Due to the reduced size of the Myriad, Archer was forced to cut some of his crew. Most of them ended up being officers, which, of course, him and Lyra took very hard. When he cut Gladstone, the crew officer had sulked, apparently even more upset to find out he wouldn't sail for the Myriad.

When the delays of crew cuts and moving supplies over had been hurdled, Archer and his new ship sailed away from Chorro, leaving behind the peculiar-acting King and any secrets he was harbouring.

Even so, being away from the royal island didn't make Archer any more relaxed about what the exchange had implied. Sailing away on the Myriad did help to improve his mood, but he found it souring again when night fell.

As he made his way down to navigation, he glanced out at the dark water. It was out there, the Devil's ship, stalking his new one. He was better equipped to take a fight now, but he was still reluctant to put any lives at risk in the first place. If they attacked, would he run? Would he fight?

When he opened the door, Shuri was examining the map holders with amazement, and Alli was looking skeptically at Archer. "What in angel's name did you to do get this ship, Captain?" she asked, accusation thick.

Archer sighed. He'd probably have to fight. The Myriad may be fast, but the Avourienne had to be faster.

Belford smacked Alli. "Laurier," the old man scolded. "Enough of the questions."

"Point us due south, Belford," Archer told him, looking around for Lyra. "I'll have some more information once I speak with the strategists."

"Of course, sir."

Lyra came in the back of the room, nodding to Archer just as Alli spoke up again, "I just don't understand why it's such a secret. Can't somebody just tell me what you did for him?"

"The King?" Lyra asked, glancing at the map. "Saved his life," she offered.

Alli snorted. "You weren't even there," she pointed out.

"Ma'am," both Shuri and Belford added.

Lyra turned to Alli sharply. If this were the Avourienne, that simple disrespect would've been enough for her to throw punches. Here, though, Lyra was all calm and controlled.

"You talk too much, Laurier," was all Lyra said.

Shuri looked up quickly, then realized she was not the Laurier in question. She went back to her work immediately.

"You know," Alli began, unbothered, "we really should rectify that name thing. It's awfully confusing."

Belford snapped his fingers. "Laurier one," he said, pointing at Shuri, "and Laurier two." He pointed to Alli. "Get back to work."

Alli furrowed her brows. "Why am I two?"

Belford shrugged. "You're younger."

Archer got Lyra's attention. "Meet me in strategy. Grab the twins, too."

Lyra nodded and followed him, snapping her fingers at the Rodriguez twins, who were lounging by the rail, probably expecting a meeting. They followed quickly, Isabella tossing her book aside to bound up to the strategy room.

Lyra closed the door behind the four of them, nodding at Archer to begin.

He leaned against the table, thinking. "The King had a request for me, and I'd like to run it by some extra ears."

Eric leaned forward. "What kind of request?"

"He wants a map," Archer replied. "He gave me a path to the one he wants."

"What kind of map?" asked Isabella.

"The map to Myria's chest."

Lyra blinked, frowning. "Why would he want that?"

Archer shrugged. "He gave me some story. His responses were conditioned."

"Someone's telling him what to do?" Eric concluded.

"Someone on the Avourienne," Isabella said.

"I considered that," Archer admitted. "but I'm leaning away from it. If the Avourienne wanted this map, they would get it themselves. They would also have to have a powerful source of blackmail to put the King in that kind of position."

Lyra narrowed her eyes. "What if the King wants it for himself?"

Archer glanced at her. "Why would you think that?"

She crossed her arms and leaned forward. "There's a spell on the map. The chest can only be opened with royal blood, but the map can only be found by someone without royal blood."

He frowned at this new information. So Kerian wouldn't be able to access the map himself. "Where did you hear that?" he asked.

"It's floating around," Isabella said. "It's a new spell, as far as I know, so it wasn't to stop King Kain or Silta from getting it."

There it was again, that name, from her mouth, said with that same fluidity Silta herself always spoke in.

Lyra nodded in agreement. "The spell has to be for Kerian. There aren't any other royals for it to be for." She tapped the table. "Unless Silta and Bardarian had a child?" she offered.

"They didn't," Archer said. "Kerian's the last of the line."

"Are we sure about that?" Eric asked. He was picking at his fingernails. "The woman was everywhere, with everyone." Including you.

Archer almost snapped at him before realizing he hadn't actually added those last words. He glanced at Eric and said as quickly as possible, "She didn't want children."

"Not something you can control all that much," Isabella said blandly. "And Sirens are known to be extraordinarily fertile."

Sighing, Archer shook his head again. Silta had a way of making sure she didn't have children—unusually fertile or not. He had his own guesses, but he didn't feel like filling them in. "Any child of theirs couldn't be older than eight," he pointed out instead.

