The room was silent. On the ground lay a man so powerful and charismatic he'd been able to bend the ocean to his will. Now he was just a body, lying on the floor of an expansive ballroom, his neck bent and his eyes staring out at the wall, expressionless.

He was the kind of charismatic so man men would want to be, had the kind of presence any man would long for. He was a million things Archer didn't agree with, but he was admirable all the same.

Archer didn't dwell, didn't stick around. He had to move on and find Kerian. Silta could still kill him, especially since she didn't know Bardarian was dead yet. He hurried out of the ballroom, touching the sore spots on his neck.

He could feel the throne room calling to him like a moth to a flame. He had no clue how he knew where it was, but he did. Something about the Avourienne was magic. There was something about Silta's touch that was magic, and there was something about this night that was magic, by someone good or by the Devil himself.

Archer followed the winding hallways until he rounded the corner, bumping his forehead right into a pistol. Silta's face swam into view, golden eyes narrowed in surprise. Even so, some corner of her expression had seen it coming.

"Kingsley?" She looked down at his clothes, his hands, his face covered in fresh and drying blood. "You look like you've been through it, love."

Archer swatted away the pistol, which she was already lowering. "I didn't leave," he said. He searched her face, but she made no indications of knowing what had happened to Bardarian.

"I see that," she hissed, tugging him into her hiding spot. The Prince was sitting on the ground next to her, his hands still tied and mouth still gagged. He looked exhausted.

"What are you doing with him?" Archer asked quickly, hoping to devise his own way to get the Prince out.

"We're going to the throne room. Why are you here?"

Archer peeked his head around the corner. There was the door to the throne room, almost as tall as the ceiling. Nearly ten crisps stood in front of it.

"I couldn't leave," he said.

She ran her tongue over her teeth. "I said I would take care of the King," she said, misinterpreting the reason he'd stayed.

"I needed to make sure," he told her, playing along with the assumption.

She searched his eyes, trying her best to see if he was telling the truth. Archer was so broken, he no longer had the energy to act. He just hoped she would believe him.

"Did Darian find you?" she asked carefully. She was eyeing the reddening skin on his neck, but considering the sheer amount of blood on him, it didn't look out of place. "He went to find you."

Archer shook his head, resisting the urge to tug up his neckline. The pushes to his eyes could've been anyone. "No," he said. "Saw him disappear around a corner, and I went the other way. Thank you so very much for stopping him."

"You were supposed to be gone, Kingsley. I couldn't tell him that, so I let him go. When he doesn't find you, he'll come back, and you'll be here."

Archer shook his head and began to speak, but she cut him off, "If it comes down to it, Kingsley, I'm with him. I gave you an out."

Archer waved his hand. "We have to move. The clock is ticking, here, Novari." He was careful not to insinuate that he knew the truth about the dynamite; that would mean he'd talked to Lyra.

Silta pursed her lips. "I said I'd wait for him to go in," she said, looking both ways down the hallway.

"There's no time," Archer pointed out. The dark was still in full force, but he knew that dawn was coming and with it, the detonation of this entire island.

She glanced down the hallway as if Bardarian would turn the corner any second.

"Fine," she said. "I'm going in. You're coming?"

Archer nodded, his eyes hazy and dull.

Silta pulled the Prince to a standing position and tucked her pistol under his jaw. She appeared to be the only one left with a pistol, in the end. Bardarian had one on his hip, Archer realized—the beautiful red-and-black one, but he hadn't used it on Archer for some absurd pride reason, probably. Silta gave Archer a sharp knife that was longer than the ones he'd lost along the way.

She pushed her shoulders back and took a deep breath.

He pulled out behind her, always in her wake. The group of crisps whirled to face them, drawing pistols and longknives. Silta didn't stop advancing. She nodded quickly to the Prince in her arms.

Her voice didn't waver in the slightest, "Shoot me and I'll shoot him. Then you'll have two dead royals and no heirs."

Archer couldn't see the faces of the men, for they were covered by helmets, but he could tell from their stances that they had frozen in terror and helplessness. One by one, they lowered their weapons.

"Beautiful," Silta said. "Now, open the door." She nodded to the throne room.

The crisps didn't move.

"Do I have to say it every time?" she asked them, her footsteps echoing amongst the deadly silence. "Open the door or I shoot." Her voice was calculating and demanding, that of the first mate of the most famous ship in the sea.

Archer blinked. No—not the first mate.

