day away from having Alina Starkov, the mythical Sun Summoner herself, on this very deck.

He needs to hurry if he wants everything to be in order by then.

Sturmhond's hand outstretches, reaching for another map, when a floor board creaks a few steps away from him.

He freezes. His hand instinctively goes to the brace of pistols by his hips.

There's another creak. Except, this time, he realizes it sounds all-too light to be a grown man's footsteps. His hands drop from his pistols.

"I wasn't aware I had a visitor over this early in the morning," he says, peering over at the opposite end of table at the center of his quarters. He waits a beat, index finger drumming against the wooden surface.

Another moment passes. Then, as if finally admitting defeat, a head of tussled brown curls pokes from underneath the table. And, just like that, he finds himself staring down at Captain Marya's very own Heartrender.

         "Hi there." The corner of his lips quirk upward as he meets the boy's gaze. "I don't believe we've properly introduced each other," he greets, offering a disarming smile. "I'm Sturmhond."

         "I know." Ravi shuffles awkwardly, getting out of his hiding spot with practiced ease. He averts his gaze, choosing instead to stare at the floors of his cabin. "Your ship creaks a lot."

         "It does," Sturmhond concedes. He quirks a brow. "Helps me figure out when I've got an unexpected guest wandering about."

         He frowns. "Does that happen a lot?"

         "You'd be surprised." Now that the boy has gotten out of his hiding spot, Sturmhond can fully consider him. He's barely a child— can't be a day over ten. Which begs the question... "May I ask what you're doing here?"

         Ravi pauses, as if suddenly realizing the situation he's put himself in. If he was the one to plan it in the first place. Could someone else have sent him to snoop around? Sturmhond isn't familiar enough with Marya's crew to know if they're above sending off little kids to do dirty work.

Ravi considers it for a moment. "No." He sniffs, nose scrunching as he turns to stare down at his feet. "Neyar says I shouldn't talk to you."

         That's not a surprise. "Does she?" Sturmhond shrugs nonchalantly. "That's fair advice."

         Ravi finally looks up at him, an uncomfortable expression drawn across his face. Those doe eyes of his watch him carefully, warily. It leaves him wondering whether Tolya perhaps went too overboard with the sharpness of his tailored chin.

         "I should go," Ravi says cautiously. His hand trails the edges of the table, glancing at the door. Just how long as he been inside his cabin? He's been out of it for at least an hour— but how could the kid possibly know he was planning on leaving before sunrise? How long was he out waiting for him to leave?

Too many questions, and the answer to all of them looks at him like a deer caught in a huntsman's sights. Ready to flee with the slightest movement.

          "Perhaps you should," Sturmhond says noncommittally. Ravi takes a step towards the door as he reaches for something in his pocket. "Then again, it would mean you'd be leaving me wondering."

         Confusion is clear as day in his face. He scrunches his nose. "Wondering what?"

         Sturmhond leans against the table, tilting his head with that knowing look. He holds his palm out in front of him. "Whether or not you were looking for this."

His fingers uncurl, revealing the secret trinket he'd been keeping close. The look that crosses the kid's eyes is enough to confirm his suspicions.

"Where—" he clears his throat, stiffening. "Where did you get that?"

         It's a small necklace. A hand-stitched token of faith, bound together by a leather chord. It's a rudimentary pattern, and between the teal, yellow and crimson stitches, he can tell its old— worn down by time. He's spent long enough staring at it to know there's a faint golden color embroidered into it that is fading.

The Ravkan privateer found it after the attempted raid of his ship. Once they managed to tackle Marya, the others seemed to follow suit. He remembers a boatswain saying something along the lines of cutting off the head of a snake. Cut the head, and the body dies. Between the hours of having the unconscious Captain being watched by Tamar and doing a full sweep of the whaler, he found the necklace left behind amidst the battle.

The kid must've lost it when they raided his ship.

         Sturmhond's tailored gaze glances back at the young boy. "Ravi, right?"

         Ravi hesitates. Sturmhond dangles the necklace in front of him, and he can tell the kid is stifling the urge to rip it off his hands.

         The pattern is far too worn and faded for him to tell what the token means— though he has an inkling it must be some religious symbol. Whatever it is, it's valuable. Not in monetary terms, of course— if that was the case, one of his deckhands would've undoubtedly kept it. So, sentimental value it is. He wonders what it means to the kid— especially if he sneaked into his cabin to try and find it.

         "Here," he opens his palm, offering it up to him. "It's yours, isn't it?" he asks. "You can take it."

         Ravi glances up at him, hesitant. Sturmhond keeps his palm open, consciously avoiding any sudden movements. In the blink of an eye, Ravi's hands curl around the necklace, before yanking it away from Sturmhond. He doesn't put it on— not yet. Instead, he cradles it between his two palms, as if scared it'll wither away to dust.

Then, ever-so quietly, he says,

         "Nikolai."

         His heart drops to his gut. Something akin to surprise flickers across his gaze. "Pardon?"

         His big brown eyes meet with his green ones. The corner of his lip curves upward into a hint of a smile. "Not Ravi. Nikolai," the little boy repeats, dragging out each syllable in a slower pace, as if concerned he hadn't heard him correctly. "It's the name I'll take when I turn ten."

