Archer caught up with her in the alleyway, slamming hard into her back. She wasn't running. Why wasn't she running?

"What are you doing?" He pushed her forward. "Move."

"Relax, love," she said, frowning as she glanced at the wall to her left.

Archer opened his mouth to protest again, but a bullet whizzed right past his head. He blinked, his pulse spiking. Silta turned sharply, then glanced at the hole the bullet made in the wall just inches from his shoulder. She looked back at Archer.

"I know you're new here, love, but that means someone just shot at you."

"I know what it means." He ducked as another bullet shattered a stone block to their right. "Why are they shooting at me?"

Silta reached the end of the alley and took the corner onto another street. "I don't think they're shooting at you," she said, eyes scanning the rooftops. "They just haven't got great aim."

Archer tried to shove her forward faster. He should've tried running after Nelson. He could've asked for directions back to port or figured something out—anything would be better than getting shot because of Silta's apparent lack of urgency. "Can we run, please?" he asked.

"Patience, Minnow," she said. "Running draws attention."

"Gunshots draw attention."

As soon as he said it, another shout came from behind him, and those two men came skidding out onto the street. "You have to start running," he begged. "Seriously."

She stopped walking, turning to face the building on their left. "I'm not big on running," she said evenly. "Men are better at it." She reached up to the windowsill of the house, then planted one foot on the ridge and boosted her other one to the eavestrough, where she rolled up onto the roof.

"I'm not big on"—he gestured with his hand to the window, to her on the roof—"whatever that was."

"You can stay down there, if you want." Her voice came from somewhere above as she disappeared from view.

Another bullet. Archer snatched the windowsill and attempted the same maneuver. He got his hands on the ridge and should've been able to pull his body up, but all the movement had caused him to forget the slice on his hand. It gave out at the last second, so he ended up having to perform a weird clamber over the side of the eavestrough, getting to his knees at Silta's feet right as the shingles in front of him split from another bullet. He shuffled back. "Now we run," he said, pushing at her again.

She turned. "Yes, but now we have the lay of the maze better, and—"

"Oh, that's enough," he snapped. "I'm running." He scrambled to his feet and sprinted across the rooftop, leaving her behind. When he spotted the six-foot gap over the alley in front of him, he only had time to panic for a moment before he leaped, blood pounding in his ears and still gushing from his hand. Freefalling now, he floundered for control, losing altitude a lot faster than he anticipated. He lunged for the connecting rooftop, his extended foot just managing to graze the eavestrough.

He crashed onto the other side, knocking the air from his chest. His knees buckled and his face slammed into the shingles, but his momentum was still in full force as he tumbled halfway across the building, sharp edges catching and ripping his uniform before he came to a full stop.

He bit back a groan as he pushed up on his hands, trying to find which way was up.

"Kingsley!"

He got to his knees again, watching as Silta took the same gap, no hesitation in her step. She hit the next roof with elegance and grace, effortlessly rolling back onto her feet without even breaking her stride. "I trained you so much better than that, love," she breathed as she went by.

Archer was already back to running, ignoring the sting of pain from his hand and now his entire body, every bone and muscle he'd bruised by that impact. He took the next gap properly, rolling out perfectly, but Silta, of course, was now ahead. He didn't dare glance into the streets below as the shouting started up again.

He caught her after the third jump; he was the better runner. Point Archer.

"You see that, Kingsley?" Silta shouted over her shoulder. She pointed to port, where the Avourienne's crimson sails were unfurling as they pulled out around the side of the docks, uncast and ready to catch them on the horizontal. The crowds from the city were flocking and spreading out, a chaotic colony of ants looking for a person in this port whose head was currently worth a surely absurd amount of money. A person who was right next to Archer.

He sprinted across the rooftops, muscles screaming in pain and overuse as the shingles around him splattered with bullets. He set his focus on those crimson sails in the water, a notoriously deadly ship that had now become his safe haven. The irony was not lost on him.

Before he could realize they'd come to the end of the block, Silta dropped to the ground. Unsurprisingly, she rolled back to her feet, and he once again crashed onto the cobblestones and took out at least three people as he slammed onto his back. He'd practiced this maneuver a thousand times with Farley, executing it perfectly every time, and yet now, with those bullets chasing him and his nerves alive with terror, it was lot harder to put it to work.

As he got to his feet again, someone barreled into Silta from one of the alleyways, knocking both of them to the ground. Archer ran past as fast as he could, so very uninterested in her well-being. The further away from her he got, the better. He sprinted through the crowds, shoving people out of the way. "Move!" he shouted, refusing to steal a glance over his shoulder to check if the men were still after them or if Silta had beat out her assailant.