Silta was the Captain of the Avourienne.

A short crisp in the back of the group stepped towards the door, inserting a massive key into the lock. It clicked open.

"Thank you," she said, holding the door open with her foot as the men backed away. She pulled it open all the way and entered. Archer followed her into the throne room.

Although it was the early hours of the still-dark morning, the lights in the throne room were on. There was an even larger group of crisps in the room, and they immediately turned and drew their weapons the moment the door opened.

"Everybody out!" Silta shouted, voice carrying out over the massive room.

The men did not move. Archer could see the throne behind them, and he could see the golden crown sitting atop the head of the man perched on it, but he could not see his face, not until he stood.

The King was not an ethereal being; he was simply a man. A strong, tall, stocky man with obsidian hair and sharp features. He didn't look as old as he should've; he was no doubt approaching sixty, but his black hair showed not a strand of grey. He focused his steely grey eyes on his daughter, then drifted them to his son.

"Everybody out," he repeated, his voice deep and commanding. The voice of a king.

The crisps broke their formation, a few stopping to glance back at their leader.

"General, take the troops to the basement. I'm assuming that's far enough away for you?" He spoke to Silta, pulling the sides of his golden ensemble together.

"It is, thank you," she said, not breaking the gaze. "And they stay there until dawn."

Archer shook his head. Until dawn, when they'd all go up in flames.

The General filed the troops out, his flushed face confused and out of control. The men filtered out, the sounds of their uniforms swishing as they disappeared out the door and down the stairs.

The King resumed his seat. He rested his arms on either side of his golden throne. His gaze fell to Kerian. "This was most definitely not the plan," he said, seemingly amused.

The Prince did not look the least bit humorous at his father's words. That, and he was gagged.

"Sir!" a new voice spoke from behind Archer, bursting through the back door. "I just ran into a scout. He said he found a crew member of the Avourienne—" He came to a halt suddenly.

"Thank you, Farley," the King said, not bothering to move his head. "I've realized that."

Archer had turned to the side to watch the doors open, but now he found himself rooted in position.

Farley looked the same as he always did: narrow almond eyes with black irises, lithe, stocky form and crooked teeth. He just looked the same, the same person he'd always been. The same man who'd befriended Archer, mentored him, then tore him into a thousand tiny pieces.

"Archer?" Farley spoke with excitement when he realized who they were. He moved forward as if to embrace him, and Archer stumbled back away from him out of reaction.

Silta fingered the trigger of her pistol. "It's good to see you, love," she said to Farley. "You look the same."

Farley's eyes clouded in confusion. He'd thought Archer was on his side, still a clueless pawn. He maneuvered carefully around them, towards the King. He stopped to the left of the throne, his eyes on Archer.

"Did you sell me out, Farley?" Silta asked. "I'd play at nonchalance, but what's the point? It cuts deep." She paused, shaking his head. "You've played yourself for a fool. You sent a man smarter than yourself to play a game with someone smarter than him. Of course things wouldn't go the way you wanted. Archer's not going to save you. I'm sure as hell not going to and since I'm not exactly dead, the King isn't going to hold up his deal, either."

Farley wasn't looking at her, wasn't listening to her. He had his full attention on Archer.

"Hear me out, Kingsley. I knew you wouldn't understand—"

"I don't," Archer interrupted, forcing himself to share that familiar gaze. "I don't understand any of what you did. Not one part of it." He put all his effort into keeping his voice steady, for he didn't want Farley to know how broken he felt.

"But you did it!" Farley stated, his voice rising. "You brought her here—exactly what I needed from you! I knew you would."

Silta twisted around to face Archer. "Would you take this for me?" she asked him, shoving the Prince towards Archer. She handed him the pistol, too.

Archer took the Prince, who didn't bother struggling in his grip. He blinked once.

"Just give me one second," Silta said, jogging out of the room. "I just—this needs to be as dramatic as possible. I'll be right back. Don't go anywhere."

Archer didn't have time to laugh or be confused. He simply listened to the door close behind Silta as she left. Then he leaned in to whisper in the Prince's ear.

"The moment you can get away," Archer told him quietly, "you go to the gates. Swim if you have to. Lyra's waiting for you."

The Prince kept such a straight face that Archer wasn't even sure if he'd heard his words.

Silta threw open the door again after a long moment, face silent and expressionless. It held none of the easy control and humour it had when she'd left. In her hand, she held a red-and-black pistol. Her tanned Myrian skin glistened paper white.