Saints. That's an awful coincidence. For a moment he thought...

         "Nikolai," Sturmhond repeats, a stifled smile curling onto his lips. He gives himself a second to regain his composure. "Quite a regal name."

         He shrugs. "It's after Sankt Nikolai," Ravi explains, fiddling with the leather chord, fingers toying with the cloth of the necklace. "The Saint of sailors."

         And lost causes, thinks Sturmhond, muddy green eyes following the boy with a newfound curiousness. "Do you know the story of Sankt Nikolai?"

         He nods.

         "He was sent to gather food. To the woods. Alone," Ravi recalls. "But every time he returned, the food became ash and stone. He was beaten half to death by his people each day, and sent to gather food each night. When he continued to return with ashes, they tried to kill him for sustenance." He doesn't seem fazed by the gory imagery of the story. The corner of Ravi's lips twitch upward, as if recalling a fond memory. He traces the red and gold stitches. "But while his crew grew more deranged, he grew stronger. Strong enough to fight back."

         "It's a grim tale for a kid like you to know."

         He simply shrugs his shoulders. Ever so carefully, he hangs the little cloth necklace back around his neck. Brown eyes look up at him, and a small smile curls onto his lips. "Emerens says it's better to know too much than to know too little. That way you're never caught off-guard."

         Sturmhond raises a brow. "That's quite a life to live for a boy of..."

         "Nine." He straightens, as if suddenly becoming aware of Sturmhond's keen gaze. He purses his lips, toying with a few threads from the handmade token. "Well, eight. Almost eight."

         Sturmhond exhales, mirth ever-so present in his tone. "Choosing Sankt Nikolai wouldn't have anything to do with his legendary bag of sweets, would it?"

         "No," he stammers, albeit all too quickly. He clears his throat. "No."

         "You seem quite certain." He leans back against his table, reaching inside his vest pocket. "Pity, because I just had these..." He unfurls his hand, showing him three sweets in red and yellow wrapping. "—lying around, but if you're not fond of sweets, then—"

         "No!" His voice is too loud. When Sturmhond meets his gaze, he finds a sheepish look written across his features. Ravi drops his hand as if the movement burned him. He licks his lips, gaze shifting between his palm and his face. "Are you, um... are you gonna throw them away?"

         He pretends to consider it. "I was going to, unless someone would like—"

         "I can keep them for you!" he exclaims, sounding all-too excited. The privateer can't bring himself to hide the amused smile that graces his lips.

         "Can you?"

         "Mhm!"

         "Well, then." He hands him the three Kerch sweets, giving him a pointed look. He raises a brow, lips curved upward. "I trust you."

The door of his cabin swings open with little regard for his walls.

She doesn't knock. He doesn't expect her to. Instead, she simply strides into his quarters, uncaring, with that ever-present scowl carved onto her features. That is, until she lays eyes on the young boy.

         She glances between Sturmhond and Ravi. Her scowl deepens. "Odmakni se od loseg covjeka, Ravi."

Her hair is a wild mass of curls, only held back by a blue cloth wrapped around her upper forehead. He finds it that, if it weren't for her dark blue Captain's frock, she'd look oddly reminiscent of a fisherman's daughter. Saltwater in her hair. Sun-kissed skin. She seems well-rested— at least, more than last night. It does nothing to sweeten her already sour temper.

         "Ne cini se kao los covjek," Ravi responds just as easily, brows furrowed into a tight frown. He looks away from Sturmhond with a slight hesitation. Behind him, his hand curls into a tight fist, trying to hide the candy from the eyes of the Captain.

         At times like these, the privateer wishes he had taken the time to learn Suli. Or, at the very least, familiarize himself with it. As much as his tutors had claimed it to be a dying tongue, he couldn't help but appreciate the irony of it all.

Of course, he thinks, a dying language that could very well be participant in the plotting of his death. For all he knows, Marya could be detailing his gruesome murder right underneath his nose, and he would be non the wiser. Regardless, something tells him that, so long as Ravi keeps him in his good graces, nothing too awful will occur to him by her hand. Funny, how his fate rests on the opinion of a seven year old with a fondness for sweets.

         Her brown find his watchful green eyes. Her jaw twitches. "Trust me. Bad men don't always look it," Captain Marya warns, gaze lingering on him.

Sturmhond, in turn, brings one of his hands to his chest. "Ah, how you wound me. Truly." He tilts his head, red hair falling over his line of sight. "Just when I thought this was the start of a beautiful, blossoming friendship."

         "You think much too highly of yourself."

         "Well, if I don't, then who will?"

         Her eyes narrow in the slightest. "Ravi," she says suddenly, tone crisp and sharp— a warning. Her gaze doesn't waver, focus not even shifting away from the red-headed privateer.

A side glance is enough for Sturmhond to know that the boy is no longer beside him. Instead, he watches as Ravi, who had been about to sneak past the two of them, freezes in his steps.

