Alli snorted, looking up at Archer. "It's a map...map," she said.

He ignored the joke. "It's just a map that leads to a map."

"It's a map map." Alli snorted again, accidentally blowing some of the papers off the table.

Belford gave the younger navigator a look as he picked up the stack again. "You're lucky you have a sharp memory," the older man said. "Otherwise, you'd be off my team."

"That is most definitely not your decision to make, old man," Alli replied.

Shuri went to smack Alli this time, but the younger girl was much faster.

Archer watched them for a moment, wondering if their easy dynamic would've made his old self smile. He glanced down at the map, pushing it out of his mind. The map map, or whatever it was called, stressed him out. The odd familiarity of it was daunting. Something about the markings.

"Have we got an estimate?" Archer asked his head navigator.

"Assuming we don't run into anything?" Belford replied. "A few weeks at most. It's not too far."

He found it surprising. It was the map to Myria's chest; it shouldn't be so easy to access and so close to the border of safety. Perhaps there was something guarding it, some other shoe that had yet to drop.

The evening sun set on the ocean for the second day on his new ship, but Archer didn't appreciate the beauty. Sure, the map was stressing him out, but it was the fight with Lyra that weighed on his mind. He hated that she'd thrown Silta at him like that. You're just like her.

Lyra may have been right about his mood, but she wasn't right about his character. He was the furthest he'd ever been from Silta's brutality. He was almost positive that Lyra knew that, too. She'd only wanted to cut deep.

There was a part of him that was intent on apologizing to her, but he wasn't sure if he was really the one who should apologize. Just because Lyra had been right about some things didn't mean she was right about everything, including the way she'd brought the whole thing to a head.

"Captain?"

Archer blinked, looking up at Shuri. "Yes?"

"Could I speak with you, sir?"

At first glance, he had no clue why she'd want to talk. He searched her face as she chewed on her bottom lip, a habit both her and Alli had when they came aboard. A few months in, Alli dropped the habit, but her sister never did.

He nodded to her, gesturing to the door and following her out. Bardarian always took the lead in such manners—a form of control—but Archer almost always walked behind.

See, Lyra? I'm different.

Shuri's shoulders were pin-straight as they entered the captain's quarters, and she clasped her hands behind her back as he leaned against his desk. He could sit down, but that was his fear-instilling tactic, and Shuri was terrified enough.

"What can I help you with, Laurier?" he asked.

"I respect you, sir," Shuri began, her skin glinting in the low lighting. "Very much. You're the best thing that's ever happened to me and my sister."

Archer watched her thumbs fidget. "You're worried," he concluded. "About the map."

Shuri pursed her lips. "Well, sir, I'm just not entirely sure this is what I signed up for, sir. I mean, pirates, sea creatures—I knew we'd have to defend ourselves, of course, but this isn't defence, sir. This is more like... offence." She made a helpless face and swallowed. She clasped her hands in front of her. "And Alli, Captain, she's very young. She doesn't know the difference between bravery and stupidity. Nobody at that age does."

"At my age, you mean?"

Shuri blinked, having forgotten that Alli and he were the same age. It didn't feel that way, of course. His reputation centred around Silta and Bardarian, which often had people assuming Archer was somewhere in their range, and since he was now in power over people older than him—like Shuri—it was an easy detail to forget.

"No, that's not what I meant, sir. I didn't mean that you're—"

"I know what you meant. Alli is a little less...composed."

Shuri nodded. "She's not ready for this, Captain—even if she thinks she is. We didn't sign up for this, sir."

"I would agree that you didn't," he replied. "I can drop you at the next port if that's your choice."

Shuri's face was blank. "Oh," she said. "It's that easy?"

Archer shrugged. "It's that easy, but I will warn you, Laurier, Alli won't go with you."

"Oh, she will, sir. She has to," Shuri replied. Her face had relaxed, calmer than he'd ever seen her.

"She doesn't," he said. "And she won't."

Shuri's eyebrows lifted in surprise, but she said nothing, just darted her eyes around.

"Look, Laurier," he began. "You have every right to leave. Alli has every right to leave, too, but people are different, even sisters. You like the calm nature of sailing; Alli likes the thrill. You're just different. There's no shame in splitting up."

"If Alli stays, I stay," Shuri said firmly.

Archer sighed. "You're welcome to stay."

Shuri bit her lip, worry creased in her brows. "You're brave, Captain, and you're clever. Alli's just impulsive. She's going to get herself killed. Please, just...kick her off the ship, sir."

He didn't reply for a moment. Finally, he stood and gestured to the couch behind her. She sat, and Archer took the chair opposite her. "I'm going to tell you something, but it's probably best not to repeat it to the crew for now."

