CHAPTER NINE
❛ 𝚄𝙽𝙵𝙾𝚁𝙶𝙴𝚃𝚃𝙰𝙱𝙻𝙴, 𝚄𝙽𝙵𝙾𝚁𝙶𝙸𝚅𝙰𝙱𝙻𝙴 ❜

MARYA HAS NEVER BELIEVED HOME TO BE A PLACE. Land can give away beneath your weight— it can erode under harsh weather, it can change and become inhospitable. Land is land— and land doesn't care for you, it doesn't look after you. And yet, as far as physical homes go, Novyi Zem might be the closest thing Marya ever had to one. For many years, it was the only solid thing that kept her going. The comfort it offered after what felt like a lifetime of tragedy— the knowledge that she'd have a tree to give her shade, a roof over her head, and solid ground beneath her feet. For a while, that was enough for her.

The warm Zemeni winds greet Marya like an old friend. The breeze brushes against her face, carrying the faint hints of jurda blossoms with it. Her eyes flutter closed for a brief moment, taking a moment to appreciate the familiarity of it.

         Familiar. Not a word she gets to use often. Not with the life she leads, anyway.

         Her hand wraps around the ropes of the rigging as she leans forward, trying to get a better look of the buildings beyond the docks. Cofton is much smaller in comparison to Weddle, yet Marya isn't as accustomed to this city as she is to the latter. From where she stands, she can distantly spot a marketplace woven into the streets, but the buildings cut off much of her vision of it.

It's strange, being back in Zemeni lands under these conditions. She's been visiting these coasts for years, and yet this is the first time she's here on her own. Perhaps that's why Novyi Zem has managed to feel like some semblance of a home to her—because coming here meant seeing Karim. It meant leaving her ship for a few days, yes, but in exchange for Karim's bright laughs and tight embrace.

Unlike her, Karim was never built for a life at sea. She never asked him to follow her into it. She never did, because he would've said yes. And so, when she decided to trade land for sea, Karim stayed behind— he set up shop near the coasts of Novyi Zem, away from the threats of war, but close enough to the True Sea so that Marya could visit.

And visit she did.

Like clockwork, once, twice a month, Marya would set sail for whatever city Karim had settled in last. She would stay with him for nights at a time, savoring his handmade pies and trying her hand at Zemeni games that Ravi would beat them both at. They would sit underneath the shade of a tree, humming old songs as Ravi stumbled between the two of them, expertly weaving flowers into their hairs. They would wander through market stalls, and Marya would give the younger boy enough money to buy himself a trinket of his choosing. They would eventually get back home once the sun had set, and Karim would carry Ravi to bed once he inevitably fell asleep— but the twins would continue talking until the early rays of sunlight came over the horizon. Marya would ask about his days, how Ravi has been doing, his recent patients, whether anyone had given him trouble. And, in turn, Karim would ask her about her crew, about her latest expeditions, her latest exploits, whether her people were sick or injured. Then, the following day, Karim would carry Ravi over his shoulders as they accompanied Marya back to the docks, waving goodbye as she set sail once again.

It's a vivid memory in her mind, the last time she saw him. His brown eyes. His bronze skin. His coffee-colored curls falling in wild disarray. The image of him festers in her head like rot, slowly corrupting her senses. A dark hand, spreading through the marrow of her skull. His bright smile. His faint dimples. His freckles spreading over his nose and cheeks.

You should've been there, Karim's own voice hisses inside her ear. A few weeks ago, his vengeful voice sounded foreign— a figment of her own imagination. After all, Karim has never talked to her that way— not to her, not to Ravi, not to anyone. And yet, as the days continue to pass, that poison in his voice starts to become more and more real. More believable. You should've been there.

Her heart tightens inside her chest. She should've been there. She should've arrived there two days earlier. Had she been there, Karim would've never been taken. Ravi would've never had to witness it.

Marya has built a reputation across the True Sea, and she has held many titles over the years. Captain of the Repentance. Angel of Death. Pearl of the Sea. Killer of men. Demon of the waters. But what does any of it matter, if she couldn't manage to protect those closest to her heart?

"Anything that caught your eye, Captain?" a voice calls out. Steps shuffle along the deck, before promptly stopping a few paces shy from the ropes.

Marya glances down before hopping off the rigging, landing on the deck with a soft thud. She stands back to her full height, before being met by those muddy green eyes of his. Sturmhond raises a brow expectantly.

Marya exhales. "Sun is setting," she says, meeting his gaze evenly. "The streets will start to vacate once light is out. If his plan was to avoid large crowds, then they should be arriving shortly."

Sturmhond nods, casting his gaze onto the city line of Cofton. Marya doesn't miss the fact that Sturmhond is still wearing his obnoxiously bright teal frock, all while she's been left in plain roughspun. It wasn't her choice to ditch her Captain's coat— it was his. She can't quite remember what he said, something about keeping appearances. And yet, while she's left with a loose blouse, brown pants and an old piece of matching teal fabric tied around her waist like a belt, Sturmhond walks looking like he's got the Queen's jewels hidden in some obscure cabinet above this whaler.

"My eyes are up here, lovely."

Marya clicks her tongue, unaware she had been caught staring. She reluctantly meets Sturmhond's gaze, that mischievous glint dancing in his eyes.

She folds her arms over her chest. "Why are you the Captain?" she asks. Maybe it's a petty thing to ask. She finds it she doesn't care.

Sturmhond straightens. "Because it's my ship."

Marya narrows her eyes. "No, it's not. You stole it."

"Always one for details, aren't you?" he says, tilting his head. There's an appreciative glint in his eye that doesn't go unseen by her keen gaze. Sturmhond exhales, fingers tapping against his brace of pistols. "The Darkling and his men expect me— they made a deal with me. I don't think they'll appreciate a complete stranger as steering this ship."

         Marya clicks her tongue again, stifling any sign of distaste. She's never been one to follow orders— she can't imagine starting now.

"Don't worry, darling." He winks. "You'll make a great Second."

