TREASURE: The Ring of the Sea.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN - Training with the Red Fury.
pairings: ot8!ateez x f!reader, pirate au
chapter warnings: captivity/kidnapping themes, pirate violence, blood and injury mentions, weapons, threats, supernatural elements, cursed object/ring possession themes, dream intrusion, manipulation, emotional distress, anxiety, possessive/protective behavior, jealousy, tense romantic tension, power imbalance, implied danger
You climb onto the deck and Keeho and Theo are there, busy with their little tasks like two stubborn ants: one has a rope coiled with obsessive neatness, the other is checking a knot with the air of someone who doesnât even trust his own fingers, and when they see you, they both lift their heads almost at the same instant, as if by now theyâve learned to recognize your step among a hundred.
ÂŤOh, there she is,Âť Keeho says, with half a smile that tries to be casual but still carries that cabin-boy awkwardness of someone whoâd like to seem older than he is.
Theo gives you a small wave, more discreet, as if greeting you is a normal thing and, at the same time, a tiny transgression allowed by the fact that you â you, of all people â can now move around the deck without someone pushing you back into a cell.
ÂŤHi,Âť you answer, and you feel almost surprised by how... normal your voice sounds.
First, though, instinct makes you look around, almost with the foolish, stinging hope of seeing, between a shadow and a dangling rope, that figure who haunts you even when you donât want him to; you search for a silhouette too elegant to be real, a smile that always seems already turned toward you, but thereâs only the work of the ship, bent backs, a swelling sail, and the sea looking as if itâs never heard of dreams.
And instead of calming you, that leaves a small unease on your skin, one you immediately try to crush, the way one crushes a spark before it becomes a fire.
You approach the two of them and gesture toward the rigging Theo is arranging. ÂŤSo... theyâre not making you fall from the mainmast today, are they?Âť
Theo huffs, pretending to be offended. ÂŤIt wasnât our fault. And besides, we donât go up there. Thatâs... the Catâs territory.Âť
ÂŤExactly,Âť Keeho adds, with a grimace half admiration and half trauma. ÂŤWooyoung... I think he has rubber bones. Or a pact with the wind.Âť
A smile escapes you, a real one, brief but light, and you realize it does you good. ÂŤA pact with the wind... that sounds exactly like him. And what about you? What pact do you have? With the ropes?Âť
Keeho lifts the rope as if it were a trophy. ÂŤMe? I have a pact with order. If the rope is coiled properly, the ship doesnât sink. Itâs science.Âť
ÂŤItâs superstition,Âť Theo corrects him, without cruelty, but with that practical calm of someone who prefers knots to dramatic phrases.
ÂŤItâs superstitious science,Âť Keeho insists, then studies you as if gathering courage. ÂŤYou... how are you? I mean, really. Not the âIâm perfectly fine and Iâd bite you allâ version.Âť
You wrinkle your nose, pretending to think about it, and lean against the rail near them, letting the wind play through your hair. ÂŤToday? Today Iâm... less angry than usual. Donât spread that around. Itâd ruin my reputation.Âť
Theo lets out a brief laugh, almost incredulous that youâre joking with them as if you were... people, and not a kidnapping with legs.
Keeho looks at you and makes a vague gesture with his chin toward the ship and the crew. ÂŤYouâre getting used to it, then.Âť
ÂŤLetâs not exaggerate.Âť The sentence comes readily, but it isnât as sharp as you wouldâve liked; itâs more an attempt to protect yourself, because admitting that you like the deck, that you like the air, that you even like talking to them... frightens you in a way you donât want to analyze.
Theo, meanwhile, returns to his knot, then gives you a sideways glance. ÂŤSeonghwa let you come up alone?Âť
ÂŤNo. Seonghwa ignored me,Âť you answer, and this time the sarcasm comes out clean, satisfying. ÂŤWhich is almost a gesture of affection, if you think about it.Âť
Keeho laughs, and for a moment everything is simple: the wood vibrating beneath footsteps, the sea flowing beside the ship like a promise, their company asking nothing of you except an answer now and then.
Then Theo, without stopping his work, asks quietly, ÂŤDo you miss home?Âť
The question strikes you softly, without wounding you, but it forces you to swallow.
You take a second, look at the horizon, and let the wind be your shield. ÂŤYes,Âť you say at last, and you donât sweeten it, donât cover it. ÂŤI miss it. And I also miss... knowing what happens tomorrow. Here everything is... sudden.Âť
Keeho nods, more serious. ÂŤItâs always like that on the Black Fever. Even when it seems quiet, then...Âť He shrugs, as if he doesnât know how to give that chaos a name.
You offer half a smile, so you donât stay too long in that crack. ÂŤThen keep me informed. If something happens, I want at least the right to roll my eyes first.Âť
Theo looks at you, and for once he doesnât look like a frightened cabin boy, but like someone who understands. ÂŤDeal.Âť
You sit on a crate near the rail, legs crossed in a slightly insolent way, as if that piece of wood were an improvised throne and you had no intention of asking anyoneâs permission to breathe, and you let yourself watch Keeho and Theo while they keep working, one with the rope and the other with the knots, with that concentration young boys have when they want to prove to the world that theyâre useful.
ÂŤSo,Âť you begin, swinging one foot slightly, ÂŤthis ship... how does it really work? I mean, who decides what, who shouts at whom, who takes the blame, and who runs when disaster happens?Âť
Keeho snorts without looking up. ÂŤWho shouts at whom? Seonghwa. Always. Even when it isnât necessary.Âť
Theo nods with an expression far too serious for someone who still has a boyâs face. ÂŤWho decides? The Captain. But not in the sense that... he isnât a tyrant. Itâs just that when he speaks, everyone listens.Âť
ÂŤAnd who runs?Âť you insist, with a smile that makes it clear youâre playing, but you truly want the answer.
Keeho finally lifts his head and studies you. ÂŤNo one. If you run on the Black Fever, either youâre already dead or you end up in the sea. It doesnât pay to be a coward here.Âť
The sentence stays on you for a moment, not because it frightens you â you already know fear â but because it reminds you that they, pirates or not, have a code made not only of violence and threats: itâs made of survival, discipline, and that strange loyalty born when you live with the same people long enough to know theyâll save you even while insulting you for it.
You look around, and inevitably you notice them: at the helm are Yunho and Hongjoong, leaning as if the wheel were a tavern table and not the heart of the ship, and theyâre talking calmly, too calmly for two men whoâve just dodged an attack and a pirate with a hawk on his shoulder.
The sea flows, the ship breathes, and they look... in control.
Hongjoong is the first to feel your gaze, as if he has an extra sense that prickles at the back of his neck when someone watches him, and he throws you a wink so natural and shameless that you want to throw something at him, or laugh, and you donât know which of the two annoys you more.
Yunho, instead, makes no scene: he barely looks at you and gives you a nod of his chin, a sober greeting, almost an âI saw youâ that doesnât stretch any further, but it stays inside you anyway, because Yunho is like that â he doesnât waste gestures.
You turn back to Keeho and Theo, tilting your head toward the helm. ÂŤThere. Them. The Captain and the navigator. Why do they always seem to be... conspiring? As if they have a plan even when theyâre only breathing.Âť
Keeho laughs softly, almost nervously, as if talking about them is always a little risky. ÂŤBecause they do. A plan. Always.Âť
Theo rubs a hand over the back of his neck, choosing his words carefully. ÂŤItâs not... a secret thing. Itâs more... that Yunho needs to know everything. The wind changes, the route changes, the currents change. And HongjoongâÂť he stops for a moment, as if searching for the right way to say it without sounding like a fanatic ÂŤâHongjoong never wants to be caught by surprise.Âť
ÂŤSo the Captain controls everything and Yunho tells him where the world is going to break before it happens?Âť you summarize, with that tone of this sounds insane, but all right.
Keeho nods with conviction. ÂŤExactly. And Yunho is one of the few who can answer him back without dying.Âť
Theo gives him a look, then adds more quietly, ÂŤItâs not that the others canât... itâs that Yunho does it the right way. Calm. Precise. And Hongjoong truly listens to him.Âť
You narrow your eyes slightly, staring for one second at Yunhoâs profile at the helm: the large hands, the steady posture, that constant attention that never seems to switch off, and beside him Hongjoong, who looks relaxed but whom you know could turn into a blade within a breath.
ÂŤAnd why do they work so well together?Âť you ask almost without realizing it, because the question has slipped out more sincerely than expected.
Keeho shrugs. ÂŤBecause they trust each other. And because Yunho is...Âť He pauses, then smiles crookedly. ÂŤ...heâs the kind of person who pulls you out of the mud without making you feel the weight of having fallen into it.Âť
Theo nods slowly. ÂŤAnd Hongjoong is the kind who throws you into it if he has to, but then climbs down with you. He doesnât say it, but he does it.Âť
You remain silent for a moment, with the sea in front of you and the ship creaking as if she too is listening, and you realize that description affects you more than youâd like to admit, because deep down itâs exactly what youâve seen happen: chaos, blood, fear... and them standing upright, together.
Then, so you donât let yourself get caught too much, you grimace and return to your usual tone. ÂŤSo they conspire because theyâre boring and responsible.Âť
Keeho laughs. ÂŤNo, they conspire because if they stop, we all die.Âť
Theo gives you a sideways glance, almost amused. ÂŤAnd because, sometimes, talking is the only way to keep fear still.Âť
You bite the inside of your cheek, as if that sentence has brushed an exposed nerve, and force yourself to huff. ÂŤHow poetic. Did Yeosang train you to speak like that, or does it come naturally?Âť
Theo blushes slightly while Keeho bursts out laughing, and you find yourself smiling again, sitting on a crate on the deck of a pirate ship, with two cabin boys treating you as if youâre... simply a person, and not a problem to be locked away.
ÂŤTomorrow morning, at dawn.Âť
The sentence hits you like a sharp blow, clean, without preamble. And all three of you actually scream, together, in a ridiculous and instinctive chorus that even makes a couple of sailors farther away turn around.
Keeho stiffens as if someone has put a blade under his throat, Theo makes a half jump backward with the face of someone who has just seen Death in person, and you bring one hand to your chest in pure annoyance because you were startled and hate giving anyone that satisfaction.
You turn toward the direction of the voice, and there â obviously â is San.
Heâs already there, motionless, with that dark, steady stare that always seems like a warning, as if heâs been watching you in silence for several whole minutes before deciding to speak, and now heâs judging you for having breathed.
Keeho, still holding a rope, lets out a comment under his breath that sounds more like a desperate prayer than a joke. ÂŤOh my God... is it legal to appear like that?Âť
Theo, instead, says nothing, because he truly has the face of someone choosing whether to faint or run, and neither option seems convincing.
You, on the contrary, clench your jaw, straighten on the crate and, despite feeling your heart still hammering from the fright, cling to the only thing you have left when someone tries to dominate the scene: your tongue.
ÂŤWill you all stop popping up like ghosts?Âť you snap at him, dryly. ÂŤIs there nothing else you know how to do on this ship?Âť
San doesnât react immediately. Then he begins to approach, slowly, one step at a time, as if he has all the time in the world and you donât, and Keeho and Theo almost imperceptibly grip their tasks, as if a rope and a knot could become a shield.
San stops at a distance that to him is nothing and to you is too close, and repeats the sentence with the same cold calm, identical, as if the first time wasnât an order but a warning.
ÂŤTomorrow morning, at dawn.Âť
He studies you, and he truly does: his gaze drops and rises again, slow, meticulous, as if heâs already assessing how long itâll take you to fall, what youâll do with a sword in your hand, how long your tongue will last once it starts hurting.
Then, without adding anything else, he passes beside you and leaves, leaving you behind like three statues that have just seen a storm arrive with no way to stop it.
For a moment there is only the sound of the sea, the creaking wood, and your breaths too high in your chests.
Keeho looks at you as if youâve just signed your death sentence. ÂŤWhat... what the hell did that mean? Why did he say it like that?Âť
Theo nods frantically, still pale. ÂŤYes, because he looked... he looked as if he was already hating you.Âť
You huff, run a hand through your hair, and try to compose yourself while inside you feel a tightness in your stomach you donât want to call anxiety, not in front of them, not in front of yourself.
ÂŤBecause tomorrow at dawn I have to train with him.Âť You say it as if it were any inconvenience, as if you were talking about having to scrub the deck and not about putting yourself in the hands of someone with the patience of a predator. ÂŤCaptainâs orders. He wants to âprove he trusts me,â apparently.Âť
Keeho widens his eyes. ÂŤTrain... with San?Âť
Theo makes a strangled noise halfway between hysterical laughter and crying. ÂŤAt dawn? But... at dawn heâs even more... heâs more San!Âť
You look at them and, despite everything, a grimace escapes you that could almost be a smile, because other peopleâs panic has an indecent way of making things just slightly more bearable.
ÂŤClearly the Captain thinks I need to learn to fight without getting myself killed,Âť you say, climbing down from the crate with a movement meant to look confident. ÂŤOr perhaps he only wants to see whether San loses patience before I do.Âť
Keeho catches your sleeve for a moment, as if afraid you might vanish like a ghost too. ÂŤAnd you... youâre really going?Âť
You look at him, then at Theo, then your eyes go to the spot where San disappeared, and you feel that familiar spark rising, the one that makes you straighten your spine even when youâd rather run away and sleep for a hundred years.
ÂŤOf course Iâm going,Âť you answer quietly, with a calm you donât even know whether to call courage or pure recklessness. ÂŤIf I have to stay on this ship, then at least it should be on my terms. And besides...Âť
You let the sentence hang for one second, because you donât want to admit aloud that a tiny, stubborn part of you wants to see whether San is truly as untouchable as he thinks.
ÂŤ...if he wanted to scare me, he just wasted his time. Iâm used to it by now.Âť
A few hours later, you find yourself sitting at a table that isnât âyours,â and precisely because of that, strangely, it feels breathable, because Keeho and Theo are the only ones you can stay with without feeling that sharp attention on you, that constant measure of your every movement, as if even the way you break bread into pieces were evidence of guilt.
At your side is Lina, and her presence is a kind of practical miracle you earned by insisting and exhausting Martin, the cook, with your most aristocratic and annoying tone.
And you did it until you saw him raise his hands, as if heâd been defeated by a storm and not by a girl in a dress too purple for his patience. And now here she is, cheeks a little flushed from running and lively eyes looking around, as if the mess has suddenly grown larger.
The noise of cutlery and voices fills the air, the smell of stew and warm bread mixing with that of wet wood and salt that never leaves, and you let your shoulders drop by a fraction, just enough to stop looking as if youâre about to bite someone.
Lina, of course, has no intention of staying quiet.
She leans toward Keeho with the absolute seriousness of someone about to ask a fundamental question about the universe, fork still in hand as if it were a pointer. ÂŤSo... you,Âť she says, enunciating the word as if choosing him for a mission, ÂŤare you really a pirate?Âť
Keeho doesnât blink. In fact, he seems to grow ten years younger, because itâs obvious that talking is one of his favorite activities in the world. ÂŤTechnically,Âť he answers, drawing out that technically with the air of someone who feels very intelligent, ÂŤIâm a cabin boy. But if you want to call me a pirate, I wonât be offended. It has more... charm.Âť
Lina studies him, eyes narrowed and bright. ÂŤCharm... like a flea?Âť
Theo coughs to smother a laugh, you lower your gaze to your plate and bite the inside of your cheek, because if you lift your eyes now youâll burst out laughing and you donât want to give Keeho the satisfaction of knowing how much he amuses you.
Keeho brings a hand to his chest as if Lina has stabbed him with the finest cruelty. ÂŤA flea? Me? Excuse me, I amâÂť he stops for a moment, as if searching for a dignified comparison and not finding one, ÂŤâIâm a... a weasel. An elegant weasel.Âť
Lina nods, very serious, and you understand sheâs about to make it worse. ÂŤAn elegant weasel who scrubs planks and carries ropes.Âť
Theo gives you a sideways look with that I canât do this expression, and the two of you exchange a quick, complicit smile, the kind born when youâre witnessing a disaster and donât want to stop it because itâs too entertaining.