Sturmhond has to stifle any sign of surprise from crossing his face. All Saints, he hadn't even heard him move in the first place. It's almost as if, once Ravi had figured out where the creaks were, he knew how to step around them.

         Marya doesn't appear surprised. She turns around, lowering herself to the boy's level, palm outstretched in front of her. "Hand them."

         Ravi's expression sours. A remarkable imitation of the Captain's own scowl. He glances back at Sturmhond, as if waiting for him to intervene. His shoulders slump. "...Do I have to?"

         She raises a brow, unimpressed. Ravi mutters something unintelligible, before grumpily handing back the handful of candy he had only recently been given. Marya straightens back to her full height.

         "Stealing candy from children," he muses. "I must say, that is a new low."

         "Like I said, I don't trust you." Ah, there it is. A glowing reminder of the challenge ahead. "Who's to say you didn't poison them?"

         "Do you truly think so little of me?" He asks with a pout. Perceptive, he finds himself thinking with a certain appreciation. Or paranoid. "Believe it or not, I do have a moral code. As it happens, poisoning little kids is not part of my immediate agenda."

         She does a quick once-over of him, scrutinizing him for a tell, for a lie. He simply raises a brow, expectant.

Ravi tugs at her night blue frock, and her attention shifts to him in the blink of an eye. He says another word to her in Suli. And, to his utter shock and bewilderment, he's left to watch as her expression softens. Hell, the closest he's gotten to that was having her openly laugh at him when he told her they'd be dealing with the Darkling. And, even then, it's no match for the look she gives Ravi.

Marya exhales, reluctantly opening her palm for him to take the sweets. "Show them to Emerens first," she says firmly. Just when the kid's about to take the candy back, she stresses it again. "I mean it, Ravi."

         He nods eagerly, taking them into his hands. "I will!"

         This time, he doesn't care for creaks and cracks as he practically bolts out of Sturmhond's quarters. A giddy laugh echoes in the air, leaving the two Captains alone. Marya looks back at Ravi's retrieving frame, a small smile playing on her lips.

         "It's reasonable for a kid like him to want a piece of chocolate, Captain," he starts. The door shuts behind the kid with a loud slam. "You're too hard on him."

         "He's alive and breathing, is he not?" She inhales sharply, and the fondness is gone from her face. Pity. "I don't plan on taking advice from another pirate."

         "Privateer," he demurs. The kid speaks fluent Suli and a slightly accented Ravkan— and he's nearly certain he's also heard him speak Zemeni to a few of her deckhands. The question has been itching inside his head for a long while— how does a Captain like her stumble upon a kid like him? "What happened to his parents?"

         And, just like that, the scowl returns. "I can't see how that concerns you."

         That's a dead end. Try a different approach. "He mentioned he wants to choose the name Nikolai," he says offhandedly. He doesn't miss the fleeting surprise that crosses her face. "Maybe you should start calling him Kolya from now on."

         She scoffs, shaking her head. "I'm not letting him take a name."

         A weighted pause. Green meet brown. "Do all of you take names?"

         Marya straightens, approaching his table with open maps and unread books. "Is it not common practice?" she asks nonchalantly. Her ringed fingers drag across the coastline of the maps. "I hardly believe your mother took one look at you and decided the name Sturmhond would be fitting for her newborn."

         He smirks. "Perhaps she had a taste for grandeur," he drawls.

         "Perhaps."

         He watches as she strides across his cabin with ease. It's a stark contrast to her last visit to his quarters— probably due to the fact that she's no longer a prisoner being questioned. Sturmhond clicks his tongue. "You know, I was thinking—"

         "I do hope you're not overexerting yourself," she responds, not even looking up from the maps before her.

He chuckles, raising a brow at her. He considers her for a moment. "Your names... they sounded familiar," he starts, slowly, tentatively. Marya's fingertips brush over the cover of Tolya's poetry book. "Sankta Neyar the Relentless. Sankt Emerens of the Brew. Sankta Marya of the Rock." He waits a beat. She lifts her head, meeting his gaze evenly. "You're all named after Saints."

         The corner of her lips twitch upward. "Perhaps our parents were religious."

         "Perhaps."

         "But you're not," she counters, tilting her head. Her golden bangles jingle against each other as she reaches for another map— one of the stretch between the Wandering Isle and Novyi Zem. "Was it Tolya or Tamar that made the connection for you?"

         He quirks a brow. "Do I not seem enough devoted to you?"

         "You don't look the type," she responds simply, sounding awfully uninterested.

         He circles the table, stopping just a step away from her. He tilts his head down, meeting her eyes halfway. "And what type do I look like?"

"Arrogant. Proud. Thinks they are too-clever— like they could never get caught in someone else's trap." She looks into his tailored green eyes with a cautious manner. "Too foolish to realize he's heading right into the next."

         "Oh?" He gives her a lopsided grin. "By all means, do go on. Flattery works wonders with me, darling." She's close enough to him that he can see the freckles spread over her nose. The faint flecks of honey in her brown eyes. The fading scar by her temple.

         Captain Marya considers him for a moment. "You'd do well grounding yourself a little," she says finally. "Only Kings and Saints have the luxury of thinking they are beyond mistakes."

