#lott.writes

"I—"

"You—"

They looked at each other, a smile almost twisting 'Amy’s' lips. A silence a little awkward, both opening and closing their mouths, before she gestured to Merria to start first.

"You didn’t have to forage redroots," Merria said, spitting the seeds into a tin cup. "I never thanked you yesterday, so I’m doing it now. Thank you."

"It’s... to make sure that I’ll miss you." Her answer was a tease wrapped in a half-truth, and she winced softly at her own honesty.

A smile. Wry. Pained.

She wasn’t good at this, was she? She’d always preferred leaving fast, making the goodbye simple and as uncomplicated as possible—when she lingered long enough for them. But now, she didn’t know what to say.

She didn’t know how to say goodbye to things that were kind and soft without pain.

The younger woman’s mouth opened, closed again. Then, finally: "...You didn’t have to speak for me. To him."

"I know."

"But you did."

Merria’s gaze didn’t waver. "Someone had to."

Simple truths that warmed her chest with something that felt like affection and knotted her throat with something else. Her eyes burned, but she didn’t let them spill. She looked down at her hands instead. Her knuckles were pale from how tightly she held the folded scrap of paper. The note she wasn’t sure would ever be read—but she’d written it anyway.

"In case they come looking here," she said softly, holding it out. "Give them this. It’s short. It just says that I’m alive and where I’m going. Aimi and Arioso, they..."

She faltered for a second. How could she describe them in a few words when they deserved hundreds? Fools that should have left instead of staying? People who are everything she is not? Far more deserving of every kindness, softness and sweetness than she ever would. One carried the kind of hope she no longer dared to hold. The other, foolish enough to walk beside her without flinching.

Hers. 

"You’ll recognize them immediately," she said at last. "They don’t know how to blend in."

Merria took it without asking for more details—perhaps understanding her more than 'Amy' would have liked. She tucked it into her apron pocket and nodded. "I’ll keep it safe."

She hesitated, again, then exhaled—not just breath, but the tension in her spine. It was something that needed to be said.

"I’ve had people speak for me before," she said, meeting her eyes, hoping whatever she would see would convey her gratitude. "But mostly to condemn. To mark me, or cast me out, or shut me up."

Merria said nothing.

'Amy' insisted, despite the part of her that screamed to stop revealing so much of herself. "You didn’t have to care. You could’ve just let me be a stranger passing through. But you didn’t."

A long moment passed before Merria said, very softly: "It wasn’t needless."

She blinked.

"I don’t have a daughter," Merria added, voice steadier now. "But if I did... I’d want her to be the kind of fool who’d patch up a boat just to chase something she believed in."

Her throat caught. She looked away quickly, blinking hard. Her fingertips curled against the grain of the box.

‘Amy’ hoped no one had to be like her.

"I’ll come back someday," she said quietly because it was easier than a definite goodbye. "If I can."

Merria’s mouth twitched. "If you do, I’ll make you scrub every barrel in the cellar."

"That’s not much of a threat."

"You’ve never seen my cellar."

'Amy' cocked a brow. "I’m pretty sure it’s currently empty.”

Merria huffed. They both stood there a moment longer, suspended in something gentle. Then Merria reached out—not for a hug, not exactly, but to smooth a seashell charm that had come loose from one of her braids.

“You’d better go before you’re left behind.” She said. “I’ll come with you to the docks.”

She supposed there haven't been people who lingered for as long as she did for quite some time. Merria wasn’t good at saying goodbye either. 

They walked the path of stone together, wind at their backs, each footstep pulling her toward the sea and all its danger.

The docks glimmered in the newborn light—soft and opaline, like the underside of a seashell. The tide murmured low and steady against the pylons, and the breeze carried the faint hush of windchimes still half-asleep.

The Red Force sat anchored in the bay, its shadow long across the water. Crew moved quietly aboard, the kind of practiced morning stillness that belonged to people who’d sailed together for years. 

The ship had its own built-in stairs. Fancy.

She walked toward it, box swaying with each of her steps, goosebumps rolling down her arms—the morning’s chills settling in her bones. She kept her eyes ahead, steps sure. She didn’t expect anyone to come see her off.

And yet—

Her steps slowed. Beside her, Merria laughed quietly. “Told you.”

There they were. Just off to the side near a stack of fishing crates: a small, unassuming group.

A few familiar faces from the village—the older merchant she’d helped with his stall, a girl who’d watched her retrieve her kite. A mother with a younger boy and a basket of sea beans. And the children.

She stopped. Heart beating too loudly.

It was the smallest one who ran first—bare feet slapping wood, hair tangled with sleep. “You’re really leaving!” she called, arms flailing a bit too wide.

‘Amy’s chest tingled with warmth and something a little bit painful. She crouched slightly, catching her with one hand to steady her. “I told you I might.”

If her voice was hoarse, the little girl didn’t detect it.