Keeho, however, doesnât surrender; he leans toward Lina in turn, lively eyes, voice already ready to run. ÂŤAnd what about you? Are you a thief?Âť
Lina blinks, then makes a small offended grimace, as if the word is too crude. ÂŤIâm a... recoverer.Âť
Theo makes a sound halfway between a sob and a laugh. Keeho widens his eyes. ÂŤRecoverer! Ah, I see, I see... so you recover things thatâÂť
ÂŤThat belong to people who donât notice,Âť Lina concludes with candor, then looks at you as if seeking approval, as if it were the most normal definition in the world.
You take your time bringing a bite to your mouth, chew calmly, and then, without raising your voice too much, drop a sentence as if placing a winning card on the table. ÂŤItâs the same thing you do when you ârecoverâ bread from the kitchen before Martin counts it.Âť
Keeho freezes, caught red-handed.
Linaâs eyes widen and she turns sharply toward him. ÂŤYou steal bread?!Âť
ÂŤI donât steal!Âť Keeho protests, too quickly, too loudly. ÂŤI... save it. From becoming hard.Âť
Theo finally gives in and laughs, a brief but real laugh, and you surprise yourself by following him immediately afterward, because the sound comes out of you like something forgotten, as if for days youâve been holding back every reaction so as not to give anyone an advantage and now, with them, for one moment, itâs unnecessary.
Lina, satisfied to have found a new topic to wring dry, props her elbows on the table and points her gaze at Keeho like a judge. ÂŤAnd tell me, elegant weasel... how long have you been here under the Captainâs command?Âť
Keeho lights up again, ready to tell the story, ready to become the protagonist, and you and Theo look at each other once more.
ÂŤHow long have you been here under the Captainâs command?Âť Lina insists, eyes fixed on Keeho as if sheâs truly interrogating a key witness, ÂŤand donât you dare tell me âforever,â because I swear Iâll throw a bowl at you.Âť
Keeho brings a hand to his chest theatrically, deeply offended, then leans forward as if about to confess a state secret. ÂŤI arrived...Âť he makes an exaggerated pause, looks at Theo as if asking him to give the moment importance, ÂŤ...when I was still stupid enough to think ropes were friends.Âť
Lina narrows her eyes. ÂŤAnd now you donât think that anymore?Âť
ÂŤNow I know,Âť he answers solemnly, ÂŤropes are snakes. And Wooyoung is their god.Âť
Theo smothers a laugh into his cup, you lower your gaze to your plate and force yourself not to smile too openly, even though the urge itches at you, because in that sentence thereâs a simple, wicked truth even youâve understood: on this ship, everything has a character, even the things that should stay still.
Lina, however, doesnât give up. ÂŤSo... itâs the ropesâ fault you became a cabin boy?Âť
Keeho studies her, indignant. ÂŤNo. Itâs my fault. I saw the Black Fever and thought: how beautiful, a ship. Then I saw the Captain and thought: how beautiful, Iâll never die of boredom. And then I saw Seonghwa and thought: I lied. I will die, but from stress.Âť
Theo lets out a sound of approval, as if thatâs now an accepted scientific fact, and Lina laughs softly, a sound that seems lighter than the whole mess hall.
Youâre about to take another bite when the mess door opens with the usual groan of wood, and a colder current of air slips between the tables like a warning.
First Wooyoung, and that alone would be enough to change the air, because he never enters a place: he invades it, as if the room has been built to hold his energy, and today he does it holding San by the arm with irritating familiarity, too close, deliberately theatrical, like a man who has decided his mission on earth is to exasperate someone until he explodes.
San walks rigidly, gaze straight ahead, jaw clenched, shoulder hard beneath Wooyoungâs grip, and you understand at once that heâs counting to ten... and that Wooyoung is trying to make him lose count.
Behind them enter Jongho and Yeosang, and the contrast is almost comical: theyâre speaking quietly, serious, focused, as if discussing something that has nothing to do with the mess hall or dinner or laughter, and Yeosang has that composed air that always makes you think even the way he breathes is disciplined.
Then, just after them, Yunho and Mingi, and they are... different; theyâre chuckling together, shoulder against shoulder, as if for one second theyâve allowed themselves the luxury of being only tired, living men and not pieces in a curse, and the sound of their laughter settles on the planks like something rare.
They donât see you immediately.
Or perhaps they donât look for you immediately.
In any case, you do the easiest thing: you pretend not to have noticed them, force yourself to stay exactly where you were, to keep your eyes on Keeho and Lina, as if your evening were only this and nothing else, and you cling to that momentary innocence like a handrail.
Lina continues undaunted, unaware or pretending to be. ÂŤAnd Theo? He talks little, so I think itâs because heâs hiding a secret. Tell me what secret heâs hiding.Âť
Theo lifts his hands, almost offended. ÂŤIâm not hiding secrets.Âť
Keeho looks at him sideways with a smile far too wide. ÂŤHeâs only hiding the fact that if you ask him to climb the mainmast, he turns as pale as a wet sail.Âť
Theo gives him a light smack on the arm. ÂŤI donât turn pale. Itâs an... aesthetic choice.Âť
Lina covers her mouth with one hand so she wonât laugh too loudly, and you pretend to be completely focused on that squabble, even though your treacherous body registers everything behind you: Sanâs step, Wooyoungâs tone, the way Yeosang is already searching for a seat with his gaze, and above all that subtle sensation of being, once again, in someoneâs field of vision.
Meanwhile, Wooyoung drags San toward a table as if bringing in a trophy. ÂŤLook what I found! A tamed San!Âť he announces loudly enough to be heard.
San stops, slowly, and turns his head slightly toward him with a look that could cut rigging.
Wooyoung tightens his arm around his, blissful. ÂŤNo.Âť
Somewhere, someone laughs. Someone else stops talking, because when San says a single word in that tone, even the cutlery tends to fall silent.
Jongho and Yeosang stop a step from their table, Yeosang still halfway through a sentence, and Jongho lets his gaze slide over the room with that vigilant calm he always has, as if counting how many exits there are and how many people could become a problem.
Yunho and Mingi arrive behind them, still chuckling, and Mingi says something under his breath that makes Yunho shake his head. Then he lifts his gaze and his smile... fades a little, because he finally sees you.
And he isnât the only one.
You donât turn, not immediately. You keep your face toward the table as if Keeho is about to reveal the shipâs last secret, but you feel the vibration of that shift in attention like a current reaching you through the wood.
Keeho, either unaware or very good at pretending, keeps talking and gesturing. ÂŤAnyway, Lina, if you want to know the truthâÂť
ÂŤThe truth,Âť Lina repeats dramatically, ÂŤis that you think youâre very important.Âť
ÂŤBecause I am.Âť
ÂŤBecause you steal bread.Âť
ÂŤBecause I save bread!Âť
You nod, force yourself into a concentrated expression, perfect participation, and meanwhile, without turning, you hear San free himself with a sharp tug from Wooyoungâs grip.
Wooyoung doesnât simply look toward your table.
With that way of walking that isnât really a walk so much as a kind of confident decision to occupy whatever space he wants, he drags a chair and places it beside you as if it has always been his rightful seat, drops into it heavily, and props one elbow on the table, cheek on his knuckles, eyes studying you as if only the two of you remain in the mess.
Theo whispers, softly but not softly enough, ÂŤIt was nice while it lasted.Âť
Keeho nods dramatically and makes to stand.
You stretch out your arm, grab his sleeve, and pull him down with a yank that leaves no room for discussion. ÂŤDonât even think about leaving me alone,Âť you hiss between your teeth, without even trying to be discreet, ÂŤif you abandon me with him, I swear Iâll make you polish the decks with your tongues.Âť
Theo freezes halfway through the movement, eyes wide. ÂŤIs that a credible threat?Âť he asks Lina, uncertain.
ÂŤWith her, yes,Âť Lina answers without stopping her play with the edge of her bowl. ÂŤSit down, please. I fear for my sanity, but mostly for yours.Âť
Keeho, with the air of a martyr, lets himself fall heavily back onto the bench. ÂŤWeâll die here,Âť he murmurs, ÂŤand our last vision will be Wooyoungâs smile. Sad fate.Âť
Wooyoung, who has obviously heard everything, lights up. ÂŤWhat an adorable way to say you like me,Âť he comments, tilting his head toward them, then returns to you as if the rest is only background noise. ÂŤSo, princess, are you enjoying corrupting my cabin boys?Âť
ÂŤThey were saving me from you,Âť you reply, and you feel your exhaustion eased just a little by the habit of needling him, ÂŤbut you arrived anyway. Fate is cruel.Âť
ÂŤFate has good taste,Âť he replies without hesitation, stretching out a hand and stealing a piece of bread from your plate with the naturalness of someone convinced everything on the table is automatically his, ÂŤand besides, youâre clearly stealing my people. I have to check that youâre not... traumatizing them.Âť
Theo blurts, ÂŤYou traumatize us every day, Wooyoung.Âť
ÂŤBut I do it with affection,Âť he replies, very serious. ÂŤShe does it for sport.Âť
Lina bursts into giggles, a choked little laugh she tries to smother by covering her mouth, but her eyes shine when she shoots you a quick glance, as if sheâs watching her favorite show.
Before you can answer, a precise voice comes from behind you, a dry call: ÂŤWooyoung.Âť
You feel him before you see him; the spoken name is a taut line, an elegant warning.
Wooyoung doesnât even turn. He only raises a hand, as if politely telling someone to go to hell. ÂŤYes, yes, doctor. Five minutes and Iâll come back to be scolded, promise.Âť
You do see him, though, Yeosang, when you accidentally lift your gaze for a moment: heâs a little farther away, near their table, tray in hand, his gaze lingering one second too long on the way Wooyoung is sitting close to you, on how his shoulder almost brushes yours, on how inevitably your heads are angled toward each other.
His eyes meet yours for a fragment of a second. Too brief to be real contact, too charged not to feel it in your ribs. Then he turns with a controlled gesture and goes to sit at the usual table with the others: Yunho, Mingi, Jongho, San, Seonghwa. Everyone takes their seat, and yet you have the distinct sensation that at least two of them know perfectly well where youâre sitting.
ÂŤSo,Âť Wooyoungâs voice brings you back down, ÂŤwhat were you talking about before I arrived to make your life better?Âť
ÂŤHow exhausting you are,Âť Theo answers without missing a beat.
ÂŤHow dangerous you are,Âť Keeho adds, sniffing the air theatrically. ÂŤThe atmosphere was peaceful. Now I smell trouble.Âť
Lina tucks a lock of hair behind her ear and gives you a quick, complicit glance. ÂŤI was asking Keeho and Theo how long theyâve been aboard,Âť she intervenes, diplomatic. ÂŤNow we can ask you how long youâve been bothering them.Âť
Wooyoung puts a hand to his chest, scandalized. ÂŤFrom the beginning,Âť he admits proudly. ÂŤItâs important to mark territory.Âť
You sigh, lean your elbow on the table and look at him sideways, your mouth trembling with a smile you donât want to grant him. ÂŤAnd do you think youâve marked it here too?Âť you ask, vaguely indicating the table, with Lina, Keeho, and Theo watching the two of you as if they are the worst third wheels in the history of piracy.
He looks at you, serious for an instant, then lowers his voice just enough to make the sentence feel like a secret shared only between the two of you. ÂŤIâm working on it,Âť he says calmly, ÂŤbut it seems to me that youâre making things... complicated.Âť
Your stomach makes a small, irritating jump, which you rush to ignore. ÂŤItâs in my nature,Âť you reply. ÂŤAsk around.Âť
ÂŤI already do,Âť he smiles, damnably sincere for one second, ÂŤmore than I should.Âť
Lina lowers her gaze to her bowl, cheeks faintly colored, as if sheâs heard more than she wants to show. Keeho and Theo exchange a look of silent panic, like two spectators who donât know whether to applaud or run.
ÂŤI,Âť Theo murmurs, tilting his head toward Lina, ÂŤdonât think Iâm paid enough to witness this.Âť
ÂŤYou arenât paid, Theo,Âť Keeho reminds him.
Wooyoung looks at them, amused. ÂŤWhatâs wrong? Do you feel like youâre in the way?Âť
ÂŤYes,Âť they answer in chorus.
You turn toward them, narrowing your eyes. ÂŤYouâve just sworn loyalty to my cause. Donât try it,Âť you warn them. ÂŤI swear Iâll drag you by the ankle to the kitchen and tell Martin you feel like peeling potatoes for a month.Âť
Keeho swallows and glues himself to the bench. ÂŤIâm perfectly fine here,Âť he declares. ÂŤThis is the safest place on the ship. Between the Cat, the princess, a maid who might poison me, and a pessimistic Theo. Perfect.Âť
Wooyoung keeps talking as if the world urgently needs his opinion on everything. He gestures with the piece of bread in his hand and looks at you. ÂŤDo you know what the problem with this ship is?Âť he asks, very serious.
ÂŤYou,Âť you answer without hesitation, sipping your water.
ÂŤNo,Âť he replies, offended. ÂŤThe problem is that everyone is getting used to your presence, and Iâm losing my monopoly on your attention. Itâs unacceptable.Âť
You stare at him for a second, then raise one hand and point toward the table farther away, the âofficialâ Ateez table. ÂŤPerfect,Âť you say quietly, ÂŤthen why donât you go bother them? They look very available.Âť
You do it just in time to meet three gazes: Yunhoâs, leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed, pretending to listen to Mingi.
Mingi is watching halfway between curious and amused, half a smile escaping him while he tries to keep speaking to Yunho. And Jonghoâs, more serious, eyebrows slightly drawn, as if evaluating whether to intervene or let it go.
Yeosang, instead, has his gaze fixed on his plate, profile tense, fork moving slowly, too controlled to be natural. San is leaning back against his chair, one hand on his thigh, torso turned slightly toward your table, and even though he seems to be looking elsewhere, you know nothing escapes him.
Wooyoung follows your hand and smiles mischievously. ÂŤOh, but Iâm already bothering them,Âť he comments quietly. ÂŤLook how theyâre staring at us. We look like a circus show.Âť
ÂŤMaybe we are,Âť you mutter, sinking your fork into the food.
ÂŤSo,Âť Wooyoung continues while nibbling a piece of bread and using it like a wand to point at you, ÂŤtomorrow at dawn, you and San, alone, with swords in hand. I say that after half an hour, one of you cries.Âť
ÂŤMe,Âť Theo sighs, rolling his eyes up to the ceiling.
Keeho nods, stabbing his fork into his food with tragic solemnity. ÂŤIâm crying already.Âť
Lina looks amused, chin resting on the back of her hand, her eyes moving from you to the three of them as if sheâs following a private theatrical performance.
ÂŤStop it,Âť you mutter, even though one corner of your mouth trembles. ÂŤYouâve known since this morning. You canât keep acting like widows in mourning every time someone mentions dawn.Âť
Theo leans toward you, lowering his voice. ÂŤDawn isnât the problem,Âť he whispers. ÂŤHe is.Âť
Keeho nods toward the table a little farther away, the Ateez one. ÂŤAnd the fact that youâre training with San, not Yunho or Mingi,Âť he adds. ÂŤThereâs an enormous difference, you know?Âť
You huff, spearing a piece of meat with your fork. ÂŤHow lovely. I can truly feel how much you believe in me.Âť
ÂŤWe believe in you,Âť Wooyoung replies, immediately ready. ÂŤHe is what scares us.Âť
He doesnât even bother lowering his voice on the last word. The name San, said like that, halfway between a joke and a complaint, bounces in the air and falls right onto you.
And you see the person in question stiffen.
His jaw contracts, the fingers of the hand resting on the table stop moving. Slowly, he lifts his gaze from his plate and lets it slide across the room, heavy, until it reaches your table. His eyes stop on you for a second, then slip to Wooyoung, narrowing slightly, growing darker.
Wooyoungâs smile freezes for half a heartbeat.
ÂŤContinue,Âť San says, his voice low and steady, reaching all the way to you without needing to rise. ÂŤI truly want to hear how that sentence ended.Âť
Theo goes pale instantly, his fork suspended midair, and nearly drops his bowl. Keeho swallows, eyes as large as plates, and tries to sit straighter in his chair, as if proper posture might make him invisible. Lina freezes, spoon halfway between bowl and mouth, and tugs lightly at your sleeve, as if wanting to whisper enough, please without saying anything.