         The irony is not lost in him.

         "I'll take it into consideration," he says with a loose shrug. Sturmhond glances back at the door, at the spot where Ravi had been standing on just a moment ago. His jaw tenses. "He shouldn't be around when General Kirigan gets here," he adds, a bit more quietly this time. "Things could get very dangerous, very quickly."

         "I know." Her voice is cutting, a jagged shard of glass. Despite her best efforts, he can tell she's nervous— more than she's letting out on. She inhales sharply. "I know."

         "What's your plan?"

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

         "He could stay in one of the empty cabins belowdecks," he suggests. "During the days we deal with the Darkling."

         Her face twists. "No," she says, and when she does, it echoes like a King's command. No room for argument. No room for revolts. Marya shakes her head, running a ringed hand down the line of her jaw. "No, I don't want him anywhere near the fight."

         "But he can manage his own," he counters.

         He hasn't forgotten their first encounter aboard this ship. Tamar would've surely killed Marya, had Ravi not used his own power to keep her heart from being crushed. She managed to stand, to stab his shoulder, to pin him onto the deck. She nearly sliced his throat open. And yet, he knows she would've surely ended him if it hadn't been for one of his men apprehending Ravi. Granted, he doesn't approve of the methods used, but they saved his life nonetheless— so he can't really complain.

         "I'm not in the habit of turning little kids into soldiers."

         He raises a brow, but doesn't respond. He supposes that, as Sturmhond, he can't exactly disagree. So long as he's the renown privateer, Captain of the Volkvolny, he has no say in matters of war. So long as he wears the coat and the name, he's a person who has yet to witness the destruction and the consequences of war firsthand. Someone who has no vested interest in the battle-ravaged country that awaits them after this journey.

         And yet, his thoughts on the matter still stand. No one wants kids to fight wars. But, sometimes, there's no other choice. When it comes down to life or death, to peace or decay, he doubts anyone would deny a fighting chance.

         Nevertheless, he doesn't say anything— instead, he chooses to watch the Captain. The woman that tried to kill him. The pirate who he's chosen to ally himself with. The Fabrikator looking after a young Heartrender.

         What he really is interested in, is this bond Ravi seems to share with the Captain of the Repentance. He didn't hesitate to jump headfirst into danger for her. Only seven years old, which means that even if he had trained in the Little Palace —something he strongly doubts, given his stunted knowledge of Ravkan— he couldn't have stayed for long. At least, not long enough to harness his powers to the extent he did. Then comes Marya— and the fact that the moment she realized Ravi was in trouble, she lost control of the situation. An asset that quickly became a liability.

         Their little reunion in his quarters comes to mind as well. The way he ran into her embrace like it was second nature. The way she stood with him, despite being chained,  and tried to shield him. The way Ravi looked up at him, and without letting his voice waver, answered to him in her stead.

         That type of loyalty is rare— especially when it goes both ways. And, to his own dismay, it intrigues him more than it should.

         "Have you decided who's going to be staying with us for the remainder of this lovely trip?" he asks, tilting his head.

She nods once. "I'm sending my Second back on the Repentance. He'll keep watch on my ship until the time comes." She clicks her tongue, circling the table to reach another book. That, or to put some distance between them. "As far as Squallers go, Angus and Hilde are gonna be sticking around."

         Kaelish and Fjerdan Grisha. He considers it. The man who has been giving him murderous looks and the woman who one of his deckhands knocked out clean. Lovely.

         "What about the Ravkan Squaller?" he questions casually. He has eyes everywhere on this whaler— eyes and ears. He avoids saying his name, but he's well-aware of who he's referring to.

         Ravkan Squaller, Maksim Kozlov. Deserter of the Second Army. Formerly trained on the grounds of the Little Palace.

         "I do need someone to give wind to my sails, don't I?" she retorts. "Unless you intend on leaving half of my crew stranded at sea."

         There's more to it, of course. If he was watching closely enough yesterday, he'd take a gamble and say it has something to with the Inferni girl. Anya Lebedeva. Marya mentioned she used to be in the Second Army being captured by Fjerdan witch hunters. Maksim Kozlov could very well be a friendship she made during her time in the Little Palace. Then again, that would mean the Captain has had not two, but three deserters of the Second Army among her ranks.

         It's concerning, to say the least.

         "Your crew," he begins slowly, "—are they all Grisha?"

         Her brow twitches. "Are yours?"

         An amused look crosses his face. No. "Not one for answering questions, are you?"

         "What ever do you mean?" she blinks at him innocently, but he doesn't miss the loose smirk forming on her lips.

         He chuckles, and the hope of getting information out of her dims. He doesn't allow himself to feel discouraged— they'll be plenty more chances. "I suggest you say your goodbyes as soon as possible. The sooner we get this ship in order, the sooner we can get this show on the road."

         "Aye, Kapitan," she mocks, and leaves his quarters with the poetry book between her hands.