A second girl approached, more solemn, holding out a crooked palm-leaf charm shaped like a fish. It had already started to unravel. “We made it for luck,” she said, serious as a priest.

‘Amy’ took it like it was gold and tucked it into her shirt, right above her heart. “Then it’ll work.”

The boy stepped forward, shoving the sea beans at her. “For the road. Mom says thanks for playing with us.”

She shook her head. “You keep those. She’ll need the rest for drying.”

He hesitated. Then gave a shy nod and clutched the basket tighter.

Behind them, one of the older women pressed her hands together. Not a wave. Not quite a prayer. Just a silent gesture of respect.

No one asked where she was going.

No one tried to stop her.

But they were here. And she hadn’t expected that.

She stood, brushing her fingers along one girl’s hair, then another’s shoulder. “You’ll look after the tide pools for me?” she asked.

They all nodded, solemn and small.

‘Amy’ stepped back, her hands light at her sides.

She didn’t say goodbye.

Instead, she gave them a look—one they’d remember when the fish ran late or the wind changed. The kind of look that says: You were seen. 

And then she turned toward the ship.

Merria was waiting next to it, arms wrapped around a bundle before handing it to her—pushing it into her arms, really. Like she knew ‘Amy’ would protest. “There is food in there—smoked fish, a few starfruits, and bread. For your breakfast. And a coat, if you get cold.”

“You shouldn’t-”

“I know. You’ve already said that.”

“I— Thank you.” She choked on the words, bowing deeply because it was the only way she knew how to show it.

A hum.

“You thank people like you never expect kindness from them.” Her hands wrapped around her shoulders, dragging her upright. ‘Amy’ wrapped her fingers around her wrists, squeezing. Merria’s voice lowered. “Sail smart. Don’t let them charm you too quick.”

“They’re pirates.” She scoffed, a little wet near the edge.

Merria smirked. “So are you for now.”

They exchanged a smile. ‘Amy’ let go.

She climbed the stairs in silence, her boots steady on the worn planks. The sea beyond waited, all open blue and hush. And just before stepping aboard, she turned once.

The children waved. Merria lifted two fingers in farewell, her other hand pressed against her chest.

‘Amy’ didn’t smile. But her fingers brushed the charm against her breast as she adjusted the bundle in her arm. A quiet thanks. Then she stepped aboard the Red Force.

And Shellmere exhaled behind her.

When her feet landed on the deck, it felt like stepping into a different world.

The first thing she noticed was the silence.

Not a real one—the ship breathed with movement: boots thudded against decks, rigging creaked, a gull screamed from a masthead. But it was a comfortable silence. Familiar. The kind that came from people who’d fought together, bled together, drank too much together and still woke up knowing which rope to pull and when.

No one looked twice when she stepped aboard.

She had expected stares. Questions. Suspicion. Perhaps, even threats. Instead, they flowed around her like water around a rock. Some nodded. One younger deckhand with green-dyed beads in his hair offered her a crooked half-smile and a wink, trying to be charming. 

That was all. It was unsettling.

Had their captain made an announcement?

She adjusted her grip on the bundle to free a hand, jaw tight.

The Red Force smelled like rum, old wood, and faintly of smoke. Sun-warmed planks creaked under her boots, and somewhere aft, someone was singing off-key. She felt it in her ribs, in the ache of her fingers and the tension of her shoulders—this ship moved. It had weight. Rhythm.

It was not a place for passengers.

So she kept her spine straight, her gaze ahead. Not meek. Not confrontational. Just present.

“You missed the welcome parade,” came a voice behind her, low and far too pleased with itself.

She turned, pulse jumping. The familiarity of the tone set her nerves alight.

Shanks leaned against a mast, tired eyes, black coat slung over his shoulders, his stance careless, his smile anything but. He hadn’t changed his clothes. They were rumpled, slept-in. 

He looked like the kind of man who made peace with hangovers by ignoring them.

She hummed softly to herself. Perhaps, they were all hangovered and couldn’t really tell that she wasn’t part of them.

“I heard confetti’s out of season,” she replied, voice low, guarded but dry. A flick of her eyebrow betrayed just a flicker of dry wit beneath the weariness.

“Pity.” He stretched slowly, like a cat in the morning sun, then strolled toward her like the deck belonged to him—lazy, sure and too confident for his own good. “You’ve got a thing for dramatic exits. I figured you’d enjoy a matching entrance.”

She said nothing. Just watched him approach, her expression unreadable, with eyes still salted from leaving. Her lips pressed into a line too thin to be mistaken for anything kind. Still, she relaxed the muscles.

The captain liked to tease—that much was certain—and it seemed he took it upon himself to see how far he could push before truly bothering her. She almost clacked her tongue against her teeth but it would satisfy him too much.

He slowed, eyes sharp beneath the grin, taking her in the way one would assess a storm cloud. “You brought a box.”