Sanâs gaze returns to you, a slow, assessing pass that makes your fingers tighten around the fork. Thereâs no exploded anger there, no blazing fire; itâs something far more contained and therefore far more unsettling: half an invitation to prudence, a silent warning.
Wooyoung swallows, but the corners of his lips start rising again, stubborn. ÂŤI was only saying,Âť he answers, with that false lightness still vibrating a little in his chest, ÂŤthat tomorrow at dawn the ship will have the best show the oceans have ever seen.Âť
San tilts his head slightly, narrowing his eyes. ÂŤTomorrow at dawn,Âť he repeats, carving the words into the wood, ÂŤno one will be watching a show. We work.Âť
Theo finally drops his fork into his plate with a sharp sound, Keeho lowers his head and starts fussing with the bread with a guilty air, Lina hurries to start eating again as if sheâs suddenly become the most harmless creature on the ship.
You find yourself holding Sanâs gaze, your heart accelerating without asking permission.
ÂŤPerfect,Âť you reply, trying not to lower your eyes. ÂŤThen weâll work.Âť
For an instant, the tension stretches between you like a taut rope, then San looks away, takes the tankard in front of him, and returns to his conversation with Mingi as if nothing has happened.
But his shoulders are still rigid, his spine straight, and you know very well he wonât give you any discount tomorrow.
Wooyoung sighs, leans a little more against the back of his chair, and crosses his arms. ÂŤSee?Âť he murmurs quietly, somewhere between amused and resigned. ÂŤHeâs totally thrilled.Âť
Theo looks at you with a destroyed expression. ÂŤPlease survive,Âť he murmurs. ÂŤI donât know if I could bear San being even more tense than this.Âť
The corridor is unusually quiet when you leave the mess, your stomach full and your head still buzzing with Keehoâs smothered laughter, Theoâs tragic sighs, and Wooyoungâs jokes droning at the back of your ears like stubborn flies.
Lina squeezed your arm shortly before returning to the kitchen, her eyes shiny with sleep and affection, whispering that you must not let San kill you, because she cares about still having someone to gossip with. Keeho and Theo, instead, greeted you at the entrance of the corridor with the air of two condemned men accompanying another condemned person to the scaffold: each gave you a pat on the shoulder, one too hard, the other too uncertain, recommending with comical seriousness that you return from morning training intact.
ÂŤIf you survive, weâll buy you a drink,Âť Keeho had said, half laughing and half not.
ÂŤIf you donât survive, at least weâll remember you,Âť Theo had added, earning an elbow in the ribs and an indignant look from you.
Now theyâve vanished around the corner, each toward his own tasks, and only you remain, the wood creaking softly under your boots and the yellow tremor of the lanterns hanging on the walls drawing long, wavering shadows across the floor.
You walk slowly, hands linked before you, fingers playing with the hem of the jacket Jongho lent you, still over your shoulders because you forgot to return it and, deep down, havenât tried very hard to remember. The smell of soap, smoke, and something vaguely woody wraps around you like a thin, familiar blanket, and its weight on you is strangely reassuring.
It surprises you to realize youâre not afraid to walk alone now. Only a few days ago, the idea of being left free in the corridors of this ship wouldâve made you cling to the first bulkhead available, ready to use your nails. Now you simply proceed, one step after another, almost unconsciously counting the doors sliding past on either side, recognizing by now the one that leads to the sickbay, the one that goes to the stairs for the deck, the one behind which you sometimes hear muffled laughter or loud snoring.
Tomorrow at dawn, you remember, San and his sword. The thought twists your mouth, a mix of anxiety and challenge lighting in your stomach. Part of you would like to crawl under the blankets and make everyone forget you exist; the other is already imagining Sanâs face when he realizes you have no intention of giving in at his first lunge.
ÂŤSurviving,Âť you murmur to yourself, with a crooked little smile. ÂŤEasy to say.Âť
A small, low laugh escapes you and disappears into the empty corridor. Itâs strange to feel like this: not calm, because calm isnât something that truly belongs to you, but... less trapped. As if the ship has stopped, at least for a few hours, being only a cage and has become a place you know well enough to allow yourself to breathe.
Youâre almost at your door. You recognize it by the thin scratch in the wood near the lock, made by you on the first day you tried to open it with something that wasnât a key. You lift your hand to grasp the knob, already ready to shut yourself in with your thoughts, with the annoyingly sweet memory of the sickbay and Yeosangâs fingers on your skin, with Wooyoungâs voice telling you legends as if discussing tavern gossip.
And itâs exactly then, with your fingers a breath from the metal, that you hear something break the calm rhythm of the corridor.
The footsteps behind you are light but decisive, a rhythm youâre beginning to recognize by now, and even before he opens his mouth, you know who it is.
ÂŤYou walk quickly,Âť his quiet voice murmurs behind you, ÂŤfor someone who wants to be skewered by a sword tomorrow at dawn.Âť
You stop halfway down the corridor, hand already on the knob of your cabin door, and turn slowly. The yellowish light of the lantern hanging on the wall cuts Yeosangâs face in half, one side in shadow, the other lit just enough to make the beauty mark beside his eye gleam, blond hair falling softly over his forehead, dark vest perfectly fastened, as if he hasnât spent the last hours putting together men full of blood.
He watches you in silence for a moment, his gaze moving from you to the door behind you, then back to your eyes, steady, attentive.
ÂŤWere you following me?Âť you ask, trying to sound lighter than you truly feel.
One corner of his mouth trembles, not enough to become a smile, but enough to betray him. ÂŤI was returning to my cabin,Âť he answers, with that calm that always seems like a well-sharpened blade. ÂŤItâs the Captainâs fault for having the brilliant idea of putting you to sleep two steps from me.Âť
Your stomach tightens a little remembering it, the fact that his door is right beside yours, only one plank of wood apart.
ÂŤSo itâs only a coincidence,Âť you reply, tilting your head slightly, ÂŤthat you appeared exactly when I was going back in.Âť
Yeosang takes one step toward you, close enough for you to smell his herbs mixed with sea salt, but not close enough to truly brush you. ÂŤLetâs say,Âť he murmurs, lowering his voice slightly, ÂŤI wanted to make sure you actually reached your cabin.Âť
ÂŤWhy, do you think I get lost on the way?Âť you try to joke, though your heart has taken on a rhythm of its own.
ÂŤNo,Âť he replies without blinking. ÂŤBut youâre very good at ending up exactly where you shouldnât be.Âť
The reference to the deck, the chain, the hawks, to the latest risk you took, is so obvious you can almost see it floating between you, but he doesnât name it.
He takes a step toward you; not enough to truly invade your space, but enough to fill the corridor with his presence, with his clean scent of herbs, alcohol, and something warm that tastes of skin and sun-dried cloth.
He studies you for another second, then his eyes drop for an instant to the jacket youâre wearing, Jonghoâs jacket, and you see them narrow almost imperceptibly.
You donât even know why you still have his jacket, or why he hasnât wanted it back....
ÂŤNice jacket,Âť he comments, neutral. ÂŤItâs too big on you.Âť
You look down at yourself, then at him again, drawing yourself slightly into the fabric that smells of Jongho and sunset deck.
ÂŤItâs comfortable,Âť you answer, with a shade of challenge in your voice. ÂŤAnd besides, itâs cold.Âť
ÂŤThere are also blankets,Âť he objects quietly. ÂŤBut I suppose someone elseâs jacket is more... reassuring.Âť
You donât like the way your heart jumps at that sentence, nor the way you wonder whether heâs talking about the jacket or something else.
ÂŤI didnât think you cared what I use to keep warm,Âť you say, too bluntly, then bite the inside of your cheek. ÂŤI thought you only cared that I donât bleed to death.Âť
This time, a smile truly touches his mouth, brief, contained, but more real.
ÂŤActually,Âť he murmurs, ÂŤI prefer that you donât die for any reason. Including Sanâs madness tomorrow at dawn.Âť
Just hearing him named makes you want to return to the sickbay and ask Yeosang for a powerful sleeping draught.
ÂŤYes, San,Âť you huff, looking for a moment at the wood at your feet. ÂŤA brilliant idea from your captain.Âť
ÂŤBrilliant is not the word Iâd use,Âť he replies. He comes a little closer, enough that you can count his lashes, can see the slight tension along the line of his jaw. ÂŤBut he is my captain.Âť
You want to ask him what he truly thinks â of San, of the fact that heâll train you, of you with a sword in your hand. You can read it in his eyes that he has something to say and is keeping it in, that thereâs a silent struggle between what heâd like to let slip and what he allows himself.
You remain silent, the muffled sound of the ship moving over the water filling the space between you, while the ship creaks, someone coughs far away, a lantern sizzles.
Yeosang looks at you for a few more seconds, then makes a slow, almost hesitant movement, as if even his body doesnât agree on what to do. He lifts a hand, and you feel the primordial instinct to jerk backward, to defend yourself, but you donât move.
His fingers brush your temple, slide slowly along the curve of your face, and with a quiet gesture tuck a lock of hair behind your ear. The contact is very light, but you feel the trail of his skin on yours for whole seconds after he pulls away, a faint and pleasant burn.
Your breath shortens a little, and you know he notices, because his eyes drop for an instant to your lips, then rise again at once, as if heâs put himself back in his proper place.
ÂŤYou should sleep,Âť he says, his voice a little lower than before. ÂŤTomorrow youâll need every scrap of clarity you have.Âť
You remain like that for another moment, your back against the door, him in front of you, close enough for you to feel his warmth filtering through the inches that separate you, but not close enough to touch you unless he decides to.
ÂŤYeosang,Âť you whisper, without even really knowing what you want to say after his name.
He wets his lips slightly, as if preparing to say something that has been heavy on his tongue for too long.
And right in that instant, somewhere farther ahead in the corridor, a door slams, someone laughs too loudly, a distant call breaks the bubble you slipped into without noticing.
Yeosang stiffens faintly, the hand he still had raised lowering to his side, his eyes veiling again with that attentive calm he uses as armor.
ÂŤGo to sleep,Âť he repeats, taking one step back. ÂŤDonât force me to come check that you havenât fled at the last moment.Âť
ÂŤDonât flatter yourself,Âť you reply, trying to recover a little air. ÂŤIf I run, I wonât do it the night before facing San. Iâll wait at least until after Iâve landed a few well-placed blows on him.Âť
This time his smile is a little more visible.
ÂŤIâm only asking you not to come back to the sickbay broken all over,Âť he murmurs. ÂŤI already have enough work.Âť
You turn toward the door, lower the handle. Before entering, you turn again to look at him: heâs still there, standing in the middle of the corridor, hands behind his back, eyes fixed on you.
ÂŤGood night, doctor,Âť you say softly.
You close the door between you with a soft click, but it takes you a few seconds to truly lean your back against it and force yourself to take a long breath, while outside his footsteps, finally, move away down the corridor.
Sleep takes you slowly, like a wave sneaking onto the shore, and when you open your eyes again youâre there once more.
Warm sand beneath your bare legs, the briny breeze mussing your hair, the slow sound of the sea breaking against the Arch of Sable in the distance, its dark silhouette cutting the horizon like a sleeping giant, wrapped in a light you canât understand as dawn or sunset.
Heâs already with you, as if heâs never truly left.
He settles exactly between your legs, body turned to the side, his head resting with not much delicacy on your chest, just below your collarbone, as if that place has belonged to him for centuries; his arms stretch lazily along your sides, one hand brushing your waist casually while he adjusts himself, his fingers drawing a distracted circle on the fabric of the dress you donât remember putting on, but in the dream it has always been like this.
Your back is against a smooth, warm stone, as if the sun has heated it all day only for you, and the weight of his body on yours is familiar in a way that tightens your stomach, as if he has done it a thousand times before you noticed.
ÂŤThis is better,Âť he murmurs, his voice muffled against your chest, his warm breath passing through the fabric and vibrating against your skin.
His black hair falls softly over his forehead, dark against your lighter skin, and you feel it tickle you when he shifts slightly, taking a more comfortable position, as if he has all the time in the world.
ÂŤTouch my hair,Âť he asks quietly, without looking at you, as if itâs the most natural thing in the world, as if youâve always done it. ÂŤYou know I like it.Âť
You hesitate for only a second, then lift a hand and brush it through his hair, your fingers sinking slowly between soft, faintly wavy strands, smooth as wet silk; they are warm, smelling of salt and something sweet that reminds you of night-blooming flowers, the kind that open only in darkness.
He closes his eyes; you feel it in the way his breath grows deeper, in the slight weight collapsing a little more onto you, as if heâs truly letting himself go.
ÂŤLike that,Âť he sighs. ÂŤSee? When you want to, you know how to be gentle.Âť
You want to answer him badly, the way you do with everyone, but the words stick in your throat, smothered by something else rising from beneath the surface of your thoughts, something youâve begun to suspect but until now have never had the courage to say aloud.
Your hand continues moving slowly through his hair, hypnotic, and the contrast between his warmth and the subtle cold of the metal on your finger almost hurts you, even though whenever you dream, you donât have it on your finger.
But you feel the ring anyway. You perceive it even here, in the dream, as if itâs more real than everything else. It pulses softly, a slow beat you donât know whether to call yours or his.
A thought crosses your mind like lightning.
What if it is him?
Not just âa man,â not just a memory, not just a ghost.
What if heâs the consciousness of the ring?
What if heâs... the one trapped inside it?
Your mouth goes dry, but the question rises to your lips on its own, and at that point you can no longer stop it.
ÂŤHow long have you been here?Âť you ask, your voice lower than usual, almost a breath. ÂŤNot on this beach with me... here.Âť
You tighten your fingers slightly in his hair, as if those words might slip away from him if you donât hold him still.
ÂŤInside this,Âť you add, and with your free hand you brush the ring, feeling the stone, in the dream, shine with its own light, faint but constant. ÂŤHow long have you been... here?Âť
He doesnât answer immediately.
You feel him laugh softly, a brief, low sound vibrating against your chest, but it isnât an amused laugh: itâs one of those sounds born from a deeper place, a little bitter, a little tired.
ÂŤAlways so direct, you,Âť he murmurs, without lifting his head. ÂŤNot even a prelude, a kind sentence, nothing. Just the knife in the right place.Âť
You clench your jaw, your hand in his hair stiffening for an instant.
ÂŤAre you going to answer, or do you want to keep speaking in metaphors?Âť you reply, trying to keep your voice steady despite your heart hammering in your chest.
He remains silent for a few more seconds, so long that you begin to think he wonât answer, that heâll change the subject as he always does, and the sea continues to break against the Arch, regular, eternal, like a giant breath.
He turns his head slightly, just enough for his profile to lift and for you to see the curve of his nose, the line of his lips bending into a slow smile, his eyes opening and looking up at you from below, dark, deep, with something inside them you canât name.
ÂŤHow long Iâve been here,Âť he repeats, savoring the words as if theyâre something ancient. ÂŤThat depends on what you mean by âhere.âÂť
You prepare to retort, but he raises a hand and rests it gently on your waist, keeping you still.
ÂŤFor you,Âť he continues quietly, ÂŤsince you decided, without even knowing it, to listen.Âť
The ring throbs, hard, as if itâs heard its name.
ÂŤFor me...Âť He pauses briefly, his eyes losing themselves past your shoulder toward the Arch of Sable, as if there, in that exact spot, thereâs something only he can see. ÂŤFor me, so much time has passed that the number no longer makes sense. More than your years, more than your fatherâs years, more than the years of your fatherâs father, and the fathers before them.Âť
You feel a shiver run down your back despite his warm body pressed against yours.
ÂŤThere was a time when I was free and my name wasÂť he adds, almost whispering, ÂŤmurmured through the currents. Then there was a time when it stopped, and I remained... here.Âť
His eyes return to you, fixed, lucid with something you canât tell whether to call irony or melancholy or both.
ÂŤBut if you want a simple answer,Âť he concludes, with a crooked half smile, ÂŤIâve been here for all the time you chose to forget me.Âť
ÂŤI... I never knew you,Âť you protest. ÂŤHow could I forget you?Âť
He tilts his head slightly, his smile widening by a breath, mysterious, almost tender.
ÂŤAre you sure?Âť he asks, with that soft voice sliding over you like warm water. ÂŤAre you truly sure this is the first time weâve sat here, you and I, with the sea in front of us and the Arch of Sable behind us?Âť
His fingers brush your waist, light.