"A brother, maybe?" Eric prompted. "Maybe Silta was a twin? Maybe she had a sister or something?"

Isabella's eyes flickered. "Shouldn't we be more concerned with who's protecting this map? Who's making spells against royals?"

"They're probably the same person," Lyra pointed out. "Either way, I'm not sure this is a good thing to get involved in."

"You don't think so?" Archer asked. "I've told him we'll do it."

Lyra's face contorted a little, and she gave him a look. "That's a big decision to make without me," she replied.

Isabella's eyes were still moving between them, picking apart what they were saying. She glanced at Archer for his response, who felt around cautiously for the words to calm Lyra down. Sometimes she got a little difficult, but it was never so head-on.

"We're discussing it now," he said. He saw her nose make that little scrunch of irritation—something she hadn't done since the Avourienne.

"Not the point," she said sharply. "That's not a decision you make without me."

Archer lifted his brows a little. Where was this bite coming from? Lyra never wanted to be captain, never wanted the responsibility, and she'd never talked back to him in front of lower ranks.

"I think it's best if we have the map," he explained, "rather than whoever else Kerian would give the task to if we decline."

She was realizing the sense his point made, clearly, but she wouldn't back down. Her fists balled slightly—another old habit—as her voice raised, "That's not a decision you make on your own."

Archer lowered her chin. "I call the shots, Tailsley."

"Oh, don't Tailsley me, Archer," Lyra snapped, drawing closer. "I should've been in that room with you. I should've been there when you talked to Kerian today and when you talked to Kernite yesterday. You always push me out of the important things."

Archer caught her anger a little better now, but he still wasn't sure what the source was. He thought he and Lyra had been communicating seamlessly. "I like to keep the room small," he told her, even though she knew that already. "I notice more things if there aren't as many distractions."

"You keep me out of those exchanges because you don't trust me," she shot back.

"Should I—" Eric began.

"Quiet," Lyra snapped. Then, to Archer, "To you, I'm the pirate from the Avourienne that got in too many fights. I'm the girl that flipped loyalties on a legend, and that terrifies you."

Archer sighed, taking a deep breath. There was obviously something else going on. "You two can leave," he told the twins.

"They shouldn't leave," Lyra insisted. "They should know who you are beyond the stories."

He shook his head. "I have no clue what we're arguing about here," he said. "I discuss things with you after they happen. I talk through things with you, but I don't risk missing things while they're happening."

Lyra's reply came quick and snappy, "You would not push me out of those things if I were her."

And there it was, the real reason for this situation. Silta was the destroyer of everything even long after she'd destroyed herself. Sparkling, impossibly brilliant and beautiful Silta, who Lyra competed with her whole life. Silta, who Archer had loved. Lyra, who he didn't, even after all this time to heal. It was looming there in the background, Lyra's dissolving patience, and it finally snapped upon the reappearance of the Avourienne.

"No," he answered, "I wouldn't push her out of things. She saw things I didn't; you don't." It was the truth, but it was still harsh.

Isabella raised an eyebrow, a gentle, humourless smile on her lips. She and Lyra got along quite well, so Archer wasn't sure why she was enjoying this so much.

"This isn't an attack on you," he said to Lyra, trying to take the edge off his last words. "It's just the way I do things. No, you're not as smart as she was. Nobody was, for angel's sake. but there are a million reasons why you're a better person. It's enough with the comparisons all the damn time."

Lyra rolled her eyes as if that was not an accomplishment worth celebrating. "I'm sick of this, Kingsley," she said, jaw tightening. "I didn't agree to do this, to be your first mate on a ship that does nothing but wander around and draw on maps."

"That's exactly what you agreed to do," Archer told her.

"No it wasn't, and you know it."

Archer glanced at the strategists. "Leave now," he said, because he knew where Lyra was taking this. Somewhere she should've saved for a private conversation.

"Don't leave," Lyra shot back. "Get to know your captain, you two. Get to know how he used me and how I felt to his advantage." She took a few steps closer, pointing a finger at him. "You led me on, Kingsley, because you needed me to get off the Avourienne. You know who that sounds like? You know who played with feelings and minds to get what they wanted?"

His eyes snapped up.

"You act like you're better," she said, her voice rising. "You think murder is the only thing you have to avoid to separate you from the captain Bardarian was. The navy trainees dread working for you because they're just as scared of you as they were him. Eric flinches every time you raise your hand. You haven't cracked a joke in a year. You push me out of everything because letting me in would require you to actually acknowledge that she's gone, and you can't bear that. You used me only to give me nothing, just like she used you on the Avourienne. You're just like her."