She had. She was back at his side a second later, his speed reduced as he pushed through the crowd. "Look!" she said, nudging him with a sleek black pistol. "It's a revolver. That guy back there had it, and I knew they were a thing, but I didn't know they were out in circulation yet—"

"You're out of your mind," Archer hissed. "Get away from me."

She laughed, but she cut off as someone jumped on her, taking her to the ground. Archer kept moving forward but this time, he did look behind him to see if she would come back from it. Before she could twist and shoot the man with her fancy new gun, another burlier man peeled the first off, tossing him away. It was everyone for themselves, of course—but the man didn't reach for Silta himself; he let her go.

Archer frowned as the crowd started to thin out the closer they got to the market. He heard the commotion of Silta's presence somewhere behind him, so he kept moving, finally able to break into a sprint once more when he hit the cobbled road before the docks. The wind whipped at his hair, drying it from the rain. He stole a sidelong glance at the Avourienne, creeping along the edge of the docks, ready to receive them the good-old-fashioned pirate way. He'd have to jump from the end of the dock and onto one of the hanging ropes. If he didn't make it or he couldn't catch the rope, he'd be fish food, and the crew would probably call it good riddance.

A group of people sauntered into his way, and Archer blinked in disbelief as he realized it was Britter and his team, moving at a leisurely pace. Had they not noticed the Avourienne a few hundred meters off the dock in front of them? Had they not realized the entire port was in a full-out war?

"I'd run if I were you!" Archer called from behind them, offering no other explanation as he sprinted by.

"Archer?" Denver caught up, ducking under something someone threw. "What the hell?"

Archer ducked, too, almost losing his footing again at his speed. "Bounty," he breathed, desperately trying for air. "Silta."

"You know how much?" Britter was running effortlessly, glancing behind him as he caught up to them.

Archer did his best to pretend he wasn't struggling to keep their pace. "Probably just enough to make one shitty strategist turn on another," he snapped. Angels, these people knew how to run.

Britter, somehow, managed to steal another look behind them, probably for Silta. "You've got a problem with me, Minnow?" he asked. "You want to deal with it?"

Archer snarled out a noise of frustration, muscles burning from exertion. He wheezed out a reply, which drew a snort of laughter from Denver.

"Cardio comes with the job, Kingsley," Britter mused. "No one told you?"

Archer gritted his teeth as he took the sharp turn onto the dock, where the Avourienne loomed. He raced down the length, gaining all the speed he had left. When he reached the end, he leapt one last time, and with the roiling water below and Britter's taunting still fresh in his mind, he made the jump, catching the rope and leading a long trail of blood from his hand before he held fast, feet skimming the water.

Britter and Denver grabbed the ropes to his left, howling with laughter as the sea sprayed their faces and soaked their feet. With no sound to precede her, Silta came slamming into Britter from behind, hooking her legs around his rope before gravity caught her. She tilted her chin to the sky, her free hand flat against the obsidian wood as she struggled to catch her breath.

"My cardio is better than hers," Archer noted, watching her nails curl into the wet wood in exhaustion.

Britter grinned and patted Silta lovingly on the back. "Mere genetics, Minnow," he said. "Be nice to the pretty girl."

Silta kicked off the wood with her foot and drove her elbow back into Britter's gut, causing him to lose control of the rope. For a moment, Archer was sure he'd fall into the navy water below, but he caught himself and snapped, "I take it back. Be mean. Be so mean."

Archer looked back at the dock as they pulled from it, the crew above hoisting their ropes up. His gnarled hand stung, and his whole body strained with the effort of all the things he'd just done, but something about the salt water on his lips and the brisk ocean air made the pain feel dull.

Denver let out a shout of enthusiasm, laughing over the roar of the wind. Britter and Silta were still fighting each other, but all he could see were the knives and the bullets and the blood. Did it have to be like this, so gruesome and violent, to feel real? Were morals the only thing holding him back from laughing and living like the others? Would he be better off if he gave into what was all around him?

"Yes, love." The feeling of Silta's breath on his neck forced his attention. She'd ceased her argument with Britter to give Archer her full attention, back to her mind-reading.

"High stakes make for a good life," she said, salt collecting along the bridge of her nose. "And this, Minnow"—she looked out at the roiling water, to the dock growing smaller and smaller as the wind whipped at her hair—"is a good life." She turned her head to see him once more, Siren smile sharp as she whispered, "Halleveire monere."

He searched her face. "I don't know what that means."

She smiled, and there was humanity in her expression, finally. It came from the running, from the excitement she got from all this, evident in the red tinge along her cheekbones, either from the wind or exertion.

"Whatever you make of it," she declared, reaching up to start climbing.

Archer glanced back at the dock. A thrill-seeker, nothing more. It was so much less wild and hateful than any other explanation for this life, and it was far more haunting, because at the end of the day, he feared he might be no different. This was living. In a sick, heartbreaking kind of way.