         He doesn't stop her. Instead, he looks after her retrieving frame. Maybe Tolya won't notice his missing book.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━

         BY THE TIME MARYA RETURNS TO HER new quarters, Emerens and Neyar are already waiting for her inside. Much to their dismay, neither of them were granted the luxury of a personal cabin. Instead, her Second and her Quartermaster were relegated to bunking alongside the rest of the crew. Emerens called it a power move on Sturmhond's part. Neyar called him a damned bastard.

         Whatever conversation was occurring between the two pirates ceases as soon as she strides into the cabin. Marya exhales loudly, rolling her shoulders. "I could use a drink."

         Emerens scoffs, a faint smile curved onto his lips. "You and me both."

         Marya discards the poetry book she stole onto her poor excuse of a bed. Not even a bed— a hammock, made from fabric that looks like its clinging together by the tiniest of threads. She makes a mental note to try and repair it later.

         Neyar kicks over a glass in Emerens' direction. It slides against the center table, finding its place in the Kerch boy's grasp. "Make that three," the Quartermaster murmurs, turning to look at Marya. She raises a brow, gesturing at the discarded book bound in dark green leather. "Is that Batbayar's Mandakh Nar?"

         "Probably," she shrugs her shoulders, reaching for it again and tossing it onto the Shu girl's hands. Neyar catches it with ease. "It looked like the one you lost last winter— back in that incursion near Bhez Ju." She moves over to one of the bags Neyar brought from the Repentance. Inside, a half-empty bottle of kvas. "Thought you'd like it."

         Neyar hums, a pleased smile curling onto her lips. Her silver-clad fingers trail the cover, a faded string of Shu letters.

         "So, you give Neyar a poetry book, but you give me a broken nose," Emerens rolls his eyes as Marya gives him the bottle. The blond serves the three glasses. "I'm starting to think you're playing favorites."

         Marya raises a brow. She considers him for a moment, before reaching for her glass of kvas. "Your nose looks perfectly fine to me."

         Neyar snorts, and Emerens huffs. It healed a little too quickly— and she has a hunch Ravi had something to do with that.

         "Next time I talk to Sturmhond, I'll be sure to bring a book for you as well," Marya says, voice hoarse with the kick of alcohol. The Shu and the Kerch make by far the best drinks. Ravkan alcohol is mediocre, too bitter, too sour.

         "Ha," Emerens snorts. "If you're gonna steal something from the pretty boy pirate for me, why on earth would you choose a book?" He sounds borderline appalled. He shakes his head, muttering against his glass. "I bet he keeps a few riches around."

         "He's a privateer," Marya absentmindedly corrects. She takes a seat, setting her legs on the table. Not her furniture, not her problem.

         Neyar's nose scrunches. "What's the difference?"

         Emerens clicks his tongue. "Pretty sure it means he's got some papers that say I can do whatever the hell I want. But, you know, with legal stamps and shit. Maybe with one of those fancy wax seals from one of the royal families or the Merchant Council."

         Neyar hums, tapping her fingers against the table. "He's got a pretty fancy ring on his hand," She comments. She sets down the book off to the side, careful not to leave it near her glass. "Big gemstone in the middle."

         "A sapphire— no, an emerald, yeah?" Marya asks.

         "Yes, ma'am," Neyar whistles, and her eyes shine with that same glow Ravi had earlier when looking at the candy offered to him.

         Emerens considers it for a moment. "It'd suit you," he says to Neyar. He shrugs his shoulders, taking one last gulp from his glass. "Green's a good color on you."

         "I know."

         Marya chuckles. "Just wait until after we part ways with him and his crew if you're planning on lifting it from him." The corner of her lips twitch upward. "Though I don't think I've seen him without it. It's gonna be one hell of a challenge to take it off his hands."

There's an eager gleam in her eyes. A loose smirk finds her lips. "When has that ever deterred me before?" Neyar tilts her head.

"Why waste your skills on that?" Emerens quirks a brow, leaning his face against his palms. His blond hair is messy, his blue eyes with bags underneath them. "Just slice his finger off. You get to keep a new ring and a token of our time spent with him."

"You're morbid," Neyar scolds.

Emerens chuckles, except this time, it echoes with a darker undertone. His blue eyes shift away from Neyar and onto Marya. "D'you know he sent one of the Heartrenders to watch after me?" Emerens scoffs, leaning back against his chair. "The big one. It's like, I wake up, and I can feel those shark eyes of his watching me. Waiting for me to give him an excuse to explode my heart inside my chest."

"This Saints damned ship has eyes and ears everywhere," Marya mutters, taking off the blue fabric wrapped around her forehead. Wisps of hair fall onto her line of sight, before she brushes them away with her hand. "I know this situation is far from ideal."

There's a moment of silence, and when Marya turns her head back up, she notices the other two are sharing a knowing look. "What?"

Neyar's jaw tenses. She hesitates, golden eyes meeting with her brown. She exhales. "What did he offer you, Marya?" Her voice is quiet, barely above a murmur.

Her heart stammers inside her chest. And, for once, Marya is thankful neither of them can hear it.

"You know what."

"But is it worth it?"

Emerens words feel like the stab of a dagger against her temple. She snaps her head in his direction, and there's a tenseness to his jaw she hadn't noticed before.

"Of course it's worth it," she hisses. She glares at Emerens, but his gray gaze doesn't falter.