“I travel light.” Her voice cut, a little brittle at the edges. Reminding him of their conversation last night.

He squinted at it, amused. “Looks heavy for light.”

“Only what I can carry.”

“Only what you’re willing to lose?” he asked, like it was nothing. A thought tossed on a breeze. He reached out, almost absently, fingers brushing toward the box’s lid.

Her hand slammed down against it, fast as a thrown knife, knuckles white. “Only what I’ll fight to keep.”

That froze the air for a moment.

His mouth twitched. It wasn’t quite a grin—it had too much teeth. “There she is.”

That made her blink. Her throat tightened around something unspoken. “What?”

He didn’t answer. His gaze lingered a second longer, reading her with something too shrewd to be casual, then jerked his chin toward a small barrel set by the galley door. “Roo left you breakfast. There’s fruit and bread in there. Might want to grab it before Monster remembers he’s hungry again.”

The sudden shift in tone knocked her off balance. She followed his gesture, then shook her head, gesturing to the bundle in her arm. “I’ve already got enough. Merria made sure of it.”

Her voice held no softness. Not cold, but final. A quiet rebuff with teeth behind it. The kind of tone used to keep walls high and hands off.

His brow lifted. “Refusing breakfast on principle?”

He sounded dramatically offended. He didn’t look like it.

“On preparation.” Her fingers flexed against the box’s grain. “And I don’t like taking more than I can repay.”

He let out a breathy laugh—half surprise, half admiration. “You’re going to have a hard time sailing with pirates, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart. She almost bristled on principle. It was too casual. A tease with claws he would use at specific times, when he was mocking her. A man used to be liked even when he shouldn't be.

“I’m not sailing with you,” ‘Amy’ corrected—argued really because letting him have the last word felt like chewing glass. “I’m just passing through.”

His grin curled wider, then faded into something quieter. Measured. “So you’re sure about it?”

It sounded like he was testing her resolve, verifying that she hadn’t changed her mind in the course of a few hours. As if she hadn’t been stewing for days.

She met his gaze, chin lifting a fraction. “I don’t change course mid-tide.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

That stopped her. Just for a beat.

The wind stirred at the strands of her hair unbound by braids. She narrowed her eyes slightly, as if trying to read the shape of the trap beneath his words before cocking a brow in a way that said ‘It’s the only answer you’ll have’.

He gave no further push. Just jerked his thumb toward the far end of the ship. “Find Benn Beckman before you settle in. He’s the one who makes sure nobody kills each other. Or sets the ship on fire. Or sneaks extra rations.”

“Is that an official role?” she asked dryly, almost under her breath.

“Ship nanny,” Shanks said with mock solemnity, then broke the facade with a crooked grin. “He’ll love you.”

“I doubt that.”

A beat passed. Shanks gave a little nod, barely more than a tilt of his chin—approval, or acknowledgment, or maybe just a pirate emperor saying ‘we’ll see’.

Then he walked off, whistling something tuneless as if they hadn’t just traded knives in velvet. ‘Amy’ watched him go, that lazy gait vanishing past the rigging, swallowed by the ship’s rhythm.

Of course he left it to someone else. Of course he didn’t explain a damn thing.

She exhaled slowly, drawing the sea into her lungs and holding it there. Her fingers brushed the fish-charm tucked under her shirt. One last tether to shore. She released the breath and squared her shoulders.

Right. Benn Beckman.

She’d seen him once or twice on wanted posters—tall, calm, salted hair. His bounty had reached one billion belies but she didn’t have the exact number. Truth to be told, she didn’t care to remember once they’ve exceeded the five hundred millions, it was easier to just not cross them.  

He looked like the kind of man who didn’t need to raise his voice to be obeyed. She imagined him to be like the stillness before lightning struck. 

She passed a group of crewmates coiling rope, and they barely looked up. No questions. No raised brows. No interest. Just seamless movement—each person part of the ship, and the ship a body of its own. She didn’t know where she fit inside it yet. Didn’t know if she wanted to.

Strange crew.

The stairs leading up to the quarterdeck creaked beneath her boots. A sea breeze tugged at her hair, and a gull screamed above, circling the mast. She caught movement near the stern rail—broad shoulders, salt-streaked hair, the ember-tip of a cigarette glowing in the shade.

There you are.

She’d expected someone hardened around the edges. The kind of first mate who barked orders and kept a rifle slung across his back like a threat. With a captain like theirs, they would need that to keep the ship afloat. 

Instead, she found a man leaning against the rail, sleeves rolled past his elbows, one hand resting casually against the wood, the other holding his cigarette between two fingers. Watching the horizon like it was something that needed guarding.

At ease.

He looked like a man who carried weight quietly. A man who didn’t posture. Didn’t chase attention. He simply was.