Shuri's gaze shuffled across his features, nervous.

"The Avourienne is trailing us," he told her. "Farther during the day and right next to us during the night. I don't know why, but I have reason to believe they're not after us. Oddly enough, they're providing us with protection. From Myrian creatures, from other pirates. The truth is, I doubt we'll run into any problems until we reach the chest."

Shuri glanced out the window as though she could see them.

"The point is," he said, "you don't have to make your decision now. I think the moment we get to the map and the Avourienne shows herself, then we could have a problem. There are plenty of ports until then. Talk to Alli. Take your time."

Shuri didn't look any less terrified.

"That's all I can give you," he told her. "I'm sorry, Laurier. I won't kick Alli off the ship."

She bit her lip. She glanced back at Archer, who'd risen from his spot. "Thank you, sir," she said.

He nodded and allowed her out. "Just pass it up if I'm to drop you in port in the next few days."

Shuri turned to face him again. "I doubt you'll need to. You know Alli."

He shrugged. "I do. She'll be alright, Laurier, even if you choose to leave. I'll keep an eye on her."

"I have no doubt," Shuri said, an edge to her voice. There it was again, even from tentative Shuri. Archer had been a deckhand when he and Silta had been together; he'd never been in a position of power over her at any time. She'd had power over him, so why couldn't he escape this narrative of snatching women from his crew?

"I want the best for Alli," he replied. "Nothing more."

Shuri pursed her lips and nodded to him. "Evening, Captain. Thank you."

He closed the door behind her and made his way to the desk, still annoyed by the rumours that followed him. He wandered around for a moment, then ventured out onto the balcony. He'd barely had a moment to admire his new ship since they'd left Chorro.

He tapped on the rail of the balcony. His conversation with Shuri hadn't exactly been uncomfortable, but he didn't like how little information he'd had to give her. How uninformed he was on this whole thing.

The air was starting to cool on the balcony, the metal lining the fence icy to the touch. He placed his elbows on it and took a deep breath. For the first time, he was taking on his own challenge, something new. An adventure, heading for the unknown.

And for the first time in a year, he felt something lift from his heart.

He could sense someone behind him, but he couldn't hear them, so he knew exactly who it was. He took a deep breath and said, "I really wish you would've brought it up when we were alone."

Lyra joined him at the rail. "I know, Kingsley. It was bad timing." She shook her head. "I got all flustered and aggressive. I got all...like I used to be."

Archer pursed his lips to hide his smile.

"What?" she pressed, scoffing. "Don't tell me that's a good thing."

"It is a good thing," he insisted. "Maybe I'm depressed and bored, but so are you. A new adventure calls for our old selves. Don't you think it's a good thing?"

She sighed, shrugging as she glanced out at the water. She was quiet for a moment, then, "I didn't mean it."

"I know."

"I still have to apologize, Archer. You're not her, obviously not. I just hated that she got you when she didn't deserve you. That she still has you, even now."

It had always felt, to Archer, that he was undeserving of the attention Silta showed him. She was the desired, the skilled, but when the situation was centred around the moral worth of a person, he guessed Lyra could be right.

"I tried to get your attention time after time on the Avourienne," she admitted.

"I didn't notice, Lyra," he said truthfully. "I can't use what I don't know to my advantage."

"Well of course you didn't, Kingsley. She was there. When she's there, nobody looks at anyone else."

Archer glanced at her, picking apart the emotions on her face. Spite? Not quite. Something else. Lyra didn't despise Silta for the same reasons anyone else did.

Do you think it's me she's jealous of? Or do you think it's you?

So that's what that meant. Although ghost-Silta might have been sure about that implication, Archer wasn't. Thinking back on it with a sound mind, Lyra had tried to get his attention on the Avourienne, time after time. Gauging Lyra again, he couldn't really tell.

She glanced at him, unaware of his thoughts. "I think it's a good thing," she said. "That we're reverting without them here. It means we're healing."

He sighed into the cool air and watched the waves thrash. "Maybe."

"Kingsley?"

"Don't," he snapped.

"Oh, come on. It needs to be said."

He shook his head, knowing she would press it anyway.

"You don't want me," Lyra said. "That's fine. But Rodriguez? Come on, if we're trying to heal, Kingsley, she's perfect for you."

He glanced at her for a moment, at the seafoam colour of her eyes and the sharp bridge of her nose. He looked back at the ocean. "Rodriguez unsettles me to no avail."