ÂŤIâve been here since before you were born, Aurora,Âť he murmurs, finally, and this time thereâs no irony, only a truth that weighs. ÂŤSince before the Empire decided to put a crown on your fatherâs head. Since before anyone called Wonderland by that ridiculous name.Âť
He stops, looks at you as if he wants to carve your reaction into memory.
ÂŤIâve been here,Âť he continues more quietly, ÂŤsince someone decided it was better to imprison certain things⌠than let them free in the sea.Âť
ÂŤSo... you are the..?Âť you ask, your voice almost imperceptible.
He looks at you for several very long instants, then his mouth curves into a smile that doesnât answer, but doesnât deny.
ÂŤI am where it allows me to be,Âť he says only. ÂŤIn the dream of the one who wears it. In the waves that rise when they shouldnât. In the currents that change direction when all other instruments fall silent.Âť
He closes his eyes again, resting his head more comfortably on your chest, as if the conversation could end there.
ÂŤAnd apparently,Âť he adds, with a thread of weary amusement, ÂŤnow... Iâm also here, having my hair stroked by you.Âť
You feel the ring pulse again, in unison with his breath and yours, and for the first time you wonder whether, truly, there is all that much difference between the three of you.
You wake with a start, as if someone has grabbed you from inside the dream and ripped you away.
The darkness of the cabin falls over you all at once: only the milky moonlight filtering through the porthole and drawing a pale stripe across the wooden floor, the ship creaking softly, the sea murmuring faintly, far away. Your breath is too fast, your heart still beating hard, as if he has remained there, on your chest, and you can still feel him.
You pass a hand over your face and find it warm, sweaty, as if youâve had a fever.
ÂŤWhat are you, really?Âť you whisper into the emptiness, but the cabin doesnât answer.
A single beat, sharp, against the skin of your finger. It doesnât burn, doesnât hurt... but it makes you shiver all the same. You sit up in bed, the blanket slipping over your legs, and remain there for a while, listening: the sound of waves against the hull, the rhythmic creaking of the wood, the slight rocking that sways you back and forth, as if the Black Fever herself is breathing beneath you.
Itâs deep night, you can feel it.
Too much silence, too much false calm.
And in the middle of that silence, your head is chaos.
His voice comes back to you: Iâve been here since before the Empire put a crown on your fatherâs head.
Before Wonderland, before everything.
Before you.
You bite the inside of your cheek, your eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness, and youâre surprised to find yourself thinking not of him, but of someone else.
His sharp, false laugh when you mentioned the legend. The way he cut you off, as if telling you about that ring was too much, as if giving a name to what you wear on your finger could make things worse.
Why didnât he tell you?
Why, if the ring is yours now, does he keep behaving as if the truth is dangerous only as long as you know it?
You think back to the meeting, to his calm voice when he spoke of the Sacred Hawk, to the certainty with which he decided to use you as a piece on the board... and then to the way he looked at you when you commanded the fog.
As if heâd just seen a legend become real.
ÂŤYou know this story better than anyone, donât you?Âť you mutter softly, staring at the black ceiling. ÂŤYou know more than you say.Âť
You also remember Yeosang, the way his expression changed shape when you asked him about the curse: first neutral, then tense, then closed, like a door shutting with too much calm not to be suspicious.
ÂŤItâs not my place to tell you,Âť Yunho had said.
You get angry, but itâs a strange, exhausted anger, coiling in your stomach together with fear.
Youâre the one wearing the ring.
Youâre the one having dreams that know too much.
Youâre the one hearing voices that arenât yours.
And them?
They walk on the same ship as you, look at you every day, fight with you in the middle of the fog, but insist on treating the center of the problem as if itâs a secret you must earn.
ÂŤItâs my finger, damn it,Âť you whisper, lifting your hand in the dimness, the black band of the glove hiding the metal. ÂŤMy body. My head.Âť
A thought comes to you that you hadnât wanted to consider before:
if so many pirates, ships, hawks, flags, governors, and mercenaries are looking for you...
how much of this story revolves around the ring,
and how much around you?
Your father hasnât come to get you.
He sent someone else.
He put a bounty on your head.
Not on the jewel.
On you.
You lie down again, but remain curled on your side, knees against your chest, staring into the emptiness before you. The wood of the wall is cold against your back, your breath begins to stretch out, but your mind doesnât; it keeps moving.
Hongjoong doesnât speak.
Seonghwa cuts everything short.
Yunho says it isnât his story.
Yeosang changes the subject every time you get close to the point.
And yet they treat you as if youâre the key.
They put you in the front line.
They use you to trick the Hawk.
They give you freedom... but not answers.
ÂŤWhy donât you want to tell me?Âť you murmur, more to the darkness than to anyone in particular. ÂŤWhat are you afraid of?Âť
The ring pulses again, harder, like an impatient answer.
You turn onto your back, staring at what little ceiling you can see, and you realize that by now itâs no longer curiosity: itâs need. Itâs survival. If this thing decides which direction the wind blows and who ends up at the bottom of the sea, knowing why it exists and what it wants from you is not a whim.
Itâs the only way not to be crushed by it.
A thought crosses your mind, stubborn:
If they wonât speak, youâll have to get answers from the only one who will.
From him, the man from the dreams. From that man who speaks to you as if he has known you forever, who knows of Rukhar, of the hawks, of the Arch, of the curse, and of everything else. From the one who, when you asked him about the ring, looked at you and said: ÂŤWhat ring?Âť
A shiver runs down your spine.
You donât know whether heâs manipulating you, helping you, or both at once. You donât know whether heâs on their side, on yours, or only on his own. You donât even know whether heâs truly something or only a reflection of you, of the ring, of memories you donât have.
You only know that he speaks.
They donât.
You huff softly, turn onto your other side, searching for a position that does not exist, one where your stomach isnât tangled and your head isnât spinning.
ÂŤFine,Âť you murmur, tired, with a thread of challenge. ÂŤThen letâs keep playing, sea. Letâs see how far you want to go.Âť
The ship groans softly beneath you, almost in answer.
Outside, the wind changes direction by a breath.
Someone knocks softly the first time, almost timidly, and in your sleep you only mumble something indistinct, turning onto your other side with your face buried in the pillow, hoping whoever it is understands the universal message of let me die here.
The second time, the knocking is a little more insistent.
ÂŤMhh... no,Âť you grumble, your voice thick with sleep, ÂŤwhoever you are, go away.Âť
The handle turns anyway, the door opens with a creak, and you jerk upright, already ready to yell at Seonghwa, San, or whoever has decided to begin the day by attempting suicide.
ÂŤIf you even try to set footâÂť
ÂŤAurora!Âť
You stop halfway through the sentence.
Lina is on the threshold, her hands folded in front of her apron, her dark hair tied in a slightly crooked braid, her large eyes looking at you with a perfect combination of sweetness and panic.
You blink, first with one eye, then with both, still far too sleepy to understand why the world has the nerve to exist at this hour.
ÂŤIs it... morning?Âť you ask, your voice hoarse.
ÂŤItâs dawn,Âť she corrects you, as if it were a personal tragedy. ÂŤAnd San is waiting for you.Âť
You let yourself fall backward onto the mattress again with a desperate groan, one hand thrown dramatically over your forehead.
ÂŤNo,Âť you protest, ÂŤhe canât be waiting for me. Iâm dead. Tell Hongjoong.Âť
Lina comes closer in small steps until she reaches the bed, pressing her lips together so she wonât laugh, but her eyes are shining.
ÂŤAurora...Âť she murmurs, lowering her voice as if San might appear from under the bed. ÂŤHe said that if you donât show up within five minutes... heâs coming himself.Âť
You turn sharply toward her, your hair a complete mess, your eyes wide open.
ÂŤExcuse me, what did you say?Âť
She swallows, then repeats softly, like someone announcing a sentence.
ÂŤHe threatened to come drag you out of bed... by the feet.Âť
For one second, a vivid image appears in your head: San grabbing you by the ankles and pulling you out from under the blankets like a sack of potatoes, in front of half the ship.
Your pride screams louder than your exhaustion.
ÂŤHe... wouldnât dare,Âť you reply, but you donât sound convinced even to your own ears.
Lina makes a face that clearly says I wouldnât challenge fate if I were you.
ÂŤI swear he would,Âť she insists under her breath. ÂŤWhen he came to the kitchen to ask if your breakfast was ready... he said it with that face.Âť
ÂŤWhat face?Âť
ÂŤThe face he had last night at dinner.Âť
You sigh, long, very long, as if youâre letting go of your soul.
You pull yourself up to sit, your tangled hair falling into your eyes, the blankets slipping down and uncovering your legs, the glove on your ring finger tightening slightly as you move your hand.
ÂŤI hate everyone,Âť you state calmly, staring at the empty point in front of you. ÂŤAbove all, I hate my past self for agreeing to this training idea.Âť
Lina smiles softly, relieved to see that at least youâre speaking.
ÂŤShould I bring you water to wash your face?Âť she suggests. ÂŤSo you look less...Âť
You look down at yourself, at your slightly rumpled shirt, your messy hair, your murderous expression.
She smiles at you, clearly not wanting to continue, and runs away; you gape after her, bewildered.
The morning air smells of salt and wet wood, the sky still a pale blue scratched by a few thin clouds, and you climb the last steps with the same energy as a woman condemned to the scaffold, your hands gripping the rail only so you donât collapse asleep right there, halfway up the stairs.
The moment you set foot on the deck, you feel the stares.
Some of the men, the ones youâve learned to recognize as the worst gossips, exchange elbow nudges and snicker; one even pretends to stretch just to look at you better, another suddenly drops his gaze when you catch him head-on, while others try to look busy, suddenly extremely interested in ropes, sails, absolute nothingness, anything to pretend your passage isnât drawing attention.
Your mouth opens instinctively to spit out some venomous remark, but you donât have time.
San is there, one shoulder leaning against the mainmast, his back straight, arms crossed over his broad chest, his black shirt open just enough to reveal the shape of muscle beneath lightly tanned skin, red hair tousled, his profile cut as if someone had carved it with a knife; and above all those eyes, dark and steady, fixed on you like blades already sharpened.
He doesnât smile, obviously.
His expression is that of someone who has been awake for hours, who has already done more than you intend to do all day and who, frankly, cannot wait to regret the promise made to the Captain.
You approach with measured steps, feeling the murmur behind you slowly die down, as if every yard separating you from him also lowers the crewâs volume, until on deck there is only the creak of wood and the rush of the sea against the hull.
When you are a couple of yards away, you stop, look him up and down and then down and up â mostly down and up, to be honest â and let out a theatrical sigh.
ÂŤIf this is your idea of good morning,Âť you murmur, your voice still a little rough with sleep, ÂŤI almost miss the cell.Âť
His gaze slides slowly from your face to your hands, to the bandages, to the glove covering the ring, then rises back to your eyes without even the faintest hint of amusement.
ÂŤYouâve already wasted two of the five minutes I gave you,Âť he answers quietly, his tone low and rough, not sleepy at all. ÂŤDo you want to waste the next ones talking too, or are you going to start moving before I change my mind and send you back down to rot?Âť
You arch an eyebrow, cross your arms over your chest, and tilt your head slightly.
ÂŤOh, so this is your face when you donât want to kill someone,Âť you reply, letting the sentence slide out with that stubborn calm you only use when you want to provoke. ÂŤInteresting. Iâd bet you were going to send a cabin boy to drag me out of bed by the feet, but instead you sent Lina.Âť
One corner of his mouth lifts by a millimeter, not enough to call it a smile, only a fleeting shadow.
ÂŤDonât underestimate my creativity,Âť he replies, pushing away from the mast with a slow, controlled movement, his body seeming ready to spring at any moment. ÂŤIf Iâd come myself, you wouldnât be here talking. Youâd still be making a scene outside your door.Âť
You step half a pace closer, enough to lift your chin and meet his stare up close.
ÂŤIâm sorry to disappoint you,Âť you say, ÂŤbut I didnât come here to make you happy. I came because apparently your beloved captain has decided arming me is a good idea.Âť
San studies you in silence. ÂŤThe Captain,Âť he enunciates, ÂŤhas decided that if we have to have you underfoot, you should at least know how to hold something without cutting yourself.Âť
He nods toward the center of the deck, where someone has already left two swords, parallel, gleaming in the dawn light.
ÂŤI,Âť he adds, his voice even lower, ÂŤhave decided that if Iâm the one who has to teach you... I wonât have mercy just because youâre tired.Âť
You scoff, but you feel your heart beating harder, because of the training, because of the challenge in his eyes, because of the way the wind tangles your hair right as he looks at you as if waiting to see whether youâll run.
ÂŤPerfect,Âť you reply, lifting your chin with a flash of challenge. ÂŤI only need to beat you at least once.Âť
The murmur that reaches you from behind tells you someone has heard, and that your sentence will definitely end up in the crewâs gossip pot, but San does not take his eyes off you.
You see his jaw tighten, as if the idea amuses you more than it should, and for one instant you have the very clear sensation that part of him appreciates that madness.
ÂŤWeâll see if youâre still standing by the end of the morning.Âť
The sword San hands you is cold, the metal vibrating in your hand the moment your fingers close around the hilt, and for an instant you have the impression that the weight is familiar in a way that has nothing to do with the Empire or the pompous lessons of your tutors.
Around you, the deck is not crowded: a few sailors are arranging a line near the rail, another is pretending to be disproportionately interested in a crate, another passes and passes again through the same spot only to have an excuse to throw a sideways glance, and even though no one stops openly, you can clearly feel that curious sort of silence that forms when everyone pretends not to watch but is absolutely watching.
San bends, takes his sword naturally, spins it between his fingers as if it were an extension of his arm, and then, without taking his eyes off you, says with that calm that irritates and fascinates you at the same time:
ÂŤWe wonât waste time on the basics. Iâve already seen how you move.Âť
He tilts his head slightly, a shadow of a smirk on his lip.
ÂŤThe first time I kidnapped you, you wanted to crack my skull. The second, you almost cut the corridor in half to escape. Iâd say youâve already understood the concept of âpoint forward, not at yourself.âÂť
You huff softly, tightening your grip around the handle, feeling the bandages pull against the skin of your hands.
ÂŤIâm glad my attempts to kill you were useful for something,Âť you reply, bending your knees slightly as you were taught years ago, weight well distributed, body ready to spring. ÂŤItâs nice to know Iâm appreciated.Âť
He does not answer the provocation, or rather, not with words; he takes a couple of slow steps around you, measuring the distance, the wind moving a dark lock of hair over his face, then stops in front of you, plants his feet, and raises his sword into high guard, profile taut, ready.
ÂŤWarm-up,Âť he murmurs. ÂŤNo blows to the head, no deep thrusts. I donât want to scrape your blood off the deck before the day has even started.Âť
He arches one eyebrow, his tone growing a thread sharper.
ÂŤFor now, you simply follow my rhythm. Understood, princess?Âť
You have half a second in which you truly want to plant the blade between his ribs, but instead you lift the sword, bring it into position, feeling in your muscles the memory of movements you had nearly buried beneath years of dances and tedious court dinners.
ÂŤIf you start calling me princess while holding a sword,Âť you comment, ÂŤI might take it as a personal challenge.Âť
San does not hint at a smile, but his eyes gleam in a way that tells you he heard the tone, that he is recording you, reading you.
ÂŤGood,Âť he says only. ÂŤThen stop talking and attack.Âť
You lunge forward with a high slash, not too fast, a testing blow, just to measure his reactions, but his blade rises to intercept yours with irritating ease, metal striking with a sharp sound that rings all the way up your arm, and in that same instant he takes half a step to the side, rotating his wrist, forcing you to follow the movement so you do not lose balance.
ÂŤLower,Âť he corrects you, his voice calm while the swords remain locked for a second, his breath brushing you at close range. ÂŤYouâre still fighting a court instructor, not someone who wants to throw you overboard.Âť
You push, free yourself from the bind, and step back, then come in again with a sideways blow, more decisive; San parries again, this time without moving his feet, only wrists and shoulders, as if your strike were an annoying caress.