His arms were the first thing she noticed—solid, weathered, freckled faintly by the sun. The shirt stretched over his arms just enough to make her pause, not tight, just revealing. Appealing. The kind of strength that came with years on the sea—roped muscle, forearms traced with veins, hands that had worked too much to ever be called soft. 

The kind of strength that could hold the ship together with his bare hands if it came to it.

She slowed—not from fear exactly, but from wariness. She didn’t know how this man judged. Only that he did.

She stopped a few feet away and cleared her throat. “Shanks said I should find you.”

His head turned slightly, just enough to glance at her over one shoulder. His expression was unreadable. A puff of smoke drifted sideways with the wind.

“Did he now,” he said.

Not a question. Not quite a welcome either. More like an inevitability laced in quiet suffering. He didn’t look surprised.

Somewhere below, Shanks hollered for departure. The last ropes were secured, the sails swelled and ‘Amy’ made sure to keep her eyes on the first mate. Some of the pirates leaned against the side, waving their goodbyes. 

A quiet affair so unlike their arrival.

The ship swayed slightly.

‘Amy’ straightened. “He said you keep the ship from burning down.”

A twitch of the mouth. Amusement, maybe. Or warning. “Someone’s got to.”

She shifted her weight. The deck here felt firmer. Higher. Like standing at the edge of something.

“I’m not here long,” she added quickly. “Just passage. I won’t be in the way.”

“You say that like you’ve been on a pirate ship before.” He finally turned toward her fully, smoke trailing from his fingers. His gaze swept her once, not leering—just assessing. Noting how she held herself, how tightly she gripped that box, where her scars sat and where they didn’t.

‘Amy’ didn’t flinch. “No. But I’ve been in places where being invisible was the only way to stay breathing.”

A beat. Then Benn nodded, slowly. “Good instinct. Won’t help much here.”

She frowned. “Why not?”

“Because no one on this ship stays invisible for long. Not even the ghosts.”

He flicked his cigarette overboard, watching the ember trail vanish into the blue. Then he jerked his chin toward the side rail. “There’s a spare bunk near the forward hold. Not fancy, but it’s dry. You’ll be on rotation with the rest.”

“I didn’t agree to work.”

“You didn’t say you wouldn’t.” He met her eyes. Calm. Steady. Like driftwood after the storm. “Everyone does something. Or they don’t stay.”

It wasn’t a threat. It was gravity. And she stilled her tongue before the urge to say something challenging moved it for her. Something like ‘What? You’re going to throw me overboard?’

She nodded once. “Understood.”

“You cook?”

“I can boil water.” She shrugged. She could cook like every adult could, not perfect but enough to survive and take a little bit of pleasure out of eating it.

It didn’t convince him, though. “Then you’re swabbing decks. At least until Roo takes pity and steals you.”

He turned, already done with the conversation.

‘Amy’ started to step away, then hesitated. “You’re not going to ask my name?”

He paused. Looked at her again. “I figured you’d tell us when it matters.”

Then he walked off—quiet, certain, without looking back.

What a man. The thought felt like an exhale, traitorous but rang true in her soul.

She stood alone for a moment after he walked away, the deck gently swaying beneath her boots. The wind tugged at her hair. Somewhere above, a gull shrieked and wheeled into the wind.

That was it. No questions. No judgment. No performance. Just a man who named what needed naming and left the rest alone.

She hadn’t realized how much she needed that.

Not charm. Not provocation. Not the teasing edge Shanks wielded like a blade. Just stillness. Certainty. Space to breathe.

Her fingers relaxed around the handle of the box.

She didn’t trust anyone here—not really. But if she had to pick someone to watch her back when the sea turned, she already knew who it would be.

Not the emperor with the grin but the man with the match and the silence.

She’d made it halfway across the deck, mop rasping over sun-split planks that had soaked in as much rum as the pirates who walked them. Her hair was wrapped in her headband, sleeves rolled. The bucket sloshed as the ship shifted—steady, predictable motion. She found herself adjusting to it faster than expected.

“Miss Amy?”

The voice caught behind her. She turned.

Kaito was approaching with a loose smile and a coil of rope slung over one shoulder. His shirt was the same as the day before — too big, too open, sleeves damp from work. His spiky ponytail bounced like punctuation. His whole face lit up.

“I didn’t think you were coming with us,” he said, blinking. “Didn’t even see you board.”

‘Amy’ gave him a short nod, wiping her brow. “You were distracted.”

“Yeah, probably.” He scratched at his cheek, still looking surprised. “So... what are you doing here? Thought you lived in Shellmere.”

She kept her tone even. “No. I was just passing through.”

That gave him pause. He squinted at her, like trying to see the full shape of something just beyond his reach. “So you’re sailing with us?”

“For now.”

Kaito blinked, processing that. “With the crew?”

“No.” A touch flat, but not unfriendly. “Not part of the crew.”