         Marya rolls her eyes, shaking her head. She turns to look away, focusing instead on the docks, on the buildings, on the fading sunlight sinking over the hills.

         It's strange, being in Novyi Zem without Karim. Without Ravi. Like a waking dream of sorts— like the compass within her is askew, unable to point in one clear direction. It's almost as if, were she to listen closely enough, she'd be able to hear Karim's laugh, followed by Ravi's giggles.

         Marya's hand opens, as if preparing to reach out for something— for someone. She quickly clenches her fist.

It's only a minute, maybe two until the last ray of sunlight vanishes from the lands. Night falls upon the skies like a blanket, shrouding Cofton in a near total darkness. In the distance, Marya can still spot firelights from the streets and candles lit inside parlors. Nevertheless, Cofton is a coastal town— and coastal towns tend to fall in line with the day cycle. Rise with the sun, go to bed with it as well. That way, they can make the most out of the hours with light in the horizon.

A shrill whistle cuts through the air. Marya glances up at the crow's nest, spotting one of Sturmhond's deckhands signaling at something in the streets of Cofton— something just beyond their sight.

And yet, they don't need to see it to know what's coming. Or, rather, who's coming.

"Positions," Sturmhond calls out, soon followed by steps shuffling along the deck.

Out of the corner of her eye, Marya can see Neyar lingering near the quarter deck. She's out of her usual getup, her olive green open vest nowhere to be seen. The Quartermaster gives her the barest of nods.

Marya and Sturmhond stride towards the entrance of the ship, standing side by side. The privateer keeps his hands behind his back, while Marya keeps hers loosely hanging from her waist, lingering near the knives tucked underneath her belt.

Finally, they come into view.

Marya inhales sharply. It's a group of fifteen people— maybe more. Most of them wear Zemeni clothes; orange, yellow, red and green silks. But they stand too rigidly, with their chins held up. Their skin looks like its never seen a day of sunlight in their lives. And Marya has played the part of Zemeni girl enough times to spot the fakes.

Other than those disguised as locals, she spots those wearing red keftas. Heartrenders. She shouldn't be surprised— especially given that the Darkling has a track record of treasuring Corporalki as his elite fighters.

And, in front of the group, stands him. The Darkling.

Marya can feel her body stiffening as her gaze finally lands on him. He walks with natural poise, dark coat billowing behind him. He stops to say something to a Heartrender, and Marya can feel her own heart stutter inside her chest.

For some unbeknownst reason, she hadn't expected to actually see the Darkling. To her, he had always been more of a story— more myth than man. But to see him standing there, just mere steps away from her... it rattles something unfamiliar in her chest.

         "C'mon Captain," Sturmhond murmurs, making her turn in his direction. The corner of his lips curve upward. "Don't tell me you're getting stage fright now."

"I don't get stage fright," she says, and her statement holds more truth to it than Sturmhond will ever know.

The General and his entourage step onto the whaler, the group holding a disdainful look imprinted onto their faces. The Darkling, on the other hand, looks impassive. Unreadable.

"Welcome aboard, General," Sturmhond greets.

Now that he's standing closer to them, Marya can see his face in detail. First comes the most striking detail— not the hollow carve of his cheeks, nor the faint glow of his skin, not even the bottomless color of his eyes— but rather the wide black slashes across his face. They look like endless wounds, as if the carving of his flesh creates a tangible rift between blood and shadow. Given its deep edges but thinner center, Marya can tell they've been healed and tailored— or at least attempted to.

"Make yourselves at home," Sturmhond continues lightly, as if inviting a guest to stay over for tea. "We'll be departing shortly."

"Excellent," the Darkling responds, offering a short, dismissive nod. His voice feels like sharp glass, except it rings with an elegant sort of cadence. His eyes briefly flit over to Marya, and she has to fight every instinct that is telling her to square up. She forces her body to remain relaxed, to stifle any signs of wariness. The Darkling dismisses her just as easily, opting instead to say something to one of his Corporalki soldiers.

         The moment his eyes are off her, she can feel her shoulders drop in the slightest, relaxing. She'd be lying if she said she didn't feel the pull of the Darkling. An invisible string, beckoning her closer to the Black General. She's heard he's an amplifier— now she's sure of it. His mere presence echoes like a call, something trying to bring forth the gift resting beneath her skin. A single graze of his fingers against her skin would be enough to reveal her identity as Grisha.

         She finds herself shifting away from the man, looking back at the sails as an excuse. Angus and one of Sturmhond's Squallers unfurl the sails, readying for departure.

         Once she's certain he's facing the other way, Marya allows her eyes to travel back to the Darkling. Power ebbs from him in waves, unlike anything she's ever encountered before. If anything, the mythical Shadow Summoner looks out worldly. Like some being summoned from a different realm, left wandering foreign lands. Something tightens in her gut.

         Despite her own beliefs, Marya has heard the rumors that surround the origins of Darklings. She distinctly remembers one conversation she had years ago with a group of old fishermen near Os Kervo. When talking about the Darkling, they'd used one word that stuck out to Marya. Dusha'ye, was what they'd called him. Without soul. A being born of darkness and demons, of the very energy that makes up the Fold.

         She's not sure she believes it. She's not entirely certain she doesn't, either.

         Marya feels something shift besides her. "You're staring," Sturmhond teases, leaning closer to her. "Should I feel jealous?" he asks, casting a brief glance at the Darkling. "Barely five minutes on this ship, and he already has your attention."

         She doesn't find a snarky response for him. Instead, she simply asks, "Do you believe what they say?" The words tumble out of her lips before she can think any better of it. But they are out in the open now, and she might as well find an answer. "About Darklings?"

         He raises a brow, waiting for her to elaborate.

         Marya sniffs, feigning disinterest. But her jaw is too tight. Her stance is too straight. "That they are dusha'ye. Soulless."

         Sturmhond pauses, recognition flickering in his muddy gaze. "He's blood and bone, is he not?" He shrugs nonchalantly, smirk finding his lips. "Despite what he may lead you to believe, he is but a man."