ÂŤBetter,Âť he concedes quietly. ÂŤBut youâre thinking too much. Forget everything they taught you at the palace. Here, if you stumble, no one is ready to yell âstopâ and applaud you anyway.Âť
His sword slides along yours and pushes you aside, forcing you to turn, to bend your knees so you do not expose your flank; you hear a couple of muffled voices behind you, someone holding their breath when for a moment you seem to lose your balance, but you recover, plant your foot, and twist your torso.
Your knuckles pull beneath the bandages, your breathing grows a little faster, but you do not give him the satisfaction of seeing it; you tighten your grip on the hilt, feel the ship rocking beneath your feet, and move with her instead of resisting her, letting the roll accompany you when you spring forward again.
This time you donât go straight at him; you shift aside, search for his open flank with a low, quick thrust, the metal hissing through the air as you bend your knee and leave your weight on your back foot, ready to withdraw; but San reads your intention an instant before the blow begins, steps back only half a pace, turns his blade downward, and blocks you, the impact running up your whole arm.
ÂŤBetter,Âť he murmurs, his voice low, almost a satisfied growl. ÂŤYouâre finally using your legs.Âť
He shoves you away with a sharp flick of his wrist and attacks you, for the first time.
He comes forward with a downward slash, not fast enough to want to take your head off, but not so slow that you can afford to be distracted, and for one instant it feels as if you are back on that night in the corridor, the flash of steel, the panic, the anger rising in your throat; only now you are not unarmed, now you lift your sword and meet him, the clash of blades making one of the nearby sailors turn.
You slide against each other, your blade skidding along his while you follow the movement, yield to it, let yourself be guided for an instant before breaking the rhythm and attempting another direction; San presses you, forces you backward, makes you feel the rail behind you and the cold morning wind cutting your cheeks.
ÂŤDonât stare at the sword,Âť he scolds while your blades cross again. ÂŤLook at me.Âť
ÂŤI am looking at you,Âť you shoot back through your teeth, pushing to free yourself from the bind. ÂŤThatâs the problem.Âť
His eyes glitter for a second, a flash of amusement that goes out immediately, replaced by something harder; he breaks contact, circles you in a tight arc, forcing you to follow, the wide shadow of his shoulders moving before you while he studies every step you take.
ÂŤItâs not a dance,Âť he comments. ÂŤStop trying to be elegant.Âť
You almost laugh at the shade of contempt in the word elegant, but instead you thrust suddenly, a fake slash to his side that you change direction at the last moment, aiming for his shoulder; he deflects the blade, but not entirely. You feel it graze his shirt, just barely, a meaningless scratch, but enough to make his eyes narrow.
A pleased little voice whispers inside you that you took something from him.
ÂŤOops,Âť you say, innocent, breath short, chest rising quickly. ÂŤItâs not a dance, right?Âť
San slowly lowers the sword by one span, not enough to stop being on guard, enough to make you understand that his patience is as thin as the edge of the blade.
ÂŤKeep going like that and the training ends very quickly,Âť he hisses, and it is almost a promise.
He gives you no time to answer: he comes at you suddenly, not with a blow, but by reducing the distance between you, your blades crossing again while he pushes you back with his weight, his sword pressing against yours and your back brushing the wood of the mainmast.
ÂŤYouâre standing too straight,Âť he murmurs, close, so close you feel the heat of his breath. ÂŤIf they unbalance you, you fall.Âť
With a speed you do not expect, he knocks your ankle with his boot, not hard, just enough to make you lose balance; the world tilts, you feel your body slipping sideways, the sword almost escaping your fingers, and then his hand catches your elbow, pulls you back up, puts you at the center again.
His fingers are strong, warm, his grip firm, brusquely careful.
ÂŤBend your knees,Âť he continues, as if he has not just saved you from falling flat in the middle of the deck. ÂŤLower your center of gravity. The sea is not the floor of your ballroom.Âť
ÂŤThat ballroom was terribly boring,Âť you snap, smothering embarrassment in an acidic tone while you obey, lowering yourself a little, feeling your thighs burn. ÂŤBut at least no one yelled at me.Âť
San lets you go, steps half a pace away, raises his sword again.
ÂŤThat can change,Âť he says quietly. ÂŤIf you prefer, I can stop holding my blows.Âť
Your stomach freezes for a moment, not so much because of the threat as because you know it is true; you realize that all this time, despite the harshness, he has been... protecting you, somehow, that he could do much worse and is choosing not to.
ÂŤThis is fine,Âť you mutter. ÂŤGo ahead and yell, at least I wonât get bored.Âť
Someone farther away snickers softly; from the corner of your eye, you glimpse Keeho, who has stopped coiling a line for a second, and Theo elbowing him to make him get back to work, even though both of their gazes are fixed on your blades.
San gives a nod with his chin, as if telling you to start again.
Little by little, the rhythm changes: it is no longer only a âwarm-up,â it is a dance of controlled blows, slashes and parries following one another, the clang of metal ringing across the deck, your steps interweaving, your breath filling your throat with the taste of salt and iron. At a certain point, you realize you are anticipating his moves, that your body remembers how to read an opponent, how to use your wrist instead of your arm, how to exploit the shipâs rocking to give momentum to a thrust.
San raises the pace just a little, as if to test you.
At one point, he feints a blow to your side and comes straight for your shoulder; instead of blocking high, you lower your blade at the last second and cross his, a spark snapping when the swords slide against each other, and use the contact to turn, put yourself sideways, slip away from him.
He passes so close that his arm brushes your side, and you feel the heat of his body, the smell of sweat and leather and metal filling your nose.
ÂŤLike that,Âť he murmurs, almost to himself. ÂŤItâs starting to look like something.Âť
You stop only when you feel your hands pulsing so hard you fear the bandages will stain again. San studies you for an instant, your chest rising quickly, your fingers clenched around the hilt while you try not to show how much your arms are burning, and at last he makes a small motion with his hand.
ÂŤBreak,Âť he says only. ÂŤBefore you choke.Âť
You move back by one step, let the tip of the sword barely graze the deck while you take a longer breath, the taste of iron and salt on your tongue; you use that moment to finally look around, now that you no longer have a blade pointed at you.
At the helm, where you thought there would be one of the cabin boys, you find Hongjoong himself, one hand resting carelessly on the wheel, his body relaxed as if he is there to enjoy the show and not to control the course.
Beside him, slightly farther back, Seonghwa is rigid as a pole, arms crossed over his chest, black hair moved faintly by the wind while he stares at you with that irritated expression you know far too well by now, as if every breath you take were a strategic mistake.
You wonder how long they have been planted there, watching you, whether they saw every strike, every misstep, every almost-fall; the idea brings an annoying heat to your cheeks, which you try to pass off as sweat.
ÂŤFinished staring at the audience?Âť Sanâs voice yanks you abruptly back to earth, dry, without any trace of amusement. ÂŤAgain.Âť
He doesnât give you time to protest: he raises his sword again and you do the same, already feeling your shoulders pulling as you resume your guard, your still-warm muscles starting to work again; he picks up where you left off, faster blows but still controlled, your movements fitting together as if silent music is dictating them instead of you.
After a few exchanges, you realize there is something else bothering you beyond the bandages and short breath: the dress.
The long skirt twists around your legs every time you try to retreat suddenly, the hem brushes the planks and you have to be careful not to step on it, the bodice tightens your breathing exactly when you could use an extra lung; every thrust is a fight against the blade and against the fabric, and when you turn sideways to dodge a slash, you feel the edge of the skirt slow your step, like an invisible hand grabbing your ankle.
ÂŤDamn dress,Âť you snap under your breath between one blow and the next, trying to free the fabric from under your foot with an awkward kick.
San catches your glance toward the skirt, notices the gesture, and for one instant the corners of his mouth move slightly, a hint of a smile that never truly arrives.
ÂŤWelcome to real combat,Âť he comments, his breath barely faster while he parries your slash. ÂŤYou donât always wear what you want. Learn to use it to your advantage... or itâll stop seeming merely cumbersome.Âť
You think back to that sentence while your blades clash again, your arm vibrating from the impact.
ÂŤYou donât always wear what you want. Learn to use it to your advantage... or itâll stop seeming merely cumbersome.Âť
At first, you only want to throw the sword at him; then, however, as you move sideways and still feel the fabric pulling against your ankle, a spark snaps in your mind.
You stop one heartbeat before striking, just a shadow of hesitation that San notices immediately, his blade seeking you forward in an attempt to take advantage of it; instead of retreating the ârightâ way, you spin more than you should, letting the skirt lift and open like a fan of dark fabric around your legs, the sudden full rustle filling the air between you.
San loses the clear line of your feet for an instant, his blade stopping halfway because he cannot see where your step will sink, and you exploit precisely that instant to slip under the weight of the skirt, lowering yourself suddenly, the fabric swelling and blinding him a little while you shift aside like a shadow; you find yourself behind him in a single motion, almost without realizing it, and your sword rises slowly, cold, to graze his back at kidney height.
ÂŤSee?Âť you pant softly, warm breath vibrating in your throat as the fabric falls heavily around your legs. ÂŤItâs useful for something.Âť
For one second, San remains motionless, his broad shoulders rising with the rhythm of his breathing, as if he is deciding whether to kick you, compliment you, or break the sword in half; then he turns in a flash, knocks your blade away with a sharp blow, and takes one step forward, so close you feel the heat of his body, dark eyes piercing through you.
ÂŤDonât let it go to your head,Âť he mutters, but in his eyes there is something that is not mockery, not quite: a glimmer of subtle satisfaction cutting through his gaze, as if your success has irritated him... and pleased him at the same time.
Above you, at the helm, Hongjoong straightens slightly, stops playing with the compass, and narrows his eyes, as if suddenly more attentive; he tilts his head as he observes the scene, his gaze running from your face to your hands, to the way you move, to the use of your skirt as if it were a cloak rather than an obstacle.
Beside him, Seonghwa clenches his jaw, arms still crossed, but his fingers sink slightly into the sleeves of his jacket, his sharp gaze following every step of yours with irritating precision, as if he is taking note of all the ways you could be a problem, and all the ways in which, despite everything, you might prove useful.
You donât notice, instead, another presence lower down, in the half-light: leaning against the handrail of the stairs leading below deck, half hidden by the shadow of a folded sail, Yeosang watches in silence, his profile cut by the milky morning light, his eyes never leaving you; he sees you use the skirt to confuse San, sees you turn across the deck as if finally remembering what a body that knows how to move is truly for, and feels something tighten beneath the bandage, just above his chest, a subtle discomfort that has nothing to do with the wound.
When San attacks again, a little more serious, a little faster, you wait for him; and this time you lean forward, let the skirt almost wrap around your legs and, instead of fighting it, use it: you fake a stumble, sway artfully toward him, force him to shift so you do not crash into him, his blow deflecting by a span, enough to let you rise with your sword in a diagonal and graze his side, a quick touch, not hard enough to hurt, precise enough to make him understand you took him.
A murmur runs through the few men on deck, a low buzz reaching you like a distant echo; San looks you up and down, his chest rising more rapidly, and for the first time, instead of calling you âproblemâ with his eyes, he seems to recognize you as an opponent.
Above, Hongjoong smiles faintly, a short, pleased smile that does not show teeth but lights his gaze all the same; beside him, Seonghwa huffs, looks away for a second, as if tired of seeing things he does not want to admit, and below, on the stairs, Yeosang tightens his hand around the edge of the rail, his thumb tapping once, barely, against the wood, where no one can see.
A laugh cuts through the salty air right as you are about to thrust again, clear and light, as if none of what has just happened matters.
ÂŤWell,Âť you hear from above, ÂŤif I wanted a show this morning, I definitely got lucky.Âť
You lift your gaze just in time to see Wooyoung sliding down a line, his legs gripping the rope, his body swaying with irritating naturalness, dark hair mussed by the wind; he lands on the deck with a sharp snap of his boots, takes a step forward without even bothering to brush off the dust, and looks between the two of you with a smile lighting his eyes.
ÂŤYou,Âť he points at you with his chin, ÂŤare far more entertaining than I thought.Âť
Then he turns toward San, tilting his head. ÂŤAnd youâre getting soft, you know? Once, you wouldâve made her cry by now.Âť
San looks at him as if he has just said the stupidest thing in the world, sword still in hand, chest rising slowly, dark gaze narrowing.
ÂŤNo oneâs crying,Âť he growls, not raising his voice too much but making the air around you vibrate. ÂŤSheâs only learning not to get herself killed.Âť
ÂŤExactly,Âť you reply, still panting a little, but with a half smile tugging at one corner of your mouth, ÂŤand if you want to know, Iâm also doing better than I thought. You havenât lost an eye yet. Iâm restraining myself.Âť
Wooyoung bursts out laughing, that full laugh that bends his back forward, one hand on his side.
ÂŤI adore her,Âť he declares under his breath, as if speaking to the wind, but loud enough for you to hear. ÂŤItâs official.Âť
San turns his head slightly toward him with threatening slowness. ÂŤWooyoung.Âť
ÂŤWhat?Âť the Cat says, innocent as sin, taking one step toward you and looking at the sword still tight in your grip. ÂŤShe almost made our dear guard dog fall... and with a dress, no less. Come on, admit it, it was a good move.Âť
San does not answer, but the way his jaw tightens says more than any words; you only raise your eyebrows, complicit, and play along.
ÂŤIf you want, next time Iâll make you fall too,Âť you tell him, turning the blade between your fingers with a gesture you stole from one of your old instructors. ÂŤThat way I wonât discriminate.Âť
Wooyoung widens his eyes and steps back, bringing a hand to his chest like a tavern actor.
ÂŤAre you threatening me before the sun, the sea, and witnesses?Âť he whispers, theatrically shaken. ÂŤIâm moved.Âť
You are about to answer something even worse when a calm, firm voice cuts the scene cleanly in half.
ÂŤIâd say thatâs enough.Âť
You turn sharply. Yeosang is climbing the last steps to the deck, his shirt carefully tucked into his trousers, black vest fastened, blond hair gleaming faintly in the still-pale light, his gaze fixed straight on the three of you; he doesnât look at anyone else, not even by mistake, as if the rest of the ship is only a vague background.
For one instant he says nothing, merely rests his eyes first on your sword, then on your hands, on the bandages dirtied with deck dust, finally on San, with that quiet air that nonetheless leaves little room for protest.
ÂŤTraining ends here,Âť he adds, as if stating an already decided verdict.
ÂŤWhat do you mean, ends here?Âť you burst out immediately, breath still short, chest burning with effort and adrenaline, the sword heavy in your hand though you do not want to let go. ÂŤIâm just starting to enjoy it.Âť
A dense instant passes between you and Yeosang. He does not react, does not raise his voice, does not even show a smile; only a slow look that slides from your face to the exact point where the skirt is dirty at the hem, to the slightly torn edge, to the line of your shoulders rising and falling too quickly.
ÂŤYour hands arenât healed yet,Âť he says at last, calm, as if listing a fact and not an opinion. ÂŤNor is your arm.Âť
The mention of your arm makes you feel the bandage pulling beneath the dress, a burn that until one second ago you were ignoring; you clench your teeth and are about to argue that youâre perfectly fine, that youâre not made of crystal, that you have hurt yourself worse on your own, but San anticipates you.
Without saying a word, he takes the sword from your hand with a quick, precise gesture, his fingers barely brushing yours, the metal disappearing from your grip before you can hold it tighter; you remain for one second with empty hands, slightly open, as if the deck itself has taken something from you.
ÂŤHe said it ends here,Âť San grumbles, slipping the sword into its sheath. ÂŤIt ends here.Âť
You look at him, scandalized. ÂŤOh, so now you obey? Him, yes?Âť
San gives you a sideways look, something passing quickly between irritation and â perhaps â a thread of respect he does not want to admit; then he adjusts the sheath, scoffs, and turns toward Yeosang.
ÂŤIf she tears something open again, youâre the one who has to stitch her back together,Âť he mutters, cold but not hostile, and walks toward the barrels of rope without turning back.
Wooyoung brings a hand to his mouth to hide a smile too wide. ÂŤWhat an adorable couple,Âť he whispers under his breath, more to himself than to either of you, then winks at you.
You ignore him so you do not give him satisfaction and turn toward Yeosang, still slightly panting, a strand of hair stuck to your temple.