There was a beat. Just long enough. He laughed—a little too fast, a little too relieved. “Right. Obviously. Just—saw you with the mop and figured…”

The smile stayed, but it faltered just at the edges. His weight shifted, almost like he’d braced for something else. His shoulders loosened.

He didn’t say it—wouldn’t. But it showed.

She caught the flicker: the way his posture subtly uncoiled, the small breath he didn’t seem to know he was holding.

He’d struggled to get on this ship.

And she hadn’t. Or at least, to him, it didn’t look like she had.

Her fingers tightened slightly around the handle, thumb brushing it in soft circles.

She looked at him with unreadable calm and eyes too sharp. “It needed doing.”

Kaito blinked. “Sure, but... you know you didn’t have to, right? You could’ve said no.”

Her breath stuttered in something close to a scoff, she disguised it as a cough. As if she could’ve said no to the first mate’s direct order. But it suited her all the same. It didn’t feel like charity but an exchange of favors.

“I mean—you’ve got your own thing going on,” he added, motioning to the carrier. “Didn’t expect to see you scrubbing the deck.”

Her hand drifted toward the strap digging into her hips. She adjusted it once, then let it be.

“You could put it down,” Kaito offered, stepping a little closer. “Might help with your form.”

Her brows twitched.

He plowed on, clearly trying to sound casual—charming, even. “I mean, you’ve got good form, but you want to keep your strokes a little shorter. Less back strain that way.” He pantomimed a shorter sweep with his hand. “Roo taught me that after I almost pulled something near the galley stairs.”

Of course he had a tip. They always did. A little adjustment. A little suggestion. And always, always with the smile that made it feel like a gift.

Her expression didn’t shift much. Maybe a flicker of something at the corner of her mouth—not a grimace. Not quite.

“I’ll manage,” she said.

Kaito rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah. Just—trying to help.”

She gave him a look. Measured. Patient. “I know.”

He seemed to take that as permission to keep going. “It’s just… yesterday, you were different. Calmer. Quieter.”

She leant against the mop a little bit, tilting her head. Oh, this should be good. “You mean softer?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But you were thinking it.” She answered like it was a fact, like she caught him.

Kaito adjusted his grip on the rope, throwing a glance behind his shoulder. The movement almost hid his wince. “Not in a bad way. I just meant... this is new.”

“People can be more than one thing,” she said lightly but her tone betrayed the morbid fascination of watching someone digging his own grave and then digging deeper.

“Yeah. Yeah, of course.” He shifted, rubbing the back of his neck. “So, just curious—what made you come with us?”

The question hung there. Easy. Casual. But not harmless.

“I had a direction,” she said. “Your ship was already pointed that way.”

He blinked, letting that settle. “That’s... kind of poetic.”

She didn’t answer.

Another glance toward her box.

“What’s in there?” he asked, more careful this time. “You don't want to put it down?”

A pause. A sharper look, cautious.

“Things I need,” she said. “Things I can’t lose.”

His smile dimmed slightly—not gone, just softened at the edges. “Makes sense.” He took a breath, searching for something safer to say. “Well, it suits you,” he offered. “Carrying your life like that.”

She wrung the mop, wondered if he was like that with all the women he met or if he was trying to be something he wasn’t in front of her. She kind of felt bad for him. Whatever it was, he wasn’t very good at it.

He lingered a moment. “Just so you know—if you get tired or someone gives you trouble, I’ve got your back. You helped me.”

“You dropped things.”

“And you picked them up. That counts.”

Her lip twitched. Just a little.

Kaito beamed, encouraged. “Anyway, welcome aboard. If you get seasick, Roo’s got ginger chews hidden in his bunk—says they’re for everyone, but he hoards ‘em. And don’t let him talk you into cleaning the galley stove. That thing’s cursed. Swear it hissed at me once.”

She gave him a sidelong glance. “I’ll take my chances.”

Kaito grinned again, almost proud of himself. Then with a jaunty half-salute, he added, “Back to my watch. Holler if you need pirate expertise.”

And with that, he swaggered off—rope bouncing against his hip, ponytail flapping behind him. On the way, a man clapped his shoulder and dragged him aside while snickering.

‘Amy’ watched him go. Pirate expertise.

It was almost laughable—the pride, the confidence, the gall. But then—

Her eyes caught movements tainted in red. The wind brushed his hair with a kind of attention only befallen on lovers.

—With that kind of captain, even she would believe herself to be bigger than she is.

She dipped the mop again, the water sloshed in the bucket. ‘Amy’ worked without hurry, without mind. Her hands moved, but her thoughts wandered.

She’d met men like Kaito before—kind, loud, helpful. The sort who couldn’t stop trying to smooth what didn’t need smoothing. The sort who thought teaching her how to mop was kindness. And maybe it was to him.

But she didn’t need kindness that came with instruction.