"Well, of course she does. She looks like Silta, so she feels like a repetitive mistake. She's not Silta, Kingsley. You just have to separate them. She smart and she's pretty and she's obsessed with you."

"I can move on to some new quest," Archer said, "and I can crack a few jokes in the future, but I can't have another girl. It just feels like I'm using them to forget her."

"She's gone, Kingsley, and you've got to forget her somehow."

But he could smell the iron of her blood in the air when he tried. He could see the dirt under her nails as she dragged her mauled body after him, leaving crimson handprints on the tile. Rule number five. You killed me, Kingsley, and now you're going to just touch some other girl like it never happened?

"It wouldn't be a big deal," Lyra was saying. "If she were a deckhand, maybe, but she's a high rank, and no one would judge you for it—"

"Lyra." He'd preached morals to Silta over and over again, then murdered her. She'd redefined his entire ethical code, leaving him just as mauled as he'd left her.

"She'd dead, Kingsley," Lyra said.

Archer glanced at her. "I know that."

"Do you?" she asked, leaning closer, searching his expression.

He resisted the urge to lean away. She was giving him a chance, here and now, to admit his issue to someone. Someone he didn't have to pretend for. A friend, who knew where he'd been and what he'd done.

"I never saw her dead, you know," he said quietly. "I never actually saw her die. Some part of my mind won't accept it if I didn't see it. It dreams up this vision of her, all the time. I can talk to her, converse with her." When he turned to Lyra, her eyes were suddenly glassy.

"I see her too, Kingsley," she whispered.

He breathed a great sigh of relief. "You do?"

"All the time. She feels real, and it's eerie as hell, but it's not real. There's always some fatal flaw about the vision, and then she disappears."

It was a weight lifted from him to know that he wasn't the one causing problems here. Liking the feeling, he continued, "It's not just that. Sometimes I can hear Bardarian, too. His final words, the sound of his neck snapping—it's not a gruesome sound on its own, but with context, it feels bloody and vicious."

"Well, you're not a violent person by nature, Archer. Of course you'll be haunted by the things you had to do."

"But when will it stop?" he pressed.

Lyra glanced out over the rail. "I don't know." She paused, then said, "You know, something happened to me once, something pretty bad. I never got over it, but it got easier. I kept wondering, when will this awful feeling of being stuck in time stop? It doesn't stop, Kingsley, it just fades. You won't notice it's not there anymore until it's not there anymore."

"What happened to you?"

She laughed, but there was mystery to it. "My business. Did you get my point?"

He nodded slowly. "I got it. I don't like it."

She grinned. "Alright then. The next time you see her, Kingsley, just call me up. We'll pick her apart together."

Archer smiled at the water. He never questioned Lyra's kindness, because she wasn't manipulative or cunning, she was just her, acting on her own free will.

"Thank you," he said. Perhaps he meant it the way he felt it; he couldn't ever be sure if his thoughts translated to words properly.

"You're very welcome. Should we head downstairs?"

"I think you should. I'm going down to navigation to get some things done."

Lyra rolled her eyes and left the room, muttering about his obsession with work. When she opened the door to his quarters, he could hear the crew laughing, singing, doing a thousand irresponsible things down in the common room.

Archer—although he'd once enjoyed that type of atmosphere—didn't quite care for it anymore. He left after her, taking the stairs to the navigation room. Upon opening the door, he was glad to see the navigators had left.

"Good evening."

He startled, stumbling back into the table as he spun around. In his fear, he'd drawn his pistol and aimed at the corner.

"Well, they don't lie about you being quick," Isabella mused. She had a slight curve to her lips that might be considered a smile.

"Why are you lurking in a dark corner, Rodriguez?" Archer asked, lowering his aim. "I could've shot you."

"Why would you have shot me?"

"I didn't know it was you." He tucked away his pistol again.

"You know what my voice sounds like, don't you?"

"It sounds similar to someone else."

Now, her lips stretched into a great smile, which looked utterly unnatural on her. "Quite the compliment, thank you."

Archer almost said something scathing—it's more of an insult, but he held back. "What are you doing here?"

"Strategy," Isabella said, slipping by him. "Since you won't let me in on the Avourienne and where they are, I thought I'd try and figure it out myself."

He resisted the urge to scoff or roll his eyes as he sat down in one of the chairs. He'd taken to coming here often—at night, when the navigators wouldn't ask what he was doing—to scrounge the map Kerian had given him. He hated those familiar lines, those eerie instructions. He wanted to find out who wrote it.

Archer pointed to the window. "Right there," he said.

"What?"

"The Avourienne. They're right outside."

At her lack of an immediate reply, he turned to see her response. It was odd to see such a look on her—one of awe, of excitement.