ÂŤI couldâve continued,Âť you protest, crossing your arms beneath your chest. ÂŤIâm not falling apart.Âť
Yeosang watches you in silence for a moment longer than necessary, his dark eyes softening slightly at the edges, as if something inside him is fighting between telling you what he truly thinks and keeping that distance he stubbornly insists on holding.
ÂŤI know,Âť he answers only. ÂŤAnd thatâs exactly the problem.Âť
Then, without waiting for your reply, he moves aside, as if wanting to escort you out of the invisible circle where you have just fought, and only then do you realize that at the helm Hongjoong is still watching you, a half-amused smile on his lips, while Seonghwaâs hard gaze is fixed on the sword in Sanâs sheath, as if the whole situation gets on his nerves much more than he wants to show.
You turn to leave, your legs still a little heavy with fatigue, your uneven breath burning in your chest, but instead of heading straight for the stairs below deck, you lift your gaze toward the helm, toward Hongjoongâs relaxed figure leaning against the wheel as if he had been born there, and a thought crosses your mind, fast, bold, almost dangerous: you could dare.
And so you change course.
You feel Yeosangâs gaze on you the moment you deviate, almost perceive it sliding down your back like a shiver; San straightens slightly where he was putting the sword away, Wooyoung stops playing with a line for a second, his eyes shining with curiosity too obvious to hide; you pretend to see none of them, gather a fold of your dress so you do not stumble, and begin slowly climbing the steps toward the quarterdeck.
Every step creaks beneath your weight, the air growing colder and sharper as you rise, the wind catching your hair and pushing it into your face, and when you lift your eyes, you find Seonghwa staring down at you as if you are breaking an unwritten rule just by coming half a yard closer.
Hongjoong, instead, pushes away from the helm slightly, his hands still resting on the polished wood, his mouth bending into his usual half smile.
ÂŤOur swordswoman in skirts,Âť he comments, tilting his head, his earrings glinting faintly in the morning light. ÂŤI see almost getting cut in half by San wasnât enough for you.Âť
You ignore the comment. The last steps disappear under your feet, and you finally find yourself on the same level as them, the sea opening behind their shoulders like an endless stretch of nervous blue.
You stop one step from Seonghwa, then shift your gaze directly to Hongjoong, trying to keep your voice steady, without that slight tremor you feel all over yourself.
ÂŤI want to talk to you,Âť you say, letting the words fall between you like a card turned face up on a table. ÂŤLater. Alone.Âť
For a moment, no one says anything.
Hongjoongâs smile widens, as if you have just served him something unusually interesting; he tilts his head even more, dark eyes moving over you with a mix of amusement and true attention.
ÂŤOh?Âť he murmurs, his voice low, almost playful. ÂŤA private invitation, Miss Swann? You know, usually to obtain that sort of audience, one must bring at least a bottle of rum and a good cigar.Âť
You are about to answer with a remark, something sharp to put him back in his place, but you feel your jaw tense, your fingers unconsciously tightening in the thick fabric of your dress; this time you are not joking, it is not a game, and you make him understand with your gaze.
ÂŤIâm serious,Âť you reply, enunciating the words slowly, without lowering your eyes.
For an instant, his smile falters. It does not vanish completely, but it thins, fading a little around the edges; you see something in his eyes change, grow more lucid, more attentive, as if he finally stops seeing only the spectacle and begins to truly look at you.
ÂŤI see,Âť he murmurs, and this time he does not joke. ÂŤAll right.Âť
He is about to add something, perhaps to ask what it is about, when Seonghwa intervenes, his voice sharp as the edge of a blade.
ÂŤCaptain, I believe there are more urgent things than entertaining private conversations with our... guest,Âť he hisses, shifting his body slightly to the side, as if wanting to place himself between the two of you. ÂŤWe nearly got ourselves shot to pieces by another ship, and sheâÂť
ÂŤSeonghwa,Âť you interrupt, dryly.
The word bursts out of you, harder than you expected, but you do not regret it; you turn toward him, stare straight into his eyes, forcing him to look at you and not merely speak over your head.
ÂŤI wasnât talking to you,Âť you add, with forced calm, even though inside you feel your heart beating hard, stubborn. ÂŤIf the Captain is busy, heâll tell me himself.Âť
For one instant, Seonghwa looks at you as if he truly wants to lift you bodily and throw you over the rail, lips pressed into a tight line, breath expanding faintly beneath the black fabric of his jacket; his eyes shine with a thin, restrained anger, but he says nothing.
It is Hongjoong who laughs softly, that low laugh that seems to vibrate in the wood of the helm.
ÂŤSee?Âť he says, without taking his eyes off you, but clearly speaking to Seonghwa. ÂŤI told you keeping her aboard would be interesting.Âť
Then he turns his focus back to you, his hand leaving the wheel for a moment to make a vague gesture toward the ship, the sea, all of it.
ÂŤLater,Âť he confirms, serious now, with a nod. ÂŤWhen the watch changes and no one has an excuse to stick their nose in. Come here.Âť
You feel Seonghwa stiffen again beside him, but you do not even throw him a glance. You only nod, then turn to go back down the steps.
Below, Yeosang follows you with his eyes all the way to the last step, San watches you in silence with the sword resting against his shoulder, and Wooyoung, perched on a crate, smiles at you as if he is watching the beginning of a new show.
You donât even turn, too busy putting your breathing back in order and ignoring the fire still burning in your arms after training with San, when quick footsteps behind you break through the distant murmur of the ship.
You barely have time to turn your head before you are literally pressed against the corridor wall, your back hitting the cold wood, the air catching in your throat. Two arms plant themselves on either side of you, strong, firm, close enough to lock you inside a cage that smells of medicinal herbs and sea.
His pale eyes pin you there, hard, lucid, and for one second it feels as if you do not recognize him; he is not the detached doctor who arranges bandages and prepares poultices, now he is too close, too tense, too... alive.
ÂŤAre you enjoying yourself?Âť he asks in a low voice, so quietly it almost sounds like a restrained growl, his breath brushing your lips.
You feel your heart beating hard, irritated by his tone and at the same time driven into a race that has nothing to do with anger; you try to hide the discomfort behind a challenging smile.
ÂŤIf you mean San trying to cut me in two, I wouldnât say so,Âť you reply, trying to move, but he does not shift his arms even by a millimeter, his fingers gripping the wood on either side of your head. ÂŤCan you... take one step back? Two would be better.Âť
His gaze slides for an instant over your lips before rising back to your eyes, and that instant already feels like too much.
ÂŤNo,Âť he answers simply, without changing tone.
ÂŤWhatâs your problem?Âť you hiss, feeling the skin of your neck prickle under the intensity of his stare. ÂŤHave you decided that today you need to pin me against every wall on the ship?Âť
One side of his mouth trembles, as if he is tempted to smile, but he does not; he only brings his face a little closer, just enough that you can count his lashes and see up close the want marking his gaze, darker, almost hypnotic.
ÂŤI saw you,Âť he murmurs, and his voice is low, cutting. ÂŤGoing up to him. Asking to speak... alone.Âť
He puts barely perceptible emphasis on that last word, but it is clear enough to make heat rise to your cheeks.
ÂŤHeâs the captain, Yeosang,Âť you reply, trying to sound rational while his body warms the few inches between you. ÂŤI donât think itâs a crime to want to speak with the man who decides whether I live in a cell or not.Âť
He tilts his head slightly, his eyes growing even darker, as if he is not at all convinced by your answer.
ÂŤAnd what exactly do you want to speak to him about?Âť he asks, carefully enunciating every syllable. ÂŤThe way you can drive the wind mad? The ring? Or how you like inserting yourself into our problems as if they were yours?Âť
ÂŤThey are mine,Âť you reply instinctively, your voice coming out lower than you would like. ÂŤWhether you like it or not.Âť
For a moment, he remains silent, and that moment is dangerous; you see something tremble in his irises, a thin fracture in the ice he has put on himself, and you almost forget to breathe.
One of his hands leaves the wood and rises slowly toward your face; instinctively, you hold your breath, thinking he is about to take your chin with the same firmness he sometimes uses to immobilize your wrist when you fidget on the cot, but he does not.
With the backs of his fingers, he only brushes a strand of hair that has slipped onto your cheek, an incredibly gentle gesture in contrast with the tension in his body, and moves it slowly behind your ear, his knuckles grazing your warm skin.
A shiver runs down your spine; this time it is you who moves your eyes to his lips, unable to avoid it.
ÂŤYou truly donât understand what game youâre getting into,Âť he murmurs, so close you feel the vibration of his voice travel from his words to your stomach. ÂŤHe is not like me.Âť
ÂŤAh, so you admit itâs a game,Âť you try to joke, but it comes out almost a broken whisper.
His hand remains there, barely brushing your hairline; his thumb traces a tiny, almost imperceptible circle below your ear, where your pulse is stronger, and it feels as if he can hear it.
ÂŤAurora,Âť he says only your name, and the way he pronounces it â as if it were something precious or dangerous, you do not know â sends your breathing into disarray.
ÂŤWhat... do you want from me?Âť you ask at last, tired of trying to read something on that face that until a few days ago seemed impassive and now is a riddle full of cracks.
For one second, you truly have the impression he is about to say it, whatever it is: his pupils dilate, his gaze drops for an instant to your mouth, then returns to your eyes, his face sliding just a little closer, and you feel his breath mingle with yours.
The distance between you narrows by almost nothing, your heart exploding in your ears, your fingers itching with the absurd desire to grab him by the jacket and close that tiny space separating you yourself, andâ
His fingers curl into a fist so he will not touch you more. You see it. You feel it. His jaw tenses, his eyes pass over your face again as if to imprint it in his mind, and then, slowly, he pulls away.
He places his hand back on the wall, recreating the right distance to breathe without your chest brushing his with every movement.
ÂŤI want you not to get yourself killed,Âť he says at last, but you know perfectly well that was not the first answer that came to his mind. ÂŤAnd I want you to stop thinking you can use anyone you like to get what you want.Âť
ÂŤIâm not using anyone,Âť you reply, blood still hammering at your temples. ÂŤIf I have to choose between talking to him and remaining in the dark, I choose to talk.Âť
His lips bend into a bitter half smile.
ÂŤRight. Youâve been enjoying risky conversations lately.Âť
You do not know whether he means the Captain, or himself, or both.
You lower your eyes for a moment, more to regain control than out of submission, then raise them to him again.
ÂŤAre you telling me to stay away from him?Âť you ask, and there is a subtle, almost soft challenge in your words.
Yeosang looks at you once more, with that intensity that gives you the impression he is measuring every inch of your stubbornness, then barely shakes his head.
ÂŤIâm telling you to be careful,Âť he corrects, his voice lower, almost a whisper. ÂŤwith him. With the ring. With yourself.Âť
His hand finally leaves the wall and frees you; you feel the cold of the wood in place of his bodyâs warmth, and it almost feels like being torn away.
ÂŤAnd if you really must take risks,Âť he adds, taking a step back, ÂŤat least know who youâre taking them with.Âť
For one instant, you have the absurd impulse to ask whether he is including himself in that sentence, whether he is offering you something without saying it, but your tongue blocks.
He passes beside you, so close he barely brushes the fabric of your sleeve, the scent of herbs and salt lingering on you as you watch him move away down the corridor, shoulders straight, head low.
Only when he disappears around the corner do you realize how hard you are breathing and how slightly your fingers are trembling.
You remain there, leaning against the wall, your heart showing no sign of calming, unable to understand whether you have just lost control because of him... or because of the way he looks at you, as if you are becoming something even he can no longer keep at a distance.
The sound of decisive footsteps in the corridor makes you stiffen again, as if the universe has decided not to give you even a moment of respite.
You barely turn your head, ready to hiss something at the first unfortunate soul, and find Jongho in front of you.
He stops mid-step, dark eyes sliding immediately from your face to the wall behind you, as if trying to understand whether you are standing because you want to or because you have no choice; for one instant, the memory of his hand on your wrist returns sharply, strong and warm, when he stopped you yesterday in front of the sickbay.
ÂŤWhat are you doing planted there?Âť he asks, with that low, calm voice he uses when he is more confused than angry.
You inhale deeply, forcing yourself to seem normal, and push away from the wood while pretending your heart is not still hammering against your ribs.
ÂŤMeditating on the meaning of life,Âť you reply, searching for a light tone while smoothing an imaginary crease in your dress. ÂŤOr, more realistically, trying to remember why I agreed to be massacred by San at dawn.Âť
One corner of his lips lifts slightly, as if he wants to smile but is not yet entirely convinced it is the moment.
ÂŤDid it go that badly?Âť he asks, coming one step closer; he is not intrusive, but his presence fills the corridor all the same.
You shrug, still feeling the ache in your arms.
ÂŤDepends on the point of view,Âť you sigh. ÂŤHe didnât cut me in two, so Iâd say it went better than expected. And you didnât have to shoot him to defend me, so itâs a good morning for you too.Âť
This time his smile truly appears, brief but real, his eyes softening a little.
ÂŤSan is not stupid,Âť he murmurs. ÂŤAnd neither are you. I knew he wouldnât tear you apart.Âť
ÂŤWhat shocking faith,Âť you tease, but without venom; then you add, a little more serious, ÂŤActually, he was... less of an asshole than I expected.Âť
Jongho nods, his hands automatically slipping into his trouser pockets, broad shoulders relaxed but gaze attentive.
ÂŤDid he hurt you?Âť he asks, and it is not the question of a superior checking on a prisoner. It is that of someone who truly needs to know.
ÂŤOnly my pride,Âť you answer, then huff softly. ÂŤAnd my arms. And my lungs. And my feet. But I think thatâs part of the âtraining with the Red Furyâ package.Âť
This time he actually holds back a laugh, lowering his gaze for a second as if almost embarrassed by the idea of enjoying himself with you.
ÂŤTomorrow youâll move like Mingi after three barrels of rum,Âť he comments calmly. ÂŤBut youâll learn quickly.Âť
You bite the inside of your cheek, a little struck by the natural way he has taken for granted that there will be a âtomorrowâ in which you train again with them.
ÂŤSo youâre not angry with me anymore?Âť you ask, lifting your chin slightly, remembering the way he had gripped your wrist the day before, his gaze hard because he had been deceived.
He stops a few steps from your door and looks at you for an instant with that quiet calm of his that sometimes weighs more than a shout.
ÂŤIâm still angry,Âť he admits, without circling around it. ÂŤBut...Âť He hesitates for a second, choosing his words, ÂŤnot enough to wish you were in a cell instead of here.Âť
A strange warmth rises slowly into your chest, spreading beneath your breastbone.
ÂŤIs that the best I can get for now?Âť you try to joke.
ÂŤFor now, yes,Âť he concedes, and this time the smile reaches his eyes. ÂŤWeâll see how you behave with the sword, with Hongjoong... and with locked doors.Âť
A laugh escapes you, brief, and you feel the tension from a moment before loosen a little.
ÂŤI solemnly swear not to lock you anywhere again,Âť you promise, raising one hand as if taking an oath before a judge. ÂŤAt least not today.Âť
He shakes his head softly, but he cannot hide how amused he is.
ÂŤGo rest,Âť he says at last, making a half gesture toward your cabin. ÂŤIf you collapse in the middle of the deck, San will say itâs my fault.Âť
ÂŤOh, so you care what San says.Âť You pin him with a half smile. ÂŤInteresting.Âť
ÂŤI care not to spend the rest of the day listening to Seonghwa mutter that itâs all your fault,Âť he replies. ÂŤAnd you... youâre good at giving him headaches.Âť
ÂŤOn that, I canât say youâre wrong,Âť you admit, pleased.
For one instant, you stay there facing each other in a silence that is no longer tense like before, only full of things unsaid; then he takes one step back, leaving you the space in front of the door.
ÂŤIf you need anything...Âť he murmurs, nodding toward the corridor, ÂŤyou know where to find me. And my jacket.Âť
You lower your gaze to the fabric you are still wearing, which smells faintly of wood, rope, and him, and you realize that despite everything, you hold it a little tighter.
ÂŤIâll give it back when Iâm not cold anymore,Âť you say, stubborn.
ÂŤThen it may take a while,Âť he answers, and this time he does not even try to hide the smile.
You smile back without thinking too much, then open the door to your cabin.