Didn’t need reminders that even here—even now—she was being explained.

Kaito believed he was doing something good for someone he believed weaker, more ignorant. And that belief, that easy warmth, that bright grin—

It was the kind that could wear you down. Could make you believe you were safe. And that was the real danger. Because part of her almost believed it despite knowing that he was wrong.

She paused, leaning on the mop, wrist flexing slightly. Her gaze swept the deck—the mess of it, the ease, the casual laughter that came not from politeness but familiarity.

A sigh.

Around her, the crew moved in bursts—loud, off-key, and always moving. A handful of men were lowering barrels down to the hold while arguing about whether salted lemons counted as fruit or seasoning. Someone was playing a tune on a cracked flute that sounded like a seagull in pain. Nobody told him to stop. Another sat half-asleep on a coil of rope, nodding along with no rhythm at all.

A few started to bring out tables and chairs.

It should’ve looked like a mess. But it didn’t. They were loud, brash, mismatched—and somehow, they made it work. Like tide and wind and torn sails all conspiring to keep the ship moving forward.

They didn’t look like pirates. They looked like idiots.

But they were idiots who knew each other. Idiots who, somehow, trusted one another enough to fall asleep in full sun with their back to the rest of the world.

She could almost see Arioso in the corner, dramatizing their lives into verse that no one asked for. Could hear Aimi trying to be helpful while accidentally making things worse—smiling sheepishly after breaking someone’s knife or mixing herbs in the wrong barrel.

Her throat tightened briefly as the revelation unraveled softly in her mind. She missed them. Not like a hole in her chest—not yet. But like a tightness just under her her ribs. A phantom ache.

It made her look away. The sea stretched out in all directions—too wide. Too quiet.

“Deep thoughts?” The voice came lazily, off her shoulder. 

Right. What did Beckman say again? Something about the impossibility of invisibility on the ship. 

She stopped the sigh before it could escape her. She glanced sideways.

She knew him too. Not as infamous as the first mate or his captain but just as dangerous. Black hair in tight curls, skin just a tad lighter than hers, broad-shouldered like most men of the sea. Trademark twin pistols swayed on his belt.

Yasopp leaned against a barrel nearby, cup in hand, watching her like he’d been there a while. His smile was casual if not sharp near the edges.

“Not really.” She straightened herself and was surprised to realize they reached the same height.

“Admiring our fine naval coordination then?”

“You all move like you’ve done this forever.”

“We have,” Yasopp replied, crossing his legs at the ankle. “More or less.”

She hummed softly and wrung the mop to continue her work. They were starting to put out the food now. Wafts of appetizing smells reached her. Her stomach rumbled softly, not enough to be heard but enough to warn her.

“Didn’t realize we took volunteers,” he added, watching her work. “Usually takes at least two weeks before anyone offers to clean something.”

“I didn’t offer,” she said drily.

“Ah. So this is a power move. Establishing dominance through deck scrubbing. Bold.”

She didn’t bother correcting him, it was easier that way. It didn’t prevent him from continuing. If anything, it encouraged him to be an even bigger nuisance.

He took a sip, watching her over the rim of his cup. “Let me guess. You’re the strong, silent, brooding type. Mysterious past. Nothing to lose. Probably stabbed a man once for looking at you wrong.”

‘Amy’ rolled her eyes and dipped the mop again, ignoring him.

He nodded. “Yeah. Thought so. That’s the kind of mop technique you don’t teach.”

She finally glanced at him. “You always this chatty with the help?”

“Oh, only when they look like they’re trying not to murder the deck.”

A smirk tugged at the edge of her mouth, but she swallowed it down when she promptly tripped on a rope that she swore wasn’t there before. Caught herself right before she tipped over the bucket and splashed the whole deck.

Yassop snorted. Loudly. Uglily. While ‘Amy’ fought to keep the blush at bay. 

“Don’t worry,” he said between two giggles, like watching someone almost fall was the most hilarious thing in the world. “You’ll get used to the mess. Took me years to realize no one here’s got a damn clue what they’re doing—they’re just too drunk to care.”

“And you’re not?” She cleared her throat. “Comforting. At least someone will be sober enough to stir the ship.”

“Don’t count on it. Anyway,” he leaned in a little like he was letting her in on a secret, “word of advice? If you’re trying to impress anyone, stop. It’s suspicious.”

“I’m not,” she said, ears still burning from her misshape.

She wasn’t often prone to such a thing.

“Good. You’re terrible at it.” He tipped his cup to her. She watched the content slosh over the edge, take a leap of faith and splash the freshly washed deck. “But points for effort. Deck hasn’t looked this clean since we spilled that rum barrel in '22.”

She stared at the spill dispassionately. 

“Ah. My bad.”

Her eyes traveled the length of the man, took note of his weapons, and vividly imagined all the ways she could strangle the smile out of his face. People have died for less.