If he was the man that had crewed for Bardarian, Archer might've shouted back at her, maybe he even would've made it physical over that insult. But this Archer? This toned-down, automatic soldier he'd become? Her words bounced off his metallic skin. He nodded to the door.

She didn't leave immediately. She held his gaze for longer than necessary, silence stretching to eternity. Then, when he refused to reply, she turned and stalked to the door, slamming it shut behind her. Archer nodded to Eric and Isabella, gesturing for them to do the same.

Eric left, but Isabella stopped in the doorway, too intentional to be hesitation.

"Leave, Rodriguez. No games today." When she didn't move, Archer opened the door and left down the hallway, to his quarters. He wanted out of this stuffiness, this responsibility. These reminders of her, this repetition, Lyra's awful truth—

"You are quite similar to him," Isabella said.

Archer spun around, furious she'd followed and he hadn't heard. "Excuse me?"

She took a step closer, even though she was already closer than he liked. "You. The King of the Sea. You are quite similar, don't you think?"

"How do you figure that?" Isabella didn't know him nor Bardarian.

"Ocean-wide status," Isabella remarked. "Fear-inducing reputation. Known for bloody murders. Broke themselves over the same woman."

"I'm not broken in the slightest," he replied, maintaining his calm. He took a step back, away from her. "It's not your place to comment on anything of this nature."

She looked down at his feet, then back up to his eyes. "Your strategist—a rather pretty one, might I humbly add—regularly throws herself at you, as does your second-in-command, and yet you push both of them away. Sounds quite broken to me."

"I prefer not to dabble with those I have power over," he said.

She smiled darkly. "And yet you love to replicate Bardarian's actions."

Archer didn't like this, and he had yet to truly ask himself why. Perhaps he should be taking her up on this, perhaps he should've already established things with Lyra—someone who had been through hell with him. Where he could explain his lack of interest in Lyra, he couldn't do the same for Rodriguez. It was almost as if the strategist...unsettled him past a point where he'd feel comfortable with her.

"I was not the same person when I made those decisions," he said firmly. "At the time, I would've thrown all caution to the wind for what I had." He kept his voice down. "For you, now, I wouldn't risk a thing. You're out of line."

She tilted her chin slightly, not displaying anything he could read. "You took me on board so I wouldn't turn into her, did you?"

Archer didn't answer that. He wanted to turn around and leave her there, but she was still speaking.

"At least, that's what you tell yourself," she said. "In truth, you took me on board because you desperately hope to replicate her."

Archer considered that, for a mere moment. If he wanted to be brilliant, wanted to be smart like Silta had been, he couldn't bristle immediately at things he didn't like; he had to process it first. When he did, he concluded that no, that wasn't the truth. Replicating Silta was not something he could nor wanted to do.

"You're out of line," Archer said again. "Last time I'll warn you." He moved away from her before she could argue. He closed and locked his door behind him.

"You tell her, Kingsley."

Archer spun around and pointed at the Silta-ghost, lounging out on his couch. "No. Not today." He needed a break—from Silta, from the problems she caused and her eerie lookalikes. He wanted a break, but at the same time, he felt comfort in her presence.

"I like the strategist. Reminds me of me." She placed both hands elegantly on her stomach, looking up at the ceiling. "But I never begged for a man. They begged for me."

He didn't reply. He made his way to his desk, glancing back to make sure the door was locked.

"And Lyra, we all saw that coming," Silta continued. She glanced over at him, eyes sparkling. "She always had a thing for you. Hated that I got you in the end."

He leaned against his desk and rubbed his eyes.

"Do you think it's me she's jealous of?" From his peripheral, Archer saw her get to her feet with that practiced grace, moving over to the table he kept his maps on. She looked back at him, eyes shining. "Or do you think she's jealous of you?"

Archer drew his eyebrows together and dropped his hands, glancing back at her.

She lifted her eyebrows in a mysterious expression, perching on the table. The maps didn't crunch under her; the table didn't groan from her weight.

"I don't know what that means," Archer said.

She swung her legs a little like she was a giddy child. "Really? Kingsley the detailed, Kingsley the ever-so-observant. You know what I'd call you? Kingsley the head-up-his-ass. Kingsley the ever-not-so-observant." She laughed.

Archer watched her teeth gleam in the candlelight. Silta would never say that; she took pride in her brilliant insults. He'd known her to be bright at times, but never childlike.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, her face lighting up. "I have a good one. Kingsley the so-full-of-himself-he-doesn't-realize-that-Lyra-is—"

Archer let out a bottled-up noise of frustration, pressing his fingers to his temples. Why couldn't he dream up a good Silta? A better version of her, or at least the nicer part of her?