         Blood and bone. A man. "And men can be killed," Marya murmurs, absentmindedly toying with her necklace.

         Sturmhond grins, tilting his head down at her. "I do hope that's not your way of telling me to sleep with one eye open."

         She raises a brow, considering the ruddy-haired privateer for a moment. "I'm not entirely convinced you do sleep."

         "Well, darling, this face is not mere magic, if that's what you're wondering." A strange glint crosses his gaze. He leans closer to her, mischief evident in his eyes. "But should you require further proof, I'll have you know my quarters have more than enough room for two people."

         She hums. "Never stop, do you?"

         He winks. "Not if I can help it."

         A particularly loud thud is enough to draw Marya's attention away from the privateer beside her. Near the entrance of the whaler, she sees as as two of the Darkling's men carry the lifeless body of a boy, buzzed head of hair falling limply against his chest.

         Her eyes narrow. "Taking souvenirs now, are we?" Marya asks the two men, ignoring the way her gut twists and turns. She doesn't take prisoners— she never has. She thought she never would.

         Her question is drowned out by the Darkling's cutting voice.

         "The boy goes in a different room," he says, watching the boy's limp body with a strange glint in his dark gaze. Disdain, maybe.  The Darkling turns to look at Sturmhond, face unreadable. "They will not be seeing each other."

         Marya watches as the two men carry the boy over to the belly of the ship. Her hand tenses around the sheath of one of her knives. Who is he? Certainly not the Sun Summoner. But he must be of some value, if the Darkling has decided he is worth transporting alongside the Sun Saint. He doesn't seem pleased with having to carry him around. Leverage, then— he must be leverage. Which would then beg the question: who is he to the Sun Summoner?

         They will not be seeing each other. Why is that?

         The General waves his hand, and a man in a red kefta follows the other two as he carries an unconscious body draped in commoner's clothes. Other than messy hair and a dangling hand, Marya doesn't get to take a look at her.

         "She'll be staying belowdecks in a closed room," the General says, finally turning his eyes away from the knocked out girl. Marya watches him closely, trying to memorize and locate any tells the man may have. She doesn't spot any. "No one goes to see her without my knowledge."

         Marya's jaw twitches.

         "Of course," Sturmhond nods, and Marya doesn't miss the faintest of pauses before he spoke. "I hope you find her accommodations fitting for your standards. And although we hadn't been expecting the boy as well, I'm sure we can prepare something that will be to your liking." Sturmhond adds breezily. "Allow me to give you a tour of the ship."

         Marya watches as Sturmhond takes the Darkling to the quarterdeck, her brown gaze following after them like a shadow. Once they are out of hearing range, Marya heads towards the bow of the ship.

         "Darius, Jira," she calls out. With her lack of a frock, she looks just like any other deckhand aboard. Maybe it's for the best, as none of the Darkling's men spare her more than a dismissive glance.

         The two dark skinned crewmen approach her without question. She pats their shoulders, as if encouraging them. "Amaso arakinguye," she murmurs in Zemeni.

         Eyes open.

         Darius nods, casting one glance at the Darkling's personal guard. He shuffles along the deck, his tall, buff frame a stark contrast to most of the General's men. The Zemeni have always been a lot taller than Ravkans. Open fields and the lack of war at its fronts, she remembers Lev grumbling once.

         Once its just Jira and Marya, the Suli Captain adds, "Nta zowa mu bwato," and Jira nods. As far as their guests are concerned, the Squallers are the only Grisha aboard this ship. They won't broadcast their status— not until the time comes. "Tell Raziya."

         Marya inhales, then exhales. On a ship with over thirty people in it, there's only seven crewmen she can trust. Things are bound to get more complicated before they get any easier.

         Over by the sails, Angus catches a glimpse of her, and offers her the barest of nods.

         And so, it begins.

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         FIVE DAYS AND FIVE NIGHTS. That's how long Marya has spent on a ship crowded by strangers. The Darkling's Grisha soldiers and his oprichniki have since ditched their poor Zemeni disguises. Now, the whaler is filled with men and women in elegant keftas as well as guards with charcoal-colored uniforms.

         So far, they have been heading north. Why, exactly, Marya doesn't know. She doesn't suppose the great and glorious General Kirigan intends on explaining any of his plans to them. Or, hell, maybe he has, and Sturmhond has simply neglected to tell her.

Whatever it is he's playing at, she doesn't like it.

         However, Marya will give credit where credit is due— and that is that her lack of a Captain status has granted her a certain degree of invisibility. Not among her crew or Sturmhond's— they both know better than that. But Little Palace Grisha barely spare a glance at the otkazat'sya pirate that wanders the ship.

         And so, this little gift Sturmbond gave her has helped her reap two observations: first, the Grisha aboard are more on edge than she thought. Originally, Marya had believed it had to do with the fact that they had all aided in kidnapping the Sun Summoner. But, upon closer inspection, she came to the realization that wasn't the case at all. Rather, all Grisha seem awfully tense around the Darkling. Like spooked animals of some kind— certainly a stark contrast to the behavior she usually sees in Second Army Grisha.

The second thing this newfound invisibility has helped her uncover is the fact that the Darkling has been visiting his prisoner's room more often than not. On most occasions, he's trailed by his Heartrender and a girl with red hair, spending mere minutes with them inside, and then half an hour alone with the Sun Summoner, Alina Starkov.

         Dusha'ye or not, Marya doesn't trust him— which is exactly why she waits until the Darkling retreats to his chambers to intervene.

         The ship creaks like wind against hollow branches. Despite being unfamiliar with the whaler until a few days ago, she has been purposefully spending a large part of the day wandering around the decks and the belly of the ship, consciously mapping her steps. By the time night falls, she moves with the pace of the waves and the rhythm of the wind. Unheard. Unseen.

The hallway is tucked underneath a ladder, with the very last door being the Sun Summoner's prison. There's nothing special about the room itself— other than the fact that it is isolated from the others.