"So it's true, then?" she asked, tugging up a chair to sit next to him.

"What is?" Archer floated a hand over one of the bearings.

"The ghost ship. It's really invisible?"

Archer followed the bearing to the plot. "Sometimes."

"Exhilarating," Isabella said.

"Only when you're not the one being hunted by it."

"To be hunted by something beautiful is exhilarating, I'd say."

He didn't have the right to judge her for finding beauty in the Devil's ship. He did, too. He absentmindedly imagined seeing those sails again, running a hand along the polished wood. Seeing his room again, seeing that crew again.

"Why don't you like me?" she asked.

Archer glanced at her. "I don't dislike you."

"You clearly do," she said. "Is it because I look like her?"

"You don't. You sound like her. Sometimes you act a little like her. Nobody looks like her."

"So why don't you like me?"

"I don't dislike you."

She leaned forward, trying to distract him from the map. "You like Laurier. You tolerate so much more from her than you do from me."

"That's not true. Laurier's infractions are irritating, and yours are wrong."

"If I want something, is it wrong to ask for it?"

"You've asked. I've said no."

"You haven't, really. You've just pushed me away like you're saving me for a better time."

"That's not true."

"No?" She lifted a dark brow. "Seems like it is."

Archer sighed, abandoning the map and turning to face her. Perhaps if he explained this to her now, she would stop pressuring him about it.

"It's not that I don't like you," he said. "It's that your similarity to her unsettles me."

"Only because you see me as her. If you'd get to know me, you could separate us."

"Maybe," he admitted, "but I don't need to know anybody else."

"Maybe that's exactly what you need," she shot back, slightly accusatory. "Maybe you're just afraid."

Fear wasn't something that came up to him much anymore, except as something fleeting that faded away quickly. Rational thought always came in before he could go too far.

"I'm not afraid," he replied.

"No?" She leaned forward, her forearms on her knees. "Are you sure?"

"Very."

She kept her eyes slightly skyward of him, and it struck him as something submissive. He'd never been one for submissiveness, for salutes and formalities. Some men were; he knew Bardarian had been and Silta played it up for him, but she'd never done it with Archer. She knew her men, always knew what they wanted.

"Can I tell you something?" Isabella asked.

He raised a brow, suspicious. Another ploy, perhaps. Something to get him to concede.

"I know how it feels," she said.

"Specificity is not your strong point," he noted.

She smiled slightly, but it was, as always, dark. She clarified, "To murder someone you love."

Maybe she thought she was relating to him, giving them something to bond over. But truly, she was just making her own case worse.

"My father was my idol," she said. "He taught me nearly everything I know, told me that you could learn to shoot a bullet all you want—the mind is the real weapon."

Archer eyed her carefully, wondering where she was heading.

"But he had something...wrong, with his mind. You know, you see those people on the streets that go slightly mad. That was him, only it was harder to tell. He was a genius, but the geniuses are always the ones that go off the rails. He came home from work one day in a haze. He called me Joe, even though he didn't know a Joe. He thought my brother was trying to attack him, so he attacked back. My mother got in the way trying to protect us, and he nearly killed her."

Her eyes drifted off to the side of Archer's head, slowly, in remembrance. "In the end, even his mind was no match for a bullet."

He had a feeling that was the way the story would end, but he was surprised all the same. Isabella couldn't throw a punch to save her life, and she didn't pick up a pistol unless it was shoved into her hands. Now he had an explanation for why.

"The needs of the many outweigh the few," she said, "or the needs of the sane outweigh the insane. It had to be done; somebody had to take some initiative." She glanced away for a moment, resting her elbow on the slice of table closest to him. "They'll tell you a thousand things to make you feel better. It doesn't make you feel any better."

Perhaps they were more alike than he'd assumed. Perhaps Isabella's darkness was less of a trait and more of a trauma.

"But a bullet is very impersonal," she said. "It doesn't make the aftermath any easier, but it is most definitely easier to be the trigger to the weapon than to be the weapon itself. I can't imagine."

Archer took a moment to realize the reference. "I didn't kill her with my hands," he clarified. "I had a knife."

Isabella raised a brow. "Well, sure. But Bardarian."

Archer thought they'd been talking about people they loved. He wasn't sure how Bardarian became a part of this.

"Yes," he said instead of voicing his thoughts. "It's quite personal."

"Do you regret it?" she asked.

"Silta? No."

"Bardarian."

Archer furrowed his brows. "No. Of course not."

"Of course not," she echoed. There was a moment of silence. "I don't regret mine either, but only on the days where I convince myself as such."