His eyes flit back to Neyar, before returning to their Captain. "You agreed to face the Darkling in exchange for, what?" he asks, keeping his voice leveled. He's not accusing her, she realizes. "Privateer or pirate, what makes you think he'll hold up his end of the bargain?"

Her jaw feels like it might splinter. There are waves in her lungs, beating against her ribcage. She needs to level herself. She runs a hand through her face.

"I don't know," she relents. "But he's the only option I've got." She inhales sharply, exhales. Her lids flutter closed. Calm yourself. Breathe. "We already lost nearly four weeks hunting after slavers that were near Red Harbor—" her voice hitches in her throat, and Marya averts her eyes before she can see the softening expression in either of their faces. "Karim could be anywhere by now," she adds quietly.

Karim Thakkar. Karim, who used to heal her bruises when she swung from too far above. Karim, who would sneak away with her into marketplaces and town squares. Karim, who leveled her recklessness out. Karim, who gave her balance. Losing their parents, losing Adjala, losing loved one after loved one— and Marya never thought the day would come when she would lose Karim too.

And now, she feels like that little girl tied down by the waves, helplessly watching as her brother is taken away by Grisha hunters.

Marya clears her throat. "He's got the connections, the strings he can pull, the favors he can call in." She finds Emerens' gaze. "What other choice is there, other than Sturmhond?"

Neyar sniffs. "I've always trusted your judgement," she begins. "You've got a good one— a rare one. I've always trusted you to make the right calls, and I've always followed through with them— even when I disagreed." A strange glint crosses Neyar's gaze. Something fleeting, something Marya can't help but resonate with. "But when it comes to Karim, you need to acknowledge that you have a blindspot for him." She pauses, straightening on her seat. "We need to know you've got a handle on this."

Marya stares at her Quartermaster. Waves still rattle against her chest, against her heart. She does a good job of schooling her expression into something less turbulent, less volatile.

"I've got a handle on this," Marya says, even when she's not entirely sure she believes it. She doesn't enjoy lying to them. It's an unwelcome feeling, the one that burrows deep in her body. She never lies to them.

She never will again.

         Emerens exhales, body slumping. Like the energy has been drained out of him. He runs a hand through his hair, and Marya underestimates just how much tension loosens from both Neyar and Emerens' stances. They're looking at you for answers, for solutions. She needs to get her head on straight.

"So, what's the plan, Captain?" he asks, and this time, there's no double edge to his tone. Just a Second in Command awaiting further instructions from his Captain. "I go back on the Repentance with the others for... what? A week? Two? Three?"

         "It's... unclear. A week, two at most. But you'll have to communicate with Sturmhond's Second as well." Marya shifts her weight on her seat, eyes closing for a brief moment. "He'll let 'em know about you."

         Emerens pulls up the sleeves of his shirt, and for a brief moment, Marya catches a glimpse of a faded tattoo by his wrist. "So, we're putting our blind trust in him?"

         "Definitely not," Marya shakes her head. "You'll be carrying a message written from him to his Second. Something you can read over and confirm isn't a set up."

         Emerens nods thoughtfully. He purses his lips, running fingers through his scalp. "Who's gonna be coming with me?"

         "All Ravkans— Grisha or otherwise. I don't want them anywhere near the Darkling. Especially those that have history with the Second Army." It'll leave them with less people than she originally intended. Some of her most talented Grisha are Ravkan. "I've heard the Black General has a nationalistic streak. I don't want them around him if he starts feeling vindictive."

         Neyar nods. "So, Anya, Fatima, Maksim and Damien go back with him."

         "Ravkans. Does that—" he clears his throat, his nonchalance faltering. He averts his eyes, voice strained. "Does that include Lev and Aleksei?"

         "Anya and Maksim will want to give Aleksei a proper burial," Marya says, before adding in a more quiet, solemn tone. "Make sure they both get a decent grave. Somewhere they can rest."

         Emerens' jaw tightens, and Marya can tell she's asking the wrong person for this. He's never dealt well with deaths— close or otherwise. But neither of them have another choice.

         She hates that that thought is starting to become a recurring pattern.

         "Who else goes with him?" Neyar questions.

         "Bram, Imani and Fiona."

         "Fiona?" Neyar repeats, brows furrowed. "But not Angus?"

         Emerens shares the same puzzled expression. "You wanna split them up?"

         Marya exhales. When they first stumbled upon the Kaelish siblings, it had been between the stretch of Novyi Zem and the Wandering Isle. They'd docked at one of the ports of the island, and the plan at the time was simple. Stock up on food, on ammunition, on resources, and set sail at dawn. But by the time night had fallen and nature had gone silent, they heard the all-too familiar sound of screams deep within the forest.

         Neyar had been the one to find them. A group of hunters— four, maybe five. They had set camp not too far away from the docks. They had gotten sloppy— riding the high of their captured bounty. The smoke of their campfire had led Neyar straight to them.