ÂŤThank you, Jongho,Âť you add, more softly. ÂŤFor... everything.Âť
He lowers his head faintly in a nod, as if any longer answer would get stuck in his throat, then turns and walks away down the corridor, his broad shoulders disappearing into the shadows.
You enter the room, close the door behind you, and lean your back against the wood for a moment, finally alone, your heart still beating hard for different reasons.
The murmur of the mess fills the air, a mixture of voices, laughter, clattering dishes, and heavy steps on the wood, and for the first time in days you realize your breathing is regular, that your shoulders are not completely tense, as if your body has decided to take advantage of that illusion of normality and relax at least a little.
Keeho is telling Lina something with enthusiasm, his hands waving as he tries to explain something; Theo corrects him every three words, specifying details as if his reputation depends on it, and Lina laughs, her clear laughter bouncing between the tables and reaching you like a breath of clean air.
You cut a piece of bread, dip it into the broth, and pretend to focus on your plate, but your mind returns to the way San looked at you this morning at the end of training, that dark stare no longer only anger, not only annoyance, but something more complicated, more unsettling, as if he is still deciding whether you are a problem to eliminate or a sharpened blade to observe.
You wonder when Hongjoong will send for you, when you will finally find yourself alone with him in his cabin again, maps scattered, the compass on the table, and that smile of his you never know how seriously to take, and above all you wonder how the hell you are going to begin the conversation about the curse no one wants to name and the legend everyone circles as if it burns; you cannot show up there and simply say ÂŤTell me about your demons,Âť though, you admit, that would be very much in character for you.
ÂŤ...and then the barrel started rolling, I swear I saw my life flash before my eyes,Âť Keeho is saying, raising his hands as if he is still holding something, ÂŤand guess who was right there, in front of the open hatch?Âť
ÂŤMingi,Âť Theo answers without even lifting his gaze from his bowl, his voice flat as if it is the most obvious thing in the world.
ÂŤMingi,Âť Keeho confirms gravely, nodding, ÂŤwith that face of âif you touch the gunpowder, Iâll throw you into the sea tied to a cannonball.âÂť
Lina widens her eyes, fascinated. ÂŤAnd what did you do?Âť she asks, resting her chin on the back of her hand, as if listening to a story of heroes and not the latest near-catastrophe on board.
ÂŤI pretended everything was under control,Âť he says, not very convinced, ÂŤand Theo saved the situation.Âť
ÂŤI only put my foot in front of the barrel,Âť Theo mutters, putting too large a bite into his mouth, ÂŤyou were the one screaming like an indecent lady.Âť
A low laugh escapes you while you tear off another piece of bread.
ÂŤItâs comforting to know the Black Feverâs most powerful weapon is the cabin boysâ survival instinct,Âť you murmur, amused.
Keeho turns toward you as if only in that moment remembering you are there.
ÂŤHey, weâre special,Âť he replies, falsely offended. ÂŤWithout us, this ship would sink in three days.Âť
ÂŤTwo,Âť Theo corrects, serious. ÂŤIf you also consider Wooyoung.Âť
Lina laughs so hard she almost knocks over her glass, and you shake your head and watch them, letting their chatter wash over you while beneath that light surface your brain keeps moving, silent and stubborn; you think of Hongjoong avoiding the legend as if naming certain things gives them more power, think of Yeosang looking at you as if he knows more than he says, think of Wooyoung speaking of gods and mortal women with a seriousness that does not belong to him.
ÂŤWhat are you thinking about?Âť Lina asks after a while, tilting her head toward you, large dark eyes curious, while she plays with a crumb on the table.
It takes you a second to return fully to the present.
ÂŤNothing,Âť you lie out of habit, then sigh. ÂŤSomething.Âť
ÂŤYou sound like Seonghwa,Âť Theo comments.
You flinch, bringing a hand to your forehead.
ÂŤWhat a cruel insult,Âť you sigh. ÂŤI was only thinking.Âť
Keeho makes a sympathetic face.
ÂŤYouâre thinking too much,Âť he says. ÂŤIt hurts. You should do like Wooyoung and not think enough.Âť
Your gaze automatically slips between the tables until it stops on the one where the others are sitting, a little farther away, distant enough that they could not hear even if you shouted, and you realize Hongjoong is not there.
Wooyoung is the first you notice, sitting crookedly in his chair, one leg stretched forward and the plate half finished in front of him, his fingers playing with the edge of his glass; he sees you looking in their direction and, without thinking too much, winks at you with that somewhat cocky half smile of his, as if among everyone present the two of you are accomplices to a joke the others have not yet caught.
Beside him, Mingi is saying something to Yunho, large hands drawing the shape of something in the air â probably a cannon or an explosion, knowing him â and when the navigator notices your eyes meeting his, he gives you a brief smile.
Mingi does the same. San, instead, is on the other side of the table, one elbow resting on the wooden surface, his back relaxed but gaze lowered to his bowl, his spoon moving slow, methodical.
Across from him is Yeosang, sitting too straight for a normal lunch break, his vest perfectly in order, long fingers holding the cutlery with an elegance almost out of place amid all that noise.
Jongho is slightly aside from the others, a little behind, broad back resting against the chair, plate almost empty; he eats in silence, jaw working slowly, gaze lost in some unspecified point of the table.
And then there is Seonghwa.
He is off to the side, but you feel him on you like a blade before you even find him; when you finally catch his profile, you see him turn with that irritating precision he always has, his gaze hooking onto you and not letting go, cold, hard, as if your mere presence at that table with cabin boys is a personal insult, as if he is seriously considering throwing you overboard with his bare hands.
You stare at each other for one second too long, the spoon suspended halfway between the bowl and your mouth, then you huff softly and turn back toward Lina and the others, your heart beating a little faster and a stubborn smile rising to your lips.
ÂŤWill you stop staring at them?Âť Keeho mutters under his breath, bending toward you while dipping bread into the sauce. ÂŤIf one of them catches you, especially him, Wooyoung will come here to bother us. And I wanted to finish eating in peace today.Âť
You scoff quietly, composing yourself on the chair, the spoon returning to the still-warm bowl.
ÂŤYouâre right,Âť you sigh, sinking your gaze into the broth as if it could swallow you, ÂŤI donât want to summon the Cat.Âť
Theo chuckles, his nose wrinkling in that strangled little laugh he always makes when he is nervous. ÂŤItâs not the Cat that worries me,Âť he murmurs, ÂŤitâs the way Seonghwa is piercing you with his eyes. He looks like he wants to hang someone with his bootlaces.Âť
You pretend to focus on the food, but you still feel Seonghwaâs pointed stare fixed on the back of your neck like a nail; your tongue itches. You want to turn and make a face at him, maybe stick out your tongue like a child, just for the pleasure of seeing him horrified, but you know perfectly well that half a glance too many would be enough to make you end up arguing in front of the whole mess.
You force yourself to bring the spoon to your mouth, to chew calmly, to answer something Lina is saying about how stingy Martin is with portions, when the unmistakable sound of a chair scraping across the floor behind you makes your back stiffen.
The steps are slow, measured, the rhythm of someone who is not in a hurry because he knows that, in any case, others will move aside; you see Keehoâs gaze tense, Theoâs grow enormous.
ÂŤPlease tell me itâs a cabin boy,Âť you whisper through your teeth, without turning.
Theo throws you a quick glance, then looks over your shoulder and instantly goes pale.
ÂŤMaybe itâs a ghost,Âť he murmurs softly, trying not to move his lips, ÂŤthat would be better. The Quartermaster is coming to kill you.Âť
You clamp your fingers around the spoon, straighten in your chair, and force yourself not to make a too expressive face when a dark shadow stops right beside the table; only then do you lift your gaze.
Seonghwa is there, jacket perfect, black shirt following every line of his shoulders, polished boots seeming to have come from a noble trunk and not a hold, sharp gaze passing for one second over Keeho, Theo, and Lina only to make them feel insignificant, before planting itself firmly on you.
ÂŤSwann,Âť he says quietly, with that smooth voice that seems like courtesy but sounds like a sharpened blade, ÂŤthe Captain is waiting for you after you finish eating.Âť
ÂŤWhat an honor,Âť you reply, tilting your head slightly, ÂŤI thought heâd forgotten about me.Âť
One corner of his mouth rises, but it is not a smile. It is more a hint of restrained annoyance.
His gaze slips for one beat to your glove, as if he can see through it. ÂŤJust try not to keep him waiting.Âť
You lean toward your plate and take another spoonful of broth with deliberate slowness.
ÂŤIâll tell my stomach to hurry,Âť you comment, ÂŤI wouldnât want his precious Quartermaster to waste away on his feet waiting outside the door.Âť
Seonghwaâs eyes narrow slightly, his breathing remains perfectly controlled, but you see his jaw tense, the muscle pulsing for one instant beneath the skin.
ÂŤYou have five minutes,Âť he enunciates softly, lowering his gaze as if he is already done with you, ÂŤthen Iâll come get you myself.Âť
He does not wait for an answer. He turns sharply, the dark cloak barely brushing the chair behind you, and returns toward his table with the same decisive step, leaving you with the broth now lukewarm and a new weight sliding down into your stomach.
ÂŤI,Âť Keeho whispers after a few seconds, ÂŤdo not want to be you in five minutes.Âť
ÂŤI donât want to be me now,Âť you reply, sinking the spoon into the bowl and swallowing the bite as if it were liquid courage, ÂŤbut apparently I donât have a choice.Âť
You finish the broth almost choking on it, wipe your mouth with the back of your hand before even remembering that you are, after all, the daughter of a governor, then stand, feeling three pairs of eyes planted on your back.
ÂŤGood luck,Âť Theo murmurs.
One corner of your lips trembles into a half smile as you turn toward the door.
Seonghwa is there, leaning one shoulder against the doorframe, arms crossed, the expression of someone who has just lost a bet simply because you exist. He says nothing, merely shifts his weight away from the wood and turns his back to you, expecting you to follow him.
The stares in the mess brush you like pins: curious, suspicious, some almost amused. You lift your chin, pretend to see nothing, and move past, your steps ringing on the wood behind the Quartermasterâs more decisive ones.
For a while, there is only the sound of your soles in the corridor and the distant creak of the ship breathing in the sea.
That silence tires you. Irritates you. Weighs on you.
ÂŤWas San pleased with the training?Âť you ask at last, with the most neutral tone you can pull out, as if you are asking about the weather.
ÂŤSan is never pleased with anything,Âť he answers without even turning, his voice flat, ÂŤlet alone having to get up at dawn to teach a noblewoman how not to get herself killed at the first slash.Âť
You bite the inside of your cheek not to smile.
ÂŤSo thatâs a yes,Âť you reply. ÂŤHe appreciated it.Âť
You see him in profile, shadow cutting his face in half: his eyes narrow slightly, as if he is deciding whether it is worth wasting breath on you.
ÂŤHe said youâre not entirely useless,Âť he concedes at last, as if the words are coming out with difficulty, ÂŤbut donât get used to it.Âť
ÂŤRelax,Âť you scoff. ÂŤI have no intention of getting used to any of you.Âť
Another stretch of corridor, another wave of silence. You realize you are clenching your hands into fists and force yourself to loosen them.
ÂŤAnd the wounded?Âť you ask, adjusting your voice to something resembling practical interest. ÂŤYeosang didnât tell me how many there were. Are they...?Âť
ÂŤAlive,Âť he interrupts, dry but not as cutting as usual, ÂŤthanks to the fact that someone listened to what Yunho was shouting at the helm instead of panicking.Âť
You cannot help asking, ÂŤSomeone like...?Âť
This time he looks at you. Only for one second, a brief, sharp strike of eyes, then he returns to staring ahead.
ÂŤLike whoever kept their hands on the wood and not on the trigger,Âť he replies, slightly softer. ÂŤDonât puff out your chest, Swann. You did what you had to do if you wanted to stay alive.Âť
Quietly, it slips out of you: ÂŤAnd you?Âť
He does not pretend not to understand. He takes a slower breath, his shoulders moving faintly beneath the black jacket.
ÂŤWeâve already been dead for a while,Âť he says quietly, as if it is a matter of fact. ÂŤNow think about not making the Captain regret letting you walk freely around the ship.Âť
You arrive in front of Hongjoongâs cabin door. Seonghwa stops, turns toward you just enough for you to see his hard, lucid gaze.
ÂŤAnd for once,Âť he adds, ÂŤtry to use your tongue for something useful.Âť
He places his hand on the handle but does not lower it immediately. He leans slightly toward you, enough for you to feel his breath near your temple.
ÂŤDonât do anything stupid,Âť he murmurs, enunciating every syllable as if it were a gentle threat, ÂŤand donât say foolish things. Not with him.Âť
You lower your chin faintly and stare straight into his eyes.
ÂŤI donât promise anything,Âť you answer, but your voice comes out deeper, truer.
He scoffs, a bitter half smile brushing his mouth and disappearing immediately.
ÂŤThatâs exactly what worries me,Âť he cuts short, then turns the handle and opens the door wide, leaving you the passage.
You take one step inside, but before you can turn, you hear the sharp thud of wood behind you. Seonghwa has already closed the door and left, leaving you alone with the Captain.
At once you are struck by a smell you are beginning to recognize by now: good rum, old wood polished with wax, candle smoke, and something vaguely spiced that you could not name but immediately connect to him, as if the very air in here is soaked with Hongjoong.
The door closes behind you with a full thud, the click of the lockâs metal telling you Seonghwa is already out of the picture, leaving you alone in that room that resembles a brain more than a cabin: maps open and rolled, parchments layered over one another, books left face down, glass vials containing sand and stones, ropes, daggers, a pistol resting halfway on the edge of the desk as if it has always been there.
Hongjoong is sitting precisely at that desk, sideways to the door, his back slightly bent forward while he distractedly plays with his compass, letting it swing between his fingers as if it were any jewel and not the object directing the fate of an entire ship; the light entering from the main porthole cuts his profile, traces the line of his nose, his jaw, the oblique cut of eyes following the needle only halfway, as if he is thinking of something else entirely.
For one instant he does not notice you, or pretends not to. Then the compass stops, his fingers too, and his eyes slide away from the metal and plant themselves on you, in silence.
He watches you one second too long, beginning with your face still slightly flushed from training, moving down to your somewhat wrinkled dress, to your hands, lingering instinctively on the point where the glove hides the ring, as if by now his gaze is magnetized there, and then returning to your eyes.
ÂŤDo you always enter other peopleâs homes like this?Âť he asks, with that half irony he uses as a defense, his voice low, relaxed.
ÂŤYou sent your guard dog to fetch me at lunch,Âť you reply, advancing a few steps into the room. ÂŤIt seemed like a clear invitation.Âť
He hints at a smile, one of those that barely curls one side of his mouth and that you could hate more than you will ever admit.
ÂŤThen sit,Âť he says, making a vague gesture toward the chair in front of the desk. ÂŤItâs rare for you to come here of your own will. Usually I have to send someone armed with keys and threats.Âť
ÂŤThreats donât work well with me,Âť you murmur, pulling back the chair and sitting, feeling the wood creak softly beneath your weight. ÂŤYou shouldâve discovered that the first night.Âť
ÂŤBelieve me,Âť he scoffs, finally placing the compass on the table and interlacing his fingers before him, ÂŤthat night I discovered many things about you. None of them easy to forget.Âť
Your stomach tightens slightly, but you do not lower your gaze. If anything, you meet his, determined not to let yourself be cornered in his own house.
For a moment, neither of you speaks. The ship creaks softly, a glass vibrates slightly with the strike of a wave, the candle flames dance faintly.
ÂŤSo,Âť he resumes, tilting his head slightly, as he does when he scents a deal, ÂŤwhat brings you to my kingdom? Have you decided my company is more bearable than the Quartermasterâs, or is there a more... dangerous reason?Âť
That is when you decide not to circle around it.
You inhale quietly, tighten your fingers slightly on the edge of the chair to hold yourself still, then look straight at him.
ÂŤIf I ask you questions,Âť you begin, your voice coming out calmer than you feel inside, ÂŤwill you promise to answer honestly?Âť
For an instant, he does not react.
He simply stares at you, as if recalculating the course of the entire conversation, as if that request shifts something he had not foreseen; his eyes narrow slightly, not with hostility, more like a player discovering that across the table there is not a fool.