Marya hears chatter on the decks, floorboards that creak, words in Ravkan that echo from above. Nothing sounds out of the ordinary— no sign her absence has been detected by those who pose a threat. Her hand curls around the knob, only for it to remain closed. Locked.

Marya glances behind her. She flicks her wrist, opening the door with a barely audible click before quietly closing it behind her.

It takes a moment for her eyes to adjust to the darkness of the room. Once she does, the sight in front of her is enough to make her stomach lurch.

         Alina Starkov barely looks like a person. Her skin looks sickly, her hair matted and tangled in front of her face. Her head hangs limply off to the side, as if her neck can't bare its weight. Her hands are bound above her with chains thick enough to hold down an animal.

         A sour, unwelcome feeling rolls down Marya's gut. The sight in front of her is not an unfamiliar one. In fact, it's one that she faces nearly every day, witnesses every night. Grisha taken by slavers, by drüskelle, by hunters look like this. Pale and sickly, hovering over the line between life and death. Walking corpses.

Marya stops in front of her, a weight settling inside her throat. Stones, piling up against her windpipe, making it harder to breathe.

I won't be witness to a captured Saint, she'd told Sturmhond. And yet, here she stands, mere paces away from the girl who has been rotting beneath these very floors for nearly a week.

         This time, his voice doesn't come as a surprise.

You're being a witness to this? Karim hisses inside her head. Her eyes close, and she can feel her brother standing in front of her. His words are pure venom in her ears. An accomplice?

         Marya opens her eyes abruptly. She bites her tongue, hesitating. Ever so tentatively, her hands gently brushes away the Sun Summoner's hair from her face.

Her breath catches in her throat. The acid feeling climbs up her stomach; she feels like throwing up.

She's not a Saint— she's just a girl. A girl younger than she is, by the looks of it. Despite the lack of sunlight and the translucent sheen of sweat that coats her skin, Marya can see the youthfulness of her features. All Saints, she can't be a day over eighteen.

         Unforgivable, Karim seethes. Unforgivable.

         "Forgive me," she whispers softly. The girl's eyes flicker beneath her eyelids, as if having troubled sleep. Marya's eyes travel up to the chains that bind her hands. It would be so easy, to wither them away to nothing. To break them. To free her.

         Marya wishes she could do something to ease her sleep. Give her some form of release. Some semblance of peace, an escape from the hell she's helped put her in.

She inhales sharply. Turn around. Leave before you do something irrational. The thought comes to her unnervingly quickly.

"What are you doing?" she asks herself, running an anxious hand through her hair. Leave. Get out. Stay. Help her.

The chains rattle.

         "Please," a voice croaks, and Marya nearly flinches. Alina Starkov barely opens her eyes, as if her lids weigh like stones. Brown meet brown. "Please."

         She's begging you. A Saint is begging for your help, and you won't do anything? Karim questions, and this time, he sounds angry— a type of anger she's never heard from him before. His voice echoes like a chorus. Unforgivable. Unforgivable.

         If she walks away, she is becoming what she despises. Who she hunts. Who she kills. She walks away, and she becomes another monster. Like the monsters that took her and her siblings away. The monsters that caused Adjala's death when they were nothing but children. The monsters that stole Karim.

         His voice still beats against her skull like a hammer. Unforgivable. Unforgivable. Unforgivable.

         A month ago, Marya wouldn't be second guessing herself. But the compass inside her heart is spinning, and it is not leading her anywhere. She once vowed to never turn her back on those taken from their lands. To never stand the sight of chains on the hands of innocents.

         Unforgivable.

         The arrow of her compass finally lands, and Marya cannot bring herself to look away.

         Her hands wrap around one of the chains holding Alina Starkov's arms bound, fingers curling around the iron. Her hands trace the borders, trying to find an easy opening. After a few seconds, she finally locates the original clasp, the link between irons that had been welded together. She tightens her fists, a murky cloud enveloping both her hands and the chains.

         She is halfway done when she hears footsteps coming from above. And, just then, reality hits her with the strength of a Fjerdan tank.

         Panic seizes her throat, and her hands fall away from the chains as if they've burnt her. What is she doing? What is she doing? She's not thinking straight.

         "Don't go," the Sun Summoner pleads. Her voice is scratchy, like sandpaper against stone.

         She doesn't want to. But even if she does free her, what then? Half her crew is aboard this ship with no escape other than the Repentance in a week's time.

         A series of steps echo above her, making the wood creak. She'll be of no used to her if she's chained besides her.

         "Mati en sheva yelu," she whispers, more to herself than to Alina Starkov. The words strain in her throat. She'll make amends. She swears it.

         Marya doesn't get to hear the Sun Summoner's protest. The door shuts silently behind her, quiet as a whisper. With short snd calculated strides, Marya hides from view, pressing her back to a wall. A series of footsteps turn around the corner. It's probably Ivan or the redhead Corporalnik or even the Darkling himself.

         She's of no use if she gets caught. The moment will come, she vows. She'll help her— but there's nothing she can do for her now. And so, she leaves.

         But not before catching a glimpse of a teal coat sneaking into Alina Starkov's room.

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         MARYA DOESN'T SLEEP THAT NIGHT. She twists and turns in her hammock, unable to drift off. Every time she closes her eyes, she sees her— she sees Alina Starkov— chained and rotting right beneath her feet. She closes her eyes and —occasionally— she'll see the Sun Summoner. Other times, it's Karim, or Ravi, or even herself. Hands hanging over their heads, skin growing a sick color.

         Eventually, she gives up on sleeping. It certainly isn't working out for her— so she might as well do something productive in the mean time.

         The skies are still dark, with only the first hints of sunlight being casted over the horizon. The air feels noticeably colder, like a faint chill against her skin. Refreshing.

         By the sails, Marya spots a Squaller wearing a blue kefta embroidered with silver. One of the Darkling's. At least her presence entails that Angus and Hilde are getting some much needed rest.