Bardarian's pistol.

He tried to control his expression. There was no way for Silta to know that it was Archer that had killed him. He could've just been found by some other—admittedly rather capable—crisp. Archer was full of blood, and Bardarian wasn't. It was perfectly believable.

She found the center of the room again, her eyes trained on Farley. "I needed another gun," she said. Her face was returning in colour, and her tone was so calm that if Archer hadn't recognized the pistol, he'd have no clue she'd just found Bardarian dead.

She took her spot beside Archer and the Prince.

"Sorry," she said, catching her breath. "You were talking?" She nodded to Farley.

Farley frowned, confused by the oddity. They all were, of course. "Archer," he began again, "if you could just—"

Silta raised the pistol and pulled the trigger. Nobody flinched, not even the King. Farley's body landed on the ground with a thump, blood beginning to pool.

"Should've done it years ago," Silta said, turning to take the Prince once again.

It was fine by Archer, of course. It was fine just as much as it wasn't. Farley had been his family for years. His trainer, his friend, his confidant. Archer was numb and unfeeling, raw and emotional. He was so hurt and so exhausted. He barely felt for Farley or mourned for his life.

The King stood from his position and descended the steps to be in line with them, looking irritated and bored. Archer needed to think of something, and fast. Silta was going to shoot the King and kill Kerian with her hands if he didn't do something soon.

Archer took a step forward. Nobody noticed, perhaps not even Silta, with her incredibly detail-oriented vision. She should've, but she didn't, because she'd seen Bardarian. Because her Captain was dead and it shattered her to pieces—there was no doubt in that. She was watching everything else, but she was not watching Archer. She trusted him.

He took a second step. The King was only feet away, a blade glinting in his belt.

Archer's plan was insane. It was absurd, but it could work. He just needed Silta to let go of the Prince. Kerian needed to get out, safely, and this was the only way.

"What's your endgame here?" the King asked her, stepping closer. "To take the Cobalts for yourself? You're a pirate, my child. Not a queen."

"I'm not a queen," she said, "but I could be." Her voice changed as she readjusted Kerian, slipping while she tried to get control of her tone. "You know he's dead?" she asked abruptly. "Bardarian. He's dead. I loved that man for six years. I did everything for him. He's just dead out there, now. His blood is on your hands."

Archer didn't bother correcting her. It was once again a mistake she should not have made; she should've realized the sense it made for Archer to have done it, but she was hurt. She was in pain, and she trusted him. She let her guard down. She broke rule number five, and she paid the price.

"I set out to kill Bardarian," the King spoke quietly, almost as though he felt for his daughter. But then, as matter-of-factly as Silta had announced Bardarian's death, there was a certain anguish to her tone that was impossible to ignore. "I recall the day he declared war on me for you," he continued. "I still walk with a limp because of it. I remember thinking that you had that man curled around your damn fingertips, and you'd both destroy everything I'd worked for if I didn't stop it. I set out to kill Captain Bardarian—an enemy. I did not set out to kill a man you loved. It was not spite. It was bad luck."

Archer took another step.

"Is that sympathy?" she inquired. "Sympathy, from you?" She shifted closer, spoke quieter, "Your men killed what's mine, so I'll take what's yours." She smiled, and it reminded Archer of that bloody grin all that time ago. "Listen to me, now, my king. Here's the price you're going to pay for his death: I'm going to kill your son. I'm going to kill you. I'm going to take your crown, and I'm going to burn it with the rest of your kingdom."

So that was that, then. There was no arguing with Silta in that state. There was only Archer's...plan, damnit.

The King took a step towards her, his sword glinting at his side. He wasn't far from Archer now. "You're not meant for that throne," he warned.

Archer acted once he'd finished talking, so the King would be the most focused. He lurched forward, hands extended, and dove for the man.

The King was ready. He'd assumed it would happen, saw all those moves Archer broadcasted that Silta had missed. He wasn't a stupid man; in fact, he was quite the intelligent one. He knew Archer was going to attack, saw it coming a mile away. But as clever as the King felt in that moment, he was a mere victim to the smarter man—the one he'd assumed to be nothing but peripheral. He did not look at the details. He looked at the whole.

Because true brilliance was knowing when to play dumb.

The King swatted him away, spinning and unsheathing that glinting knife. He brought it to Archer's neck, spotting leverage only when he was handed it on a silver platter.