         Kaelish hunters and Fjerdan drüskelle share one thing, and one thing only— and that is their thirst for Grisha blood. Kaelish hunters, however, are far from sacred. There's no holy pretense behind their actions— only greed. They canvas villages and cities in search of Grisha in hiding. They hang them from wooden poles and cut their insides to drain their blood and sell it to the highest bidder

         In the end, they were no match for Neyar and her sword. By the time Marya found them, three of the five hunters were dead on the ground, their blood making the grass grow greener.

         They had rarely ever been into the Wandering Isle before. They were still new to their trade, still adjusting to what it meant to hunt slavers and rescuing Grisha. With time, Marya would eventually learn how to ease someone's nerves, what words to choose, the correct cadence in which to speak them. But, at that moment, they stood as just another threat to the Kaelish Grisha captives. Eventually, they managed to communicate that they were not their enemy— all thanks to one girl who, by chance, spoke Ravkan. It took them a while, but eventually, Fiona managed to translate everything that needed to be said.

At the time, Fiona told them that she wasn't even Grisha herself. But her brother Angus was, and that had been enough for the Kaelish hunters to believe her blood could still be worth something. Diluted wine is still wine, Fiona had told them, and Marya had always thought it to be some mistranslated Kaelish idiom.

After untying them, the other Grisha hadn't stuck around for long. Some went stumbling into the woods, afraid of the two girls who had killed their former captors. Some stuck around for a little longer, lingering hesitantly. And the others, well...

Fiona approached to the two girls, asking them to help her carry a limping boy with a messy head of hair. Angus flinched when they first walked up to him, pulling his hands out in front of him as a warning. There had been blood, dirt and grime on his face. Remnants of his struggle. He had looked like a wild, cornered animal— one with two wide gashes by his side.

We want to help, Marya had told him, gesturing at his wounds. He had only turned to Fiona, voice hoarse and scratchy when he spoke.

Fiona had said something else to him in a scolding tone and, eventually, Angus let himself be carried by them. They agreed to stay aboard her ship, with Angus vehemently insisting they would leave before dawn.

It was while they were tending to their wounds that Marya told Fiona. You should go back home only once the sun is up.

Fiona had only smiled sadly. What home?

         "Having someone that close to you on a journey this dangerous is a liability," Marya says finally. Her fingers toy with the ring hanging from her neck. "I need Angus to be on top of his game if he's gonna be staying as one of Sturmhond's Squallers. I can't have him worrying for Fiona."

         Emerens folds his arms over his chest. "Neither of them are gonna like that."

         "I know," she says. "But they'll understand."

         The Kerch boy clicks his tongue, recounting the list in his head. "Who stays, then?"

         The Quartermaster and her share a nod. "Neyar and I." She licks her lips, a weight settling inside her chest. "Angus, Hilde, Darius, Raziya and Jira." Seven people. Five of them Grisha. It's far from ideal.

There's a pause. Then, "There's someone you've yet to mention," Neyar murmurs. "That talk about liabilities..." her golden eyes meet with Marya's brown, a faint understanding dancing in her gaze, "—it wasn't just about Angus and Fiona, was it?"

Right in the bullseye, as per usual.

         "I need you to take Ravi," Marya says, but it doesn't echo as a command. Her gaze softens and her conviction wavers. She looks at Emerens. "I ask this not as your Captain, but as your friend." She gnaws at the inside of her cheek, voice growing unbearably quiet. "Keep him safe."

         There's a glint that crosses his gray eyes that Marya recognizes. She knows that it means something to Emerens that she's entrusting him with Ravi's safety. And so, without a drop of amusement in his voice, he responds,

"With my life."

Marya believes him. She nods. "Thank you."

         Someone knocks at the door of her quarters. It opens, revealing a Zemeni girl with long braided hair. "Kapitan," Jira says, offering a tight nod. "Preparations are ready for departure."

         Marya kicks back her chair. "Thanks, Jira." The Zemeni girl heads back onto the deck, leaving the door ajar. "Come on."

         The Suli Captain steps out of her quarters with Emerens and Neyar beside her. The light of the early dawn blinds her briefly, before her eyes adjust to the brightness. The rest of her crew awaits on the deck, with a few members of Sturmhond's crew lingering close by— namely the Heartrender twins. Out of the corner of her eye, Marya spots the privateer watching her from above the quarterdeck. His hands rest against the bannister, a silent observer. At least, he's choosing not to meddle with her goodbyes.

         She doesn't need to say anything. The moment she half-turns, she realizes Neyar has already slipped away to inform those that will be departing with Emerens.

         Up ahead, near the sails and stacks of barrels, she spots Ravi talking to Darius, the Zemeni lilt of their conversation far more fluent than anything Marya could ever hope for. Regardless of the years she spent in Novyi Zem, her accent will always slip into her words, no matter how many times Ravi insists on correcting her pronunciation.

         Ravi calls for her, and Marya finds a bittersweet smile curling onto her lips. His strides are light and swift, and before she can blink, Ravi is already half a step away from her.

         His wide brown eyes look up at her, before he furrows his brows. "What's wrong?" he asks, and Marya lowers herself to his level.

         She offers him a smile, tilting her head slightly. "Nothing's wrong, sunshine," she half-lies.