         As her gaze finishes scouring the deck, Marya is surprised to see that Sturmhond doesn't appear to be out wandering around. Ever since they started out this alliance, Marya has noticed certain things about the privateer. For once, the fact that he always knows more than he lets out on. He enjoys getting reactions out of her. He can change the flow of a conversation as easily as a snap of a finger. He treats each member of his crew with the same regard.

         And yet, above all, the most prevalent one happens to be something Marya also shares. Restless energy, as her Amma used to say. He is always wandering around when she goes into her own quarters, and always out and about when she wakes up. If she didn't know any better, she'd say Sturmhond doesn't sleep. Although, given the fact that they've been on the whaler for a little over a week, she doubts that's the case.

         Marya leans her forearms against the railing of the ship, looking over the horizon. There's clouds ahead— but they're not dark enough to be storm clouds. Not yet, at least.

         With the route they're taking, she doubts their final destination is either Kerch or Shu Han. Marya supposes Ravka could be a potential place for the journey's end, but she doubts it. After all, if they were heading to Ravka, there are easier paths to take. Less tumultuous ones.

         It means they are headed for either the Wandering Isle or Fjerda. But, even then, they've strayed away from the shore, yet haven't fully committed to turning east. They're simply heading north. What is he hoping to find at the north?

Wooden planks creak behind her.

"You're up early," Marya says, unmoving.

         The man settles besides her, leaning against the edge of the ship. Tolya's sword nearly hits the back of her head, causing her to shift slightly to the side.

"We always are," Tolya replies.

Marya turns slightly towards the Heartrender. He looks the same as he always does— his dark hair tied into a bun, golden eyes focused and sharp. She raises a brow. "We?"

Tolya's gaze flicks to something over her shoulder. Marya shifts her gaze, only to spot Tamar talking to one of Sturmhond's deckhands.

"Ah." Her eyes linger on Tamar's frame. By all means, Marya should hate the two Heartrenders. One tried to crush her heart. The other nearly killed her Quartermaster. They both aided in keeping her unconscious and locked up in a cabin. And yet, despite it all, she can't help the faint respect that pulls at her chest whenever she sees them.

Maybe, Marya thinks. Maybe if they had met under different circumstances. Maybe if she was certain they would all survive the following weeks. Maybe if she wasn't planning on ditching them the moment Sturmhond gives her a lead on Karim.

She feels his eyes on her like a prick in her neck. She turns to Tolya, who doesn't hide the fact that he is staring. "What?"

He purses his lips. "I was looking for a book of mine," Tolya says. His eyes narrow in the slightest, before he straightens to his full height. "I must've misplaced it."

The accusation is not lost in her. "Things get lost at sea quite easily, Tolya," she says easily, waving him off.

He scoffs through his nose. "Quite."

His watchful gaze lingers on her shorter frame for a moment too long. She doesn't care if he knows— she truly does not. What she does care is that he doesn't try to mess with her blood flow out of spite. "I'll let you know if I see your poetry book somewhere."

He quirks a brow. "I never said it was a poetry book."

Ah. "What can I say?" She shrugs her shoulders. "Lucky guess."

Tolya hums. Now that she looks closer, he doesn't seem mad. Maybe amused would be a more fitting description.

"If I'd known I had a fellow poetry enthusiast, I would've lend it to you," he muses.

"I can't read Shu," Marya responds. On some days, she feels she can barely read Ravkan. "But I appreciate the offer."

Tolya's brow raises in slight surprise. He doesn't comment on it. Instead, he simply says, "Batbayar Yul-Batu's Mandakh Nar. Rising Sun." He tips his head. "Have you heard of it?"

Marya drums her fingers against the bannister. Wind cools her skin. "Only in passing."

"It's a collection of poems from this Shu philosopher. After finishing his service, he resorted to a life of art," Tolya explains. He pauses for a moment, as if considering his next words. "There's one specific poem— one that's particularly well-known in Shu Han." She knows the name before Tolya says it out loud. "Kebben'a." My Kin. My Dearest. My Heart.

She turns to meet his gaze. There is a knowing glint in his eyes that Marya doesn't like at all.

"Never heard of it."

But she has. She found some translated version a few years back— and even when the words were stilted without the Shu pace, she treasured it nonetheless. She remembers reading it once in her quarters, back on the Repentance. She remembers tracing the words, committing them to memory.

Everyone mourns the first blossom. Who will weep for the rest that fall? I will remain to sing for you, long after the spring has gone.

At the time, she hadn't understood why the words had rattled something in her chest.

"Maybe Neyar can read it to you," Tolya says, straightening. He glances over his shoulder. "I think you'll enjoy it."

Tolya meets Marya's gaze for a moment. He doesn't admit to anything. Neither does she. But something about the way he looks at her tells her that he heard— that he heard when she mentioned the word to Sturmhond. Kebben.

"She's not big on poetry," Marya lies, and watches at the tall Shu man walks away. She'll have to tell Neyar to keep a close watch on her new book if she intends to keep it.

"Making friends already?"

Marya has to swallow the groan that threatens to escape her throat. She turns her head, only to be met by Sturmhond's devious green eyes.

"You're up late." Maybe it has something to do with the fact that he sneaked into Alina Starkov's room. Or maybe he wasn't even up late, but simply managed to sneak past her. Come to think of it— had he been waiting until her conversation with Tolya was over to approach her?

"A Captain is never late." Sturmhond tilts his head, hand pushing away his teal frock. "Everyone else is simply up early."

"Fairly sure that's not how that works."

         He shrugs. "It has always worked for me." He pauses for a moment, a strange glint crossing his gaze. His eyes flit over her features, her nose, her eyes, her cheeks. His jaw tenses ever so slightly. Sturmhond offers that charming smile of his, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "I must say, you are glowing today, gorgeous."

         Her eyes do a once over to him. "Your chin looks positively pointier," she sniffs. It's not some off handed insult. Sturmhond looks... different. Not completely, but something's changed— and Marya can't quite place it. His hair looks darker. His eyes muddier. The scar over his nose looks more prominent, as if someone had broken it mere days ago. She narrows her eyes.