"Seriously, Kingsley," she went on. "Let's have a little think-session. We don't really know how it feels, of course. You got the most stunning woman in the ocean"—she fell back on the table dramatically—"and I get every man I've ever wanted. We can't imagine the frustrating process of vying for attention. Rodriguez, Tailsley. We just can't relate, lover."

Archer wasn't listening. He was trying to break her apart in that way that sometimes worked—picking apart all the flaws that made him sure she was all in his head. In his head, Silta was older, more mature. Slightly taller, maybe. Longer hair, a glowing sheen over her skin.

She rolled her head to look at him, her cheek against the wood. "I don't think I've ever vied for anything. Have you?"

Archer held her gaze.

"Oh, you're right," she said. "You vied for me, that's true. You're doing it right now. Kingsley the suffers-in-unrequited-love, if you will. Kingsley the dead-lover-still-has-him-in-her-clutches."

"You don't have me."

She snapped her fingers, pointing at him. "That makes sense. You're over me, and you hallucinate me every other day. Makes sense to me. Does it make sense to you?"

"I need time."

"Not really," she replied, sliding a leg off the desk and rolling to her feet. "You don't need time. Time won't heal your broken heart. I'm your endgame." She clasped her hands together. "Me, forever. Tattooed right there on your shattered heart—'Novari' in pretty little letters. You know it, and I—who is actually you—also know it."

Archer settled into his chair. Closed his eyes very tightly.

"Not in the mood for conversation, lover?" she asked, following him. She rolled onto the couch as though she were drunk. "You love to talk. Kingsley the never-shuts-the-hell-up, if you will."

Archer reached over to the nightstand and picked his book up. He cracked it open even though the words were blurry. He wouldn't read it, but maybe it would distract him.

"I figured out who killed him."

He glanced over at her. She was still staring at the ceiling, her fingers mindlessly braiding a strand of her hair. He dreamt about this, sometimes—Silta finding out who really was responsible for the death of Captain Bardarian.

She dropped her hair and looked to Archer, unblinking. "It was you."

It was fake. It was fake. She was a hallucination. There was no need to get worked up, but still, he felt his heart race.

She tilted her head a little, gazing past his head. "Unbelievable that I didn't see that the day of. I really should've. Silta the always-missing-that-one-essential-piece-of-information. I was just so..." She trailed off as she searched for the right word, flicking her fingers as though that would help her think. "Devastated."

Archer tried to look away, but he found he simply couldn't.

"I'd like to hear you say it, Kingsley," she said, finding his gaze again.

"I killed him."

She nodded slowly. Her eyes were glassy, holding none of the focus Archer remembered them having.

"How?"

Archer searched her face, so effortlessly beautiful.

"I broke his neck," he replied.

She didn't blink, just held their stare. "What did he say?" she asked. "His last words? Can you make a little performance for me? Re-enact it with the same amount of drama?"

Archer refused to break. "I asked him if he'd heard of mercy before."

She grinned, breaking his gaze to watch the ceiling again. "And he told you he hadn't. Bastard was always using my damn lines."

"Novari."

She slid her focus to him, the smile drifting.

"Is this you?" Archer whispered. "Are you here?"

It was the sincerity in her act, the glassiness when she'd asked about Bardarian. The length of her hair, the maturity in her features and the shine in her eyes that forced him to ask. Was this hell, where they met again?

She rolled onto her side. "Sure. Call me a ghost, if you will. You won't move on from what you did. It lives with you, and so I live with you too. Trust me, lover, I'd love to get some peace down in hell."

Her explanation calmed Archer. Ghost, hallucination—whatever she was, she was dead. There was only one way in and out of the Kingsland, and he'd watched it explode into a million pieces.

"I need to get rid of you," he said to himself, picking at his book. "I think Lyra's right—I refuse to let you go. It's hurting me."

"I like seeing you suffer," she said, her eyes back on the ceiling.

Archer shook his head. "I don't regret it. I don't. I wish I hadn't been the one to do it. I wish that I didn't have to do it in the first place. But I don't regret it."

She glanced at him as though she called bull on his words.

"I don't regret it," he repeated. He got up, determined to rid of her. Maybe telling her these things was the key to his sanity. "I don't regret it. I don't." He was acknowledging he did it, admitting it now, wasn't he?

Archer took a step towards her, then another. He knelt down to the couch, his hand only a fraction of an inch from her head. He could reach out and touch her if he wanted to.

"I killed you," he whispered. "You're dead, Novari. Stay that way."

She watched him, saying nothing. She glanced down at his hand, perhaps wondering if he would reach out to see if his hand would pass through her or touch her skin.

He didn't. He left to his room.