Instead, she settled for: “Explain the smell.”

Yasopp paused, one brow lifting—just enough to show he heard it. He chuckled low, without turning back. “Careful. You keep talking like that, I might start to like you.”

“That smell,” came a new voice, “was fungal. We had to burn three mops after that and still couldn’t get rid of the scent.”

‘Amy’ turned slightly.

Hongo strolled up, coat flapping in the wind and showing his abs—nice—a linen-wrapped bundle tucked under one arm and a cup in his hand. He eyed the deck like it might still be infected.

Yasopp made a mock-wince. “Don’t ruin the nostalgia, Doc.”

“I still have the fungal sample,” Hongo replied dryly. “It’s growing.”

‘Amy’ arched her brow, impressed and disgusted in equal measures. “From the rum?”

Hongo gave her a nod of approval. “From the mop. But yes. Rum was involved.”

Yasopp chuckled, stepping aside to give the medic space. “You here to scold her too?”

“I’m not in charge of morale,” Hongo said, leveling a look at her face. “But I am in charge of keeping people from scrubbing themselves raw.”

She straightened. “I’m fine.”

“You’re sweating and you haven’t drank anything since who knows when.” He pushed the cup into her hand. “You haven’t eaten either.”

He’d been watching her.

“I don’t need—”

“Doesn’t matter. Roo said if you collapse, he’s not sharing his ginger chews. And frankly, I don’t want to explain to Benn why the mystery guest fainted mid-deck.”

Yasopp snorted. “Mystery guest. That's generous.”

She shot them both a flat look. “I’m working on a task the first mate gave me.”

“Yes,” Hongo said calmly, “and now you’re pausing on the order of the doctor.”

He stepped forward and set the wrapped parcel on a nearby crate. “Pickled cabbage. Salted rice. No ginger chews. I’m not spoiling you.”

Yasopp unwrapped the bundle before Hongo slapped his hand away. “Hey, she gets pickled cabbage? I got dried fish for three months straight when I joined.”

“You complained more,” The medic said without missing a beat.

“I was hungry!”

“You were dramatic.”

She looked between them—the banter, the lack of ceremony—and something in her posture eased, though she didn’t move from the mop.

“You lot always like this?” she muttered.

They thought ‘loud’, ‘lively’, even ‘charming’ in Yassop’s case while she meant ‘disgusting’ and ‘exhausting’.

“Absolutely,” Yasopp said proudly, two fists on his hips.

“No off switch,” Hongo added with the same gusto while her shoulders crumpled in disappointment. “But you’ll get used to it.”

She had a terrible feeling that the three day trip was going to feel much longer. “I won’t be here long.”

They both shrugged.

Yasopp raised his cup. “Neither were some of us. Once.”

That hung in the air a moment, just long enough to feel it turn foreboding. A shiver ran down her back. “That sounds like a threat.”

Yasopp grinned. “Only if it works.”

She stared at him. Unmoved.

He sipped. “Relax. We don’t do forced recruitment. It’s bad for morale. And worse for drinking schedules.”

“Good to know.”

“You’re still scrubbing the deck though.”

“Wonderful.” She said flatly. 

Yassop’s cackles stopped short when wafts of food reached his nostrils. He sniffed once, deeply and promptly left them to join the tables.

“You can sit with us to eat.” Hongo said, turning on his heels. “But you strike me as someone who would rather not.”

She didn’t give an answer, merely watching him join the flock of people around the table before her eyes moved to the food.

After a moment, she reached for it. Steam curled around her fingers. Salt and vinegar. Brine and starch. Real food. Hearty and humble.

She sat back on her heels and ate slowly, alone.

No Arioso rambling. No Aimi hovering nearby, pretending not to worry. And more recently, no Merria to share the meals with.

Just the sea. And the sound of a crew that didn’t ask questions—but noticed everything anyway.

She should have known her peace couldn’t last.

The sea was calm, sails shifting like breath overhead. ‘Amy' had tucked herself near the forecastle rail, coiling a line of rope into crisp loops. Her carrier box propped beside her as always. The warmth of the sun pressed into her back; salt and old wood filled the air. 

Then came the creak of boots and the unmistakable sound of chewing.

Kaito plopped down opposite her, a half-eaten bowl of candied ginger in hand and all the confidence of someone with no idea how close they stood to a knife’s edge.

“You know,” he said between chews, “you’re lucky.”

She gave him a glance. Not agreement. Not denial.

“First pirate ship, and it’s this one?” He popped another ginger. “Some crews’ll rob you blind before they even say hello.”

She flicked a coil into place. “Lucky me.”

He beamed, mistaking her dryness for rapport. “Figured someone should warn you. The sea’s full of monsters—not just the ones under it.”

A cheer broke out across the deck. Someone had climbed a barrel, waving a mop like a sword. Another pirate threw a fruit rind at him.