         "What can I say? Sharp cheekbones and bold jawlines run in the family," he deflects easily, turning his face away from her. "You know," he begins, casting one casual look around. "I've heard that Grisha shine when they use their powers. Their skin looks rejuvenated. Their eyes look brighter."

When Sturmhond turns back to her, he looks eerily calm. His voice, however, gives him away. Too tense. Too sharp. "And you, my darling, look absolutely radiant."

         It's not a compliment. It's an accusation.

         Marya tilts her head coyly. "Have you forgotten, Kapitan?" She blinks up at him. "I'm just an otkazat'sya Second, here to follow my Captain's orders." She offers a smile, one that probably looks as fake as it feels. "Loyal to the bitter end," she says between her teeth.

She'll give him credit where credit is due— and that is that, if Marya wasn't been an active participant in this conversation, she wouldn't know that Sturmhond was accusing her of anything. To any outsider, any bystander, it would only appear as if they were discussing potential routes, shift changes, or even the Saints damned weather. She's come to notice that about him— just how good he is at concealing his thoughts. A man who can lie is a man who has something to hide. She doesn't like it.

         He smiles, and there's something different hiding behind it. "You went to see our guest." It's not a question.

         Her jaw twitches. "You mean prisoner." She doesn't smile this time. "And I don't know what you're talking about," she waves him off, turning to leave.

         His hand latches onto her wrist. Not too tightly, not too gently either. Just enough to make her stop.

Her fight or flight kicks in, and Marya has to suppress the urge to bend his arm. Allies or not, she's not one to allow others to lay hands on her. Not without consequences.

She turns, hair whipping in front of her face. Sturmhond's eyes look a stormy green from up close.

"For your sake, let that be the last time you pay Alina Starkov a visit." She pulls her hand out of his grasp. "And be thankful that it was me who caught you, and not somebody else."

         Hypocrite. Her lips curl into a sneer. "My everlasting thanks," she responds dryly.

His lips part to add something else, before his eyes travel up to somewhere behind her. "It is quite early to be going back to sleep, is it not?"

Marya side steps, following Sturmhond's line of sight. Near the hatch for the belly of the ship stands one of the Darkling's oprichniki. Not Grisha, as far as she's aware, but just as well-trained. Just as dangerous.

The man doesn't hide his contempt for the privateer. "The General wants his prisoner out of his jail and before him," he sneers.

Sturmhond hums, considering him for a moment. "My Second will accompany you," he says dismissively, calmly. "Just in case he chooses to make things difficult."

His dark eyes flick over to Marya. "Her?" the man asks disdainfully.

Sturmhond's jaw twitches. Before he can add anything else, Marya beats him to it.

She walks up to the man in a black coat, brushing past him. "I killed a man who looked like you once," she mentions offhandedly. "Made an awful gargling sound when I slit his throat."

The man doesn't flinch. His scowl deepens, but he doesn't protest.

"After you," Marya says all-too sweetly, allowing the man to head down the hatch first.

Once Marya's halfway down, Sturmhond's boots show up in her line of sight. He ducks down to her level. Muddy green eyes look at her pointedly. "Play nice," he says, the corner of his lips curved up.

"You've yet to see me play dirty, Kapitan," she says as she jumps down. Marya looks up at Sturmhond. "Pray that day never comes."

The hatch closes with a loud creak. Marya leads the way, feeling the oprichniki's glare at the back of her neck like a bothersome mosquito. Finally, they reach the door— which, unlike Alina Starkov's, is left unlocked.

Interesting.

"Rise and shine," Marya calls out as she steps into the room. There's even less sunlight in this section of the whaler, with the only window being boarded up. A few pitiful rays of light seep into the room, and yet it's enough for Marya to see the scene in front of her. Unlike the Sun Summoner, the boy isn't hanging from chains. He looks worse for wear— though not nearly as bad as Alina Starkov. There's blood on his cheek and a cut by his jawline. He sits by the corner of the room, hands shackled. Marya has to swallow the bile that threatens to roll up her throat.

"Up," the oprichniki orders.

The boy's head rises from between his arms. Those brown eyes of his darken. "Where—" he tries, but his voice is jagged, hoarse. Guilt curls in Marya's gut at the sudden realization that washes over her— has anyone been feeding this boy? "Where is Alina?"

"She's none of your concern, Oretsev," he snaps.

Marya glances at him for a brief moment. He wears the same black and silver uniform all the other members of the Darkling's guard do. There is nothing particularly noteworthy about him. Pale skin. Dark hair. Darker eyes. An ever present sneer that makes him look like he's suffering from a bad case of seasickness.

"Stand."

The boy snarls, jumping to them before his body jerks back, chains rattling behind him.

"Where is she?" he growls, glaring at the two of them. "What did he do to her?"

"Relax, tracker," Marya says, voice cold as ice. She can't risk slipping now— not when there's a member of the Darkling's trusted guard standing besides her. "You'll get to see her eventually."

Malyen Oretsev looks at her as if he's only just noticed Marya's presence. His brows furrow, confusion fleeting on his face. "Who are you?"

"Unimportant," she says with a closed-lipped smile. There's dried blood by his temple and by his neck, a bruise staring to form by his jaw. He looks like he put up a fight. Good. "Just know that, should you try anything, I'm a damn good shot." She lets her hand linger by one of her pistols. "I don't suppose I have to tell you to behave accordingly."

The boy scowls, glaring daggers at her with a fiery hatred.

"Stand," the oprichniki commands, his patience clearly running thin. Marya doesn't suppose he's used to not being listened to. "Or you'll be dragged out."

The tracker begrudgingly stands up, his glare never wavering. The oprichniki goes to unshackle him with a key Marya hadn't seen before.

Nearly a week on this ship, and she hasn't once come to visit the boy. She should've— or maybe it's a good thing that she hasn't. By the looks of it, he seems like someone who would rather throw a punch and ask questions later.