That made sense to him. "How long ago was this?"

"A few years."

"Does it get easier?"

She smiled, soft, easy. "Yes." She lifted her fingers gingerly. They floated in the air for a moment, then brushed the side of his face, near his ear. Her touch felt similar to the ocean spray: icy, fleeting, promising. "But only if you forgive yourself."

"And how does one go about doing such a thing?" he asked her. He debated for a moment—reach up to push her away, tell her to stop.

"In your case?" she asked. He'd never noticed before, but her eyes were a very dark blue, almost black. If he focused hard enough, he could imagine the depths of Myrian waters. "Moving on, perhaps," she suggested.

Archer tilted his head, catching that immediately. "You're good," he said, surprised to find an undertone of humour in his own words.

She smiled, pearly teeth shining. "Yes, well, I don't know how to forgive yourself. I just thought I'd make a case for myself." She twirled her finger around a strand of hair by his ear. "But I like your observance. You prove my father right; the mind is a dangerous thing."

"I've known ones far sharper."

"That, I can hardly believe." Her shoulders curled in a little, putting her closer.

He knew what she was doing. He knew this game, had seen it before, had played it before. But it didn't quite matter what her intentions were; she was right that they'd had similar experiences, similar traumas. She was right about the mind, perhaps even right about him.

He assumed that moving on would be a process he'd go through with someone radically different from Silta. As Lyra had suggested, perhaps he was troubled by Isabella because he was worried about repeating his mistakes. But Isabella wasn't really all that much like Silta, was she? Sharp, sure, pretty, sure—but immoral? Vicious? Isabella didn't have those traits, did she? The only violent act she'd committed was one of love and logic, and she hadn't picked up a gun since. Completely and utterly different.

"I can see you considering," she said. Her hand rested near his neck gently. There was something unnerving about her touch, but that was the damage, the past of her. He probably had it, too.

"I might be...deciding," he replied.

"I wish you'd decide quicker," she said. "I can only play at nonchalance so long."

He searched her face. It was different, the lines of her jaw, the softness of her cheekbones—she was completely different. This was different.

"I'm done," he said slowly, but he wasn't really sure. Maybe he wouldn't know until he tried.

She slid her hand behind his neck, pulling him closer. He met her lips before he could think it through anymore.

She was enticing, entrancing, a little bit of everything, yet almost immediately, he wanted to draw back. He wanted to push her away, get far away from her, because there was...something...wrong with her.

He forced himself to remove that from his mind. It was the guilt, the inability to move on, convincing him of things. He brought a hand to her face, but she felt too cold to even be real. She...felt cold, but when he actually brushed her skin with his fingers, she didn't appear to be cold at all. It was just a feeling.

She was leaning closer, pivoting so she could place a knee on his chair, get closer.

Open your eyes. Open them.

Archer shook his head slightly, drawing Isabella with him. That was Silta and her incessant need to keep him to herself. Isabella drew a quiet breath, then came back for more.

Open your eyes open your eyes open your eyes open your—

He did. He looked past Isabella, to the far side of the room.

She leaned against the wall, chin down, eyes set on him. The darkness caught the shadows of her face, making her look gaunt and dangerous. But no—she wasn't looking quite at him. She was looking at Isabella. She'd always been a hard person to read, but he could see every emotion on her face now: disgust, loathing, spite. No jealousy, no regret, no trace of sadness. After a moment, she lifted her gaze to Archer, catching his eye.

Her lips parted slightly, and he could see the shape of her tongue run across her canines, sharp and glinting. She shook her head, never taking her eyes off him. Once, twice. First a warning, second an order.

Archer felt cold sprint through his veins. Silta lifted one graceful finger to her temple and tapped it once. Evil, she mouthed.

He pushed Isabella away, much harder than he meant to. She stumbled back into her chair as he backed up to stand—far away from her. She was evil.

"There's something wrong with you," he breathed before he could stop himself.

If she'd truly been wronged—only on the receiving end of his irrational behaviour, she would've been upset, would've looked back at him with confusion. Instead, her lips curled slightly in anger. The deep colour of her eyes was filled with rage.

Isabella moved past him, throwing the door closed behind her. She hadn't accused him of being absurd, being wrong. She'd just left.

"You play for the angels," Silta said, still leaning against the wall. "The good side." She took a step forward, uncrossing her arms, flattening her palms to the table in front of her hips. "They call me the place in between. The morally grey."

Archer shook his head. Too much was happening in his head.

"Keep the game in that spectrum, Kingsley." She tilted her head, eyes cold with a warning. "You don't want to find out who plays for the Devil."