Without second thought, Silta swung her pistol from under Kerian's neck and aimed it at the King's head. When she did, Kerian broke away from her, stumbling to the ground, then back to his feet. He turned and darted away, throwing open the doors and fleeing into what would soon be Lyra's waiting ship.

Silta gritted her teeth and raised her chin. The doors swung shut behind Kerian.

The King shoved Archer in front of him, putting the pistol on both of them now.

"Honestly, Novari," the King said with a smile, "I thought you would've trained your crew to a far higher standard."

Silta gained back her control. "I did," she said. She knew what Archer had done, knew she'd been outsmarted. She ran her tongue over her canines. "Kerian doesn't matter all that much, anyway. He was to get your army out of the way. I'm the firstborn, which means he'll have to fight me for the throne, and we all know who will win that fight once you're gone."

The King was strong' Archer hadn't anticipated just how strong. He'd gotten himself into this on purpose, but he wasn't sure how he was to get out, even if this played out properly.

The King took a step back from Silta, his knife pressing into Archer's throat.

"Shoot me, shoot your crew member," the King said, taking another step back. He positioned himself behind Archer again.

It was comical, really—ironic, the sheer number of times he'd been in this position. A pistol in Silta's hands, aimed at the person she wanted to kill, with him in the way.

"Like I give a shit about Kingsley," Silta said. "I'd shoot him for fun." Granted, she'd changed her aim to protect him, but she could play that off as reaction.

The King tilted his head in response.

Sirens were manipulators. That was the thought that popped into Archer's head at that moment. Sirens were manipulators. They coerced using magic—not skill. They were not known for being detail-oriented, not in the incredible way that Silta managed to be. A trait like that couldn't be learned. Her intense ability to read people as she could see through them had been inherited, not from her mother. In fact, Kerian had it, too.

The King's eyes searched her, his gaze plain and simple. Archer struggled in his grip. Now that the Prince was gone, he had to get out of this.

"Liar," the King said.

"I'm so tired of this," Silta whispered, taking another step forward. "Of the same things."

The King took another step back, away from her. He pressed the knife into Archer's throat, oblivious to the new panic his captor had begun to feel.

"Empty the pistol," the King said, "and get the hell out. You can take your crew member. I'll let you go."

"You'll let me go? You'll let me go?" Her voice rose to an unbearable register, and she took another step forward. "No. No." She spat the word out like it was covered with poison that would peel off skin with one prick of the finger. "So you called my bluff. I don't want to shoot him, but I will. I'll shoot him before I leave you with the crown again. I'll do it."

The King took another step backward until his back touched the throne.

Archer couldn't tell if she was bluffing anymore, and he knew the King couldn't either. He desperately tried to squirm away, but it simply wouldn't work. He was so weak after fighting Bardarian.

Silta's arm did not shake in the air. Her finger covered the trigger.

Archer's eyes found hers, begging her not to do it. He didn't want to die. He didn't want to die—not today. He was young, and he wanted to live. Intense fear began to crawl over his skin, the panic rising. When he was fighting those crisps or Bardarian, the situation was in his hands. He could control his life, his actions. Now, with his life in Silta's hands, he had no control.

She wouldn't meet his gaze, and he knew why. It was much easier to shoot when she wasn't looking, when he wasn't a person, he was just some body. She hesitated, golden eyes so fierce and out of control that he could almost feel the heat.

"Don't," he whispered. "Please don't."

Silta gritted her teeth, repositioning the gun. Her finger twitched.

"Please," Archer begged, his throat constricting.

I couldn't do it, she'd said. When that other captain—the one of the Starling—asked her to shoot Bardarian, she'd told Archer she just couldn't do it.

I just stood there with the gun aimed at his head and couldn't pull the trigger.

He took staggering breaths, awaiting her movement. She was deadly still.

She lowered the gun slowly, sharp teeth gritted.

It was so unlike me.

If Archer hadn't been drawing parallels to her story of the Starling and Bardarian, he wouldn't have thought of what she'd said next: And my hesitation was all the Avourienne needed to take the ship back.

Archer moved quickly. He pulled his hand up to the knife, letting it slice his fingers under the King's reflexive action. He tossed it away, and it landed on the ground, metal clanking against tile. He kicked the King in the gut, sending him stumbling back towards the throne. Archer fell back from the force of the kick, scrambling away from him as fast as he could.

Once he was out of range, Silta pulled the trigger.