“Mm,” she murmured. “And you’re what—seasoned?”

“Three months.” He grinned, proud. “Almost.”

She blinked, slowly. “Ah. Veteran.” Red-haired let people that green on his deck?

He rolled his eyes, reading a tease in her words. “Long enough to know what I’m talking about.” He popped another candy. “Like—obviously the pirates. Some are real pieces of work. But the bounty hunters? Some are worse than pirates.”

She hummed, looping the rope tighter. “Go on, then.”

“So—get this,” Kaito paused, for dramatic effect. “There’s this guy Wasp,” he began, gesturing with a ginger cube. “Wears a seastone whip and no shirt. Claims he took down a Baroque Works sleeper agent by setting his ship on fire. Also apparently allergic to shirts.”

She quirked a brow. “Sounds like a liability.”

“Then there’s Sister Mercy—real sweet voice, poison in the wine. They say she took out two captains and blessed the corpses.”

A pause. She rolled a knot over one palm, thumb circling slowly.

“And Tansen the Flame hates sails. Doesn’t even check the bounties. Lit a merchant fleet over a carved Jolly Roger once.”

“Unstable.” She hummed softly. “You’re making these up.”

He grinned. “I wish. Oh—then there’s Junpei. No face, no trace. Leaves a little koi card. Creepy, but… clean.”

She blinked. That one was new.

Then he dropped it. “But the one everyone talks about? Sina.”

That earned him a flick of the eyes. Barely a twitch. But her hands slowed.

She was listening.

“Sina the Monster Hunter,” he added with low theatrics.

The name settled over them like a thundercloud.

She kept coiling. Rhythm unchanged. But Kaito had noticed the interest.

“She’s the real deal,” he went on. “Not the strongest. But she took down Captain Varnak. Varnak. Five hundred million. Brutal bastard. Axe the size of a barrel. That’s how she got the nickname.”

Her gaze didn’t lift, but her hand drifted—almost unconsciously—to the side of her ribcage, just below the carrier’s strap. Thumb brushed against cloth. Then skin. A rough edge there. Raised. Faint.

A scar.

She rubbed it once, then let her hand fall.

“Oh?” She said, voice mild. Casual.

Kaito leaned in, clearly delighted by the reaction. “No one knows what she looks like. No one got the hair right. Some say silver, others black and the rest? Braids to her knees. I heard she doesn’t even talk, just hums creepy little tunes.”

That, she thought, was the best part.

She snorted. “Sounds like someone you made up.”

“No, I swear. She’s real. Just—no one sees her twice.” Kaito leaned closer. “People say she doesn’t kill for bounties. She kills to tip the balance. Like you have to earn her blade.”

“How noble,” she muttered, brushing dust off the coil.

Across the deck, two men were mock-dueling with smoked fish and a mop. A third leaned over the railing, either throwing up or serenading the ocean.

“Hey—just what I heard.” He looked proud of knowing it.

“Still telling bedtime stories, pup?”

Laram ambled over, flask in one hand, toothpick in his teeth. His skin caught glints of fishscale near the brow—a leftover from some half-fish ancestry.

Kaito grinned. “Just explaining the bounty hunter threat to Amy.”

Laram dropped to a squat beside them with a sigh. “Ah, the mystery guest with the mop and the box. Fitting.”

“She asked,” Kaito protested.

“You mention the one who fed a pirate captain to his own pigs?”

“Not yet,” ‘Amy’ said as Kaito mumbled “I was getting there.”

“He was telling me about a… ‘Sina’.”

Lucky Roo barged between the two fighters and promptly kicked their asses, saying something about not wasting food on his ship. She swore she heard Shanks’ laugh from somewhere.

“Ah. That one.” Laram dropped into a squat. “She’s no bedtime story. I saw what was left of a ship she hit—The Spear. Hull peeled like fruit. Blood soaked into the nails. Whatever she wanted, she didn’t leave much behind.

A stillness bloomed behind her ribs. Her fingers stopped coiling.

The Spear?

A slow blink. Then she frowned. Not visibly. Not dramatically. But it was there, shadowed between her brows. The name Gladiola Squid resurfaced with a strange weight. Ugly bastard, worse breath. But last she heard, he was still breathing. 

She cast her gaze aside for a second. Maybe she had tuned out Arioso a little too well the last few weeks. She was so out of the loop.

Kaito frowned. “Wait—I thought she was clean. Precision kills, no mess.”

Laram shrugged. “Maybe she got sloppy.”

She looked down at the rope again, eyes unreadable.

"If she ever boards this ship,” Laram added, standing with a stretch, “I’m diving off the side. Hope you can swim, kid."

“And why would the crew of an emperor fear a bounty hunter?” The question had left her lips a little too pointed.

Laram paused mid-stretch, looking like a startled cat before grimacing. “Not the seniors. Us temps.”

“Temps?”

There