One of the chains falls from Oretsev's wrists with a loud clang. Once the second one is unlocked, the tracker goes to soothe his wrists. Before Marya can blink, Oretsev throws himself at the man, his arms twisting around the man's neck, leaving him in a headlock. He uses one of his own chains to restrain the guard. He struggles, but Malyen Oretsev is both taller and apparently stronger.

         Angry brown eyes meet her impassive ones. "Take me to Alina," he demands, keeping a tight grip on the chains he's using to strangle the man.

         Marya can't resist the way her lips twitch upward. She likes him. Hell, she hopes she even leaves a bruise. Maybe more than that. And yet, "why would I do that?"

         The boy with the buzzed hair narrows his eyes. "He dies if you don't."

         Marya raises a brow. "Go ahead."

For a split second, the tracker hesitates. Not enough to free the wheezing oprichniki, but enough for Marya to notice.

"What are you waiting for?" she asks, tilting her head. She can't bring herself to raise her pistol. "Kill him."

         For a fleeting moment, he looks caught off guard. A new look of determination shields his face just as quickly. "I will."

         "I know," Marya says, eyeing the boy with a cautious interest. She clicks her tongue. "I'll have to ask the Black General for his name. It'd be a pity to bury him in a nameless grave." She squints her eye for a moment, as if remembering something. "If he even gets a grave, that is. This ship is quite full at the moment, and it's quite a hassle to carry around dead bodies. Maybe we'll just cast him off to the ocean. Do you reckon the Darkling will be too affronted with using one of his men as bait for fish?"

         Oretsev blinks at her. "What?" He shakes his head, pulling the chains tighter, as if grounding himself. "What are you talking about?"

         Saints, he looked smarter than this. Does she really have to spell it out for him? "I don't know the man. I don't care for him." She meets his gaze evenly. "But you care for Alina," she says, and the urge to say her full name out of respect hangs in her tongue. She doesn't— because he called her Alina. It could get him to lower his defenses. Close the yawning gap just a little.

Marya can see why he was brought aboard this ship as well. Why he's been kept separate from Alina Starkov. He cares about her. Are they friends? Siblings? Lovers? It's pointless speculating. All she knows is she recognizes that glint dancing in his eye. She recognizes it because she's held it more than once.

     And so, Marya continues. "What do you think happens to her when the Darkling finds out you killed one of his men? Do you think he's gonna hurt you?" She shakes her head. "No— he'll hurt her." She shrugs, waving her hand around. "Not to mention all the other crewmen and Second Army Grisha awaiting you the moment we walk out those doors." Her tone grows darker, heavier. "Make smart choices, Oretsev."

The words echo as a taunt, and Marya can only hope he sees the warning embedded in them.

Brown meet brown. For a moment, Marya thinks he'll strangle the man whose face has turned a lovely shade of purple, and that she'll be left to handle the matter of the dead body. And yet, the boy surprises her once again by letting go.

The chains rattle against the creaking floor, and the oprichniki nearly keels over. He coughs, and coughs, air returning to his lungs at an unsteady pace. Once his face returns to its natural color, he stares angrily at the boy. He turns to lunge at him, before Marya places a hand on his chest.

"Control yourself," she chides, like a mother scolding a misbehaving child. The oprichniki's dark eyes meet with her cold brown ones. "The Black General won't appreciate having his precious cargo damaged by a short-tempered guard, now will he?"

The man slaps her hand out of the way, snarling. And yet, he doesn't raise a hand against Oretsev. Good.

         "Take this as a warning to avoid any misunderstandings, Oretsev," Marya says suddenly, heading to open the door. "Try anything like that again and I will put you down like a dog." She meets his gaze with a smile. "Come on, we've got people waiting for us."

The tracker and the guard trail after Marya as she walks down the narrow hallway. Now she can feel two matching glares by the back of her neck. Wonderful. She climbs up the stairs to open the hatch, letting in some much needed sunlight.

         "Make it quick," the oprichniki snaps, and his bruised ego with a matching bruised neck is clearly influencing his already short temper. Marya nearly scoffs. Some people just simply aren't made for life at sea. And judging by the fact that she's already seen two of the Darkling's Grisha pale with seasickness and throwing up, she wouldn't be shocked if this man also fit into said category.

The tracker heads up after Marya's reached the deck. He moves clumsily, as if all his energy had been drained after his little stunt. Marya turns to look away before either of them can make sense of the expression that flits over her face. She'll make sure that he's being given proper meals and water. under the new light, she can tell he hasn't had a full meal in days. They're trying to keep him weak. So far, it doesn't seem to be working.

Only once they're out in the middle of the deck, Marya allows herself to scour her surroundings. She's not surprised to see that the Darkling's Grisha stand idly around the ship, some even playing card games or reading while her and Sturmhond's crew do all the heavy lifting. Her eyes land on the ropes and knots of the rigging.

Marya lets out a sharp whistle. "Darius!" she calls out, and the Zemeni man hops off the rigging with ease.

"Yes, Ka—" he coughs loudly, "—yes?"

Marya gestures at the boy besides her. "Hold him for me, will you?"

Darius looks over at the tracker, and Marya nearly lets out a chuckle at the sudden expression that crosses Oretsev's face. Saints, he's intimidated— by Darius, of all people. Despite his big size, Darius might as well be the most soft-hearted member of her crew. He sings love songs during the night shift aboard the Repentance, makes little toys for the children that wash up aboard slaver ships while they get them somewhere safe. Hell, Marya is fairly sure she's seen him playing hide and seek with Ravi more than once.

Marya has to swallow the laugh that threatens to escape her lips as Oretsev visibly stiffens.

"Where's Alina?" he asks, voice tense.

Marya ignores him, looking over at the bruised oprichniki. She doesn't think he speaks Zemeni, but she can't bring herself to risk it. She tilts her head. "Hali ya hewa nzuri, sivyo?"

A meaningless question. The oprichniki's lips twitches into a snarl. "I don't speak primitive tongues," he barks.

Darius straightens besides him, jaw tensing.