         How ever did she manage to stay apart from him before? She used to visit him twice a month, for only a couple days at a time— if she was lucky. Back when he was safe with Karim, sheltered within the bounds of Novyi Zem. Why is it so hard for her to let go now?

         Her thumb caresses his cheek, the space between his brows, easing his frown. "But things are only gonna get harder from here on out. I need you to keep the others safe— can you for that for me?"

         His voice wavers. "You're not coming?"

         "I'm not," she says, dreading to see how his expression falters. "Emerens will be going with you back on the Repentance." She gives him another smile, one only reserved for his eyes. Her voice drops to a murmur. "It won't be long, I promise."

         Ravi toys with his fingers. He offers her a smile— one that she knows is only for her benefit. "I understand," he says.

         Marya glances back at Emerens. She tucks a brown curl behind Ravi's ear. "Look after him, yeah?" she says softly. "Make sure he makes the right calls. He's gonna need all the help he can get."

         "I will." Ravi promises. His doe eyes blink up at her, and his lips curl. "I'll be careful, too," he adds.

         A small laugh bubbles up her throat. Saints, it'll only be a few weeks. Why does this sting so much?

         "I know, sunshine," she presses a kiss against his forehead. "I know."

         She can hear people already moving around them. They all need to set everything into motion. In other words, time's up.

         Her hands cradle Ravi's face ever-so gently. She doesn't want to let him go. But, Saints, he's being so brave. Always so brave.

         "I love you." she murmurs against his hair, and she hears him whisper it back against her coat. His smaller hands grip onto the dark blue leather, his face buried in her clothes.

         Steps shuffle behind the two of them. Marya inhales sharply, standing back up. She turns, brown eyes meeting with Emerens' gray ones.

         "You know I'm not good with goodbyes," Emerens begins. Despite his casual stance, his voice sounds strained.

         "I know."

         He pauses. "Make the right calls," he says, hands fidgeting by his side. "I'm not in the mood for any more funerals."

         "Funny," Neyar says suddenly. She sidles up between the two of them, arma folded over her chest. "I was about to say the same thing." She raises a brow, watching the Kerch boy with downplayed scrutiny. She scrunches her nose. "Don't drink yourself under the table in our absence."

         He scoffs a laugh. "Wouldn't dream of it."

         "Don't worry Neyar," Ravi pipes up with a grin. "I'll keep an eye on him."

         Neyar chuckles, ruffling his hair. "You've got your work cut out for you, Ravi."

         "Okay, c'mon," Emerens says, nudging his head towards the edge of the ship. Ravi reaches for Emerens' hand without a sign of hesitation. The taller man grabs him and hoists him over his back. Ravi squeals, and Marya can't help the smile that graces her lips.

         "Ready?" Emerens asks, leaning his head back to meet Ravi's gaze.

         The younger boy grins. "Ready."

         Marya watches as Emerens carries Ravi over to the temporary bridge set between the two ships. Over on the Repentance, she can already see Maksim manning the sails, Damien standing above the rigging, Fatima and Bram lingering near the bowsprit. They've all said their goodbyes already— and it hangs in the air, that bittersweetness that comes with all departures.

         Once Emerens and Ravi have boarded the Repentance, two of Sturmhond's deckhands go ahead and remove the bridge. But before they can get away, Marya hears them call out their names.

         Emerens says something to the younger boy, expression encouraging. Ravi grins wildly in response, and cupping his hands around his lips, he calls out,

         "Shadows don't get caught!"

         Marya and Neyar match his grin, faces glowing. They mimic the gesture, yelling out,

         "Who can see a shadow in the dark?"

         Marya is left watching as the Repentance fades away into the distance. Her beloved ship. Half her crew. Her Second in Command. Ravi.

         But the time for goodbyes is over.

         "We should be arriving soon," Sturmhond pipes up, his strides relaxed as he sidles up next to her. He raises a brow, corner of his lips curling upward. "Are you ready, Captain?"

         She inhales. A loose grin twitches on her lips.

          "As I'll ever be."

━━━━━━━━━━━━━

A/N.

this chapter was originally gonna be much shorter since that whole marya/neyar/emerens scene wasn't a thing before but i'm happy w how it turned out :))

can i just say how much emerens' faceclaim is throwing me off???? cause i really do picture him as miguel bernardeau but the fact that his most well known role is as a privileged white boy (aka: guzmán nunier from élite) is not doing me any favors huh. no one to blame but myself ig.

also can i say? marya calling ravi sunshine? melts my heart omg. it's mostly inspired on the fact that the name ravi means sun <3 that last convo between ravi n marya was gonna be a little different but i have to keep reminding myself that since the suli don't really have a word for sorry, marya wouldn't be accustomed to saying it so.... i kinda have to work my way around it. idk how i feel about that last scene, but i feel really sick rn and i just wanna read some comments so here we are <3

this is the last chapter that is "original" bc following the next chapter we'll be getting into canon scenes of siege and storm 👀❗️i'll be mixing it along with the show but just know things are coming ;)

[ Started: Jul 5th, 2023 ]
[ Posted: Jul 18th, 2023 ]

( word count: 8.7k )