ÂŤAh,Âť he says at last, softly, ÂŤweâve reached the promises part.Âť
He leans back against the chair, his fingers tapping once on the wood before stopping, gaze nailed to your face as if trying to understand how far you intend to push.
ÂŤDepends,Âť he adds, with a half smile that this time does not reach his eyes. ÂŤIf you ask how old I am, I can be brutally honest. If you ask how many people Iâve had thrown into the sea, I can even tell you. If you ask the secrets of my ship and my crew... thatâs another game.Âť
ÂŤIâm not asking you to show me your winning cards,Âť you reply immediately, not giving him space to slip away. ÂŤIâm asking you to stop treating me like a piece on the chessboard that has no right to know why itâs being moved.Âť
He arches an eyebrow, interested.
The silence stretches, but it is no longer a wall: it is a taut rope between you.
ÂŤAnd what happens,Âť he asks at last, slowly, ÂŤif I promise honesty and then you donât like what you hear?Âť
ÂŤI already donât like what I donât know,Âť you answer, without taking your eyes off him, ÂŤso Iâd say we donât have much to lose.Âť
Something flashes in his gaze, a kind of respect he does not put into words, but that you realize is there. He leans slightly forward, his elbows resting on the desk again, his face closer to yours, less shielded by irony.
ÂŤAll right, princess,Âť he concedes at last, and this time the title does not sound like an insult but like a reminder of who you were before him. ÂŤI promise that, as far as I can tell you, I wonât lie.Âť
ÂŤAs far as you can tell me,Âť you underline, tilting your head slightly, ÂŤor as far as you want to tell me?Âť
A laugh escapes his lips, low, sincere.
ÂŤYouâre starting to understand me too quickly,Âť he comments, and he does not sound annoyed; if anything, there is almost a pleased spark there. ÂŤItâs... disturbing.Âť
ÂŤItâs mutual,Âť you reply, but this time the hint of a smile escaping you is real, not forced.
You stay like that for an instant, looking at each other, and you realize the tension between you has shifted by a few degrees: you are no longer only the prisoner with the ring, and he is not only the captain keeping you caged; there is something beginning to resemble common ground, dangerous and slippery, but common nonetheless.
ÂŤSo,Âť he says, inhaling slowly, ÂŤask your questions.Âť
You interlace your fingers in your lap so as not to reveal how tense you are. ÂŤIt didnât escape me that during the meeting, after we shook off the Sacred Hawk, when I asked about the legend of the ring... you elegantly changed the subject,Âť you reveal.
Hongjoongâs eyes narrow slightly, not in irritation but as if he is going back to review the scene, as if replaying the words in his own head; his mouth hints at a slow, almost guilty smile.
ÂŤElegant, you say?Âť he murmurs, tilting his head to the side. ÂŤThat is the kindest compliment anyone has ever paid my way of avoiding uncomfortable questions.Âť
ÂŤYou put effort into it,Âť you reply, without lowering your gaze, ÂŤbut that doesnât change the fact that you avoided it. I want you not to do that this time.Âť
He inhales quietly, pushes away from the back of the chair, and reaches for the bottle of rum beside him, uncorking it with a familiar gesture and pouring a finger of amber liquid into a low glass. He does not offer you any because for now it seems he needs it more as company than as hospitality; he remains silent for a few seconds, watching the liquid move in the glass, then returns to you.
ÂŤAnd tell me,Âť he asks, ÂŤwhy is it so important for you to hear it from my voice, if youâre already going around collecting versions?Âť
For an instant, your breath catches in your chest: so he knows you have been asking around.
It does not truly surprise you, but it irritates you all the same.
ÂŤBecause I want to understand,Âť you answer, enunciating the words calmly, ÂŤwhether all of you will tell me the same story or whether each of you will use your own to try to steer me in a different direction. Wooyoung told me his, Yeosang too, Seonghwa... in his own way. You dodged. So yes, now itâs your turn.Âť
A flicker of amusement crosses his eyes when you name Wooyoung and Yeosang, but it vanishes almost at once, replaced by something more serious.
ÂŤItâs interesting,Âť he comments, slowly turning the glass between his fingers, ÂŤthat you chose those three to begin with. The Cat, who believes in stories more than facts; the doctor, who analyzes everything as if it were a body to dissect; and my Quartermaster, who would rather burn books than admit he has read them.Âť
ÂŤAnd what are you, then?Âť you ask, leaning back slightly, even though every fiber of you feels tilted toward him. ÂŤThe one who laughs at stories while trapped in one up to his neck?Âť
For an instant, the silence grows heavier, but not hostile. He raises the glass as if in a silent toast.
ÂŤTouchĂŠ,Âť he concedes, lips curving into the smile of someone who has felt the strike land squarely in his chest and appreciates it. ÂŤLetâs say that I... treat legends the way I treat the sea: I never truly trust them, but I know that if I pretend they donât exist, Iâm dead.Âť
He takes a sip, then sets the glass down, his fingers suddenly still, gaze fixed on the point where the glass touches the wood, as if there is something there only he can see.
ÂŤThe reason I changed the subject during the meeting,Âť he resumes, this time with a more controlled calm, ÂŤis simple: I had no intention of giving my crew the spectacle of the Captain lining up superstitions in front of a Governorâs daughter. I didnât want you to forget too quickly where you come from.Âť
ÂŤYouâre doing a terrible job of that,Âť you interrupt, one corner of your mouth escaping upward. ÂŤThe longer I stay here, the less I feel part of that world.Âť
He lifts one eyebrow slightly, as if filing that sentence away somewhere, where he keeps important notes.
ÂŤThat is why,Âť he continues, ÂŤI preferred the others to speak. So I could see what struck you, which part of the story stayed on you.Âť
ÂŤAnd what did you see?Âť you ask, tilting your head slightly. ÂŤBesides the fact that you donât like losing control of the situation even for five minutes.Âť
This time, the smile is born in his eyes before his lips, an amused glitter betraying an almost dangerous satisfaction.
ÂŤI saw,Âť he says, ÂŤthat instead of frightening you, the idea of wearing on your finger an object that has driven pirates, merchants, and kings mad makes you curious. And that, princess, is far more interesting than watching you cry over a locked cell.Âť
Your face warms, but not out of shame: out of anger at knowing he has seen you in both moments, and because he has decided to place them on the same side of the scale.
ÂŤSo?Âť you insist, bringing the conversation back to the point. ÂŤWhat is your version? Who, to you, is this God of the Sea imprisoned in flesh, and this mortal woman who betrays him with a ring? A childrenâs tale? A threat?Âť
Hongjoong takes a few seconds.
It is not the hesitation of someone looking for a lie, but of someone choosing carefully which pieces to let fall on the table.
ÂŤFor Wooyoung,Âť he begins, ÂŤit is a tragic love story. He likes to think there is always someone willing to sacrifice themselves for someone else. For Yeosang, it is a clinical case: an experiment in obsession, guilt, memory. For Seonghwa, it is a warning: never trust anyone, especially someone who promises salvation.Âť
He pauses briefly, his eyes returning to yours, still.
ÂŤFor me,Âť he continues quietly, ÂŤit is a map.Âť
The answer wrong-foots you, forces you to grip the edge of the chair so you do not physically lean toward him.
ÂŤLegends are maps,Âť he explains, and while he speaks he no longer sounds like the pirate cracking jokes on deck, but like the man who has spent years chasing something no one has ever seen. ÂŤThey never give you the exact course. They donât tell you how many miles, how many knots, how much fog will break your bones. They give you landmarks: a God too in love with his own power, a woman who decides to betray him, a ring that belongs to neither of them. And they tell you that wherever that object has ended up, there will always be someone willing to destroy everything to have it.Âť
He leans slightly forward, and when he speaks this time his voice sounds lower, as if that piece is only for you.
ÂŤThe part of the legend that matters,Âť he says, ÂŤis not whether the God of the Sea ever truly existed, or whether that ring was forged in another Godâs fire. The part that matters is that every time the story repeats itself... there is someone wearing an object that seems to guide itself. Someone who begins to see things others do not see. Someone who becomes, whether they want it or not, the center of the route.Âť
It takes you one second to realize he is speaking of you without naming you.
ÂŤAnd you?Âť you ask, feeling your heart beat harder against your chest, but forcing your voice to remain steady. ÂŤIn this legend, what are you? The captain following the map, or the one trying to rip it from the hand of whoever holds it?Âť
He smiles, but it is a bitter, knowing smile.
ÂŤDepends on who is telling it,Âť he answers. ÂŤTo some, I am the pirate who tore you from your pretty gilded life to use what you wear on your finger. To someone else, I am the only idiot who put himself between you and whoever wants to cut off your finger and send it to the Empire in a wooden box.Âť
ÂŤAnd to yourself?Âť you press, not retreating by a millimeter.
Hongjoong looks at you for a long moment, as if weighing each word one by one.
ÂŤTo me,Âť he says at last, ÂŤI am someone who has already seen enough curses to know innocent objects do not exist. There are only people who use them and people who are used by them. And I am still trying to understand which category you will fall into.Âť
The sentence hits you straight on, but it does not silence you; if anything, it forces you to lean a little forward, erasing part of the distance between you.
ÂŤMaybe,Âť you murmur, ÂŤI donât feel like falling into either.Âť
ÂŤThen youâre more ambitious than I thought,Âť he replies, and in his voice there is no mockery anymore, only a shadow of... genuine curiosity. ÂŤBecause since the world has been the world, whoever carries that ring always ends up choosing. Or being chosen.Âť
Instinctively, you lower your eyes to the glove covering your hand, feeling the metal beneath your skin pulse faintly, as if it has listened to every word.
ÂŤSo,Âť you continue, looking back at him, ÂŤall this philosophy of yours about the legend still doesnât answer my question. Why didnât you want to speak about it in the meeting? Because it bothers you that I know?Âť
He runs his thumb along the rim of the glass, thoughtful.
ÂŤBecause,Âť he admits, without too many turns, ÂŤthe more you know, the more dangerous you become. For others... but also for me.Âť
The way he pronounces that last word tightens your stomach into a thin knot; it is not a threat, but a statement.
ÂŤAnd yet you were the one who brought me here,Âť you point out. ÂŤYou were the one who let me use the sword, who let me climb onto the deck, who asked me to stay instead of throwing me off in a longboat.Âť
ÂŤBecause,Âť he answers, staring at you as if you are a riddle written in a language he does not yet know but wants to learn, ÂŤthe more I see you act, the more I understand whether you are the woman of the legend or the one who rewrites it.Âť
A slow, almost incredulous smile escapes you.
ÂŤAnd if I didnât want to be either?Âť you whisper.
ÂŤToo late, Aurora,Âť he murmurs, and in the way he says your name there is a new gravity. ÂŤThe moment you sayed âWonderlandâ before my crew... you stopped being only the daughter of a Governor. And it no longer depends on me.Âť
You remain silent for a moment. For a moment, inside the cabin there is only the dull sound of the sea against the hull, the compass turning lazily between Hongjoongâs fingers, and your breathing, which seems far too loud in the still air.
ÂŤI want to know about the curse,Âť you say, no longer circling around it, your voice steady even though your heart is beating too fast in your chest. ÂŤWhat has this ring truly done to you?Âť
Hongjoong stops playing with the compass, sets it on the table with a small tap, and leans back against the chair, forearms stretched to either side as if wanting to occupy as much space as possible among the maps, spent candles, and scattered papers. He looks at you for a long time without speaking, dark irises scrutinizing you as if evaluating exactly how far to let you in.
ÂŤIâve already told you,Âť he murmurs at last, with that half smile that is more reflex than real emotion. ÂŤIt gives you what you want... and takes something in exchange.Âť
ÂŤThatâs not an answer,Âť you reply, shifting your weight slightly from one foot to the other, nervous. ÂŤI didnât ask you for poetry. I asked what it did to you. To you. To them.Âť
For an instant, something slips into his gaze, an ancient exhaustion you have never seen in him before. Then he slowly rises to his feet, his fingers brushing the edges of the table as if he must remind himself where he is.
ÂŤImagine,Âť he says quietly, ÂŤliving... as if someone has put you inside a bottle.Âť He walks toward the porthole, but he does not truly look outside; it is as if he is looking at a point beyond the horizon. ÂŤYou laugh, drink, fight, get angry... but everything arrives muffled, as if there is always something between you and what you feel. Glass. A barrier. You never feel anything fully. Not the good. Not the bad.Âť
Your breath catches in your throat.
ÂŤAnd since I put on the ring?Âť you ask, almost in a whisper. ÂŤThat barrier...Âť
ÂŤCracks,Âť he answers dryly, not letting you finish the sentence. ÂŤNot only for me. For all of them.Âť He turns toward you, and this time there is no smile at all. ÂŤIs that honest enough for you, princess?Âť
The way he says it makes your jaw tighten. You donât know whether because of the word princess or because he has just answered you halfway again.
ÂŤNo,Âť you counter, taking a step toward the table, your fingers distractedly brushing the edge of a map. ÂŤBecause you keep telling me only what suits you. What is it, exactly, that you donât want to tell me? Why is it that every time I ask you something about the ring and this curse, youâÂť
You donât have time to finish.
A roar explodes over you, a dull, violent blow that makes every plank of the cabin vibrate, the air filling with dust and splinters of wood; the maps jump, the compass bounces, a bottle rolls and shatters against the floor, the chandelier swings madly, the candle flames stretch and then go out with a gust of wind.
You are thrown sideways, your knees striking the floor, a sharp pain slicing through your side; you grab the edge of the desk so you do not fall completely, your ears ringing, a thin buzzing covering every other sound for one second.
Then they arrive all together.
Shouts from outside, running footsteps on the deck, the sound of cannons being dragged, the shrill whistle of someone giving orders, the groan of the hull twisting from the blow it has received.
ÂŤWhat the hellâÂť comes out of you halfway, your throat dry.
Another roar explodes in your ears, the bottles clink, one comes loose and crashes to the floor, the candles tremble, and a painting falls crookedly from the wall.
You do not have time to understand which way you are falling.
Hongjoong is already on you.
He grabs you by the arm and pulls you toward him with a sharp tug, his breath escaping through his teeth, and immediately afterward a second explosion shakes the Black Fever, closer, more violent. Something creaks above you and the wood of the ceiling opens in a sudden rain of splinters.
One arm tightens around your back and crushes you against his chest, the other covers your head, pushing it against his shoulder, as if he could make you disappear inside him; you feel his hard, warm chest against yours, feel the vibration of the blast passing through him, the smell enveloping you, dense with rum, salt, and something sweeter that remains in your nose while the world around you fills with dust and noise.
Splinters rain down over you, bounce off his jacket, scratch the wood behind you. One grazes your cheek and he tightens his hold, lowers his head slightly as if wanting to cover you with his whole body, keeping you anchored to him, motionless, sheltered.
ÂŤStay down,Âť he murmurs, his voice low, taut but incredibly close to your ear, so close that for an instant everything else slips into the background: the alarm beginning to ring somewhere on deck, the screams, the footsteps, the crash of the ship groaning.
He stays like that for a few seconds, as if measuring the time between one strike and the next, then lets you go just enough to look at your face, his hands still on your shoulders, gaze running quickly over you to make sure you are whole.
ÂŤHurt?Âť he asks sharply.
You shake your head, your heart hammering in your chest, the ring pulsing against your finger, almost in sync.
He nods once, releases you only to grab the edge of the desk, pulls a pistol from a drawer, then another, and tucks them into his belt.
He takes your hand and rushes toward the door, dragging you behind him, while another vibration runs through the hull and makes the window glass tremble.
ÂŤLetâs go,Âť he growls, yanking the door open.
The corridor hits you with colder air and the amplified sound of chaos: men running, someone cursing, the jingle of chains, the sharp smell of gunpowder that has already reached all the way here. The planks beneath your feet vibrate with every step, and every time the ship jolts, he pulls you slightly toward him, as if he has decided that as long as it is possible to move, you will do it together.
You turn the corner toward the stairs leading to the deck just as a figure bursts running from the other side, and you nearly crash into him.
He is short of breath, his shirt open over his chest, which rises and falls frantically, a few grains of dust caught in his hair.
ÂŤCaptain,Âť he pants, wasting no time. ÂŤItâs the Cherrug!Âť