"Darius." Marya clears her throat, meeting his gaze. "This one has a knack for getting himself into trouble. Keep an eye on him, yeah?" Her eyes briefly flit over to the scowling oprichniki. "Yeye pia," Marya adds nonchalantly.

Him too.

"Ungekubali kumtupa baharini?" Darius asks her, jaw twitching.

Marya snorts. "Hakika nisingepinga," she responds with a stifled chuckle. Her eyes turn to the tracker. "Let's get him to the General," Marya says, tipping her head to the side.

"No need," a cool voice says behind her. Marya's body tenses at the sudden presence behind her. She doesn't need to turn to know who it is— she already feels it. Power ebbs off him in waves, stirring her gift inside her. Marya clenches her fists, willing it to sink down.

The Darkling looks as impassive as ever, black kefta as pristine as it had been during their first day. "Hello, Mal."

To her surprise, Mal looks less scared of the Darkling than he did of Darius. Go figure.
"Where is she?" he demands, nearly pouncing on the Darkling. The Zemeni man and the oprichniki hold him back with an iron grip. "What did you do to her?"

He clicks his tongue distastefully. "So eager." Those black eyes of his watch the tracker with a dark glint in them. It's a strange sight, seeing both Oretsev and the Darkling side by side. A bloodied, bruised boy baring his teeth at Ravka's pristine General. Not a hair out of place. Not a speck of dirt in his face. "She'll be joining us soon. But before she does, I wanted to have a word with you, tracker," he drawls that last word like an insult.

The Darkling takes a single step forward, eyes closely following the boy's every movement. "You have a talent for trouble."

"I take it as a compliment," he sneers.

The Darkling chuckles, and the sound reverberates through Marya's bones like an echo. "I'll speak clearly so you may understand," he brushes away a speck of dust from Mal's dirtied shirt. He looks down at the boy, and unflinching, he says, "Step out of line, and she bleeds. Try to cause trouble, and she bleeds. Make any attempts at escaping, and she bleeds. Make the mistake of playing the brave knight in shining armor, and she bleeds." Those bottomless eyes of his center on the boy. "Nod if you understand."

Mal clenches his jaw. Unclenches it. He nods once.

The Darkling's lips spread into a pleased smile. "Good." He takes a step back, sparing a brief glance at Marya. "Make sure he doesn't do anything foolish."

Marya can feel Oretsev's eyes on her when she responds. "Of course, General."

The Darkling heads back to the quarterdeck, and Marya doesn't dare to look away from him until he's at a safe distance. She can still feel Mal's gaze lingering on her— and she can only imagine what's running through his mind. Why didn't you say anything? Why didn't you tell him?

She'll let him draw his own conclusions. For the time being, she can only hope this little moment may help her win his trust in the future.

"You heard the General," Marya says, and when she turns to look at Mal and Darius, she finds that the former is no longer looking at her. Instead, he stares across the deck, jaw falling slack.

"Alina," he whispers, voice getting carried away by the wind. He sounds as if someone has stolen the breath from his lungs. Mal struggles against Darius, before stopping suddenly. He turns to Marya. "Let me talk to her. I need to— let me talk to her."

His face looks different than before. Softer. His voice sounds different too. Weaker. Marya turns away from him, clicking her jaw shut. She stares ahead at the bowsprit, gazing over at the General and the girl standing in front of him. Even when her back is facing them, there's no denying who she is.

The Sun Summoner. Alina Starkov.

Given the distance and the wind, Marya can't make out a word of what they're saying. But judging from Alina Starkov's body language, Marya doesn't doubt she's been given a similar warning. Finally, the Darkling's eyes flit towards them, head tilting ever so slightly.

Alina whips around, brown eyes spotting them in less than a second. She steps forward, before the Darkling seizes her arm.

Marya's hand reaches for her pistol.

The Darkling whispers something into her ear, his eyes focused on Mal. The tracker tenses besides her. Finally, the General lifts his hand, gesturing for Mal to be taken away.

"Come on," Marya mutters, giving Darius the barest of nods. Darius exhales, starting to drag Mal towards the hatch.

But the tracker doesn't plan on leaving without a fight. And so, he thrashes in Darius' grip, kicking his legs up and throwing his head back in hope of landing a hit. The back of his head collides with Darius' nose, making the Zemeni man release his grip with a loud groan.

"Alina!" the boy shouts, "Alina!"

He doesn't make it two steps closer to her before a Heartrender in a red kefta and another oprichniki seize him once again. Mal struggles against them, which only lands him a hard punch across his face.

"Mal!" the Sun Summoner cries out. "Let him go! Mal!"

Marya watches as the boy is dragged belowdecks, shouting the girl's name. And yet, she remains unmoving. Unflinching. Despite the fact that instinct is begging for her to reach for her pistol. This is wrong. This is wrong.

And when Karim's voice returns, she can't find it in herself to be surprised.

Unforgivable.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━

A/N.

i wanna mention that there's ONE COMMENT from the last chapter of someone that accidentally predicted a plot twist that comes later on...... and its not the type of plot twist you're thinking of rn :-) just wanna say i was screaming when i read it and had to take a lap

sidenote i am running out of gifs of medalion rahimi that aren't of her playing a high school student so if you see me reusing a few......... no u didn't

i also wanted to share this little screenshot of when i was looking for pirate commands i-

ah yes, the very common command aaaarrrrgggghhhh thank you google

finally, i made two pinterest boards which you can find over on my pinterest (dovegrangers)!!! one is of this story and is named seven devils BUT THE OTHER ONE i actually got the idea from @/stilestastic of alternate universes of my characters :-) i had so much fun doing this one omg. so you can get an idea here are the names of a few sections:

what if...
— marya grew up in the little palace
— marya stayed with karim and ravi in novyi zem and never became a pirate
— marya was never taken by drüskelle
— neyar never left shu han (👀❕)
— emerens never left ketterdam

[ Started: Jul 11th, 2023 ]
[ Posted: Jul 31st, 2023 ]

( word count: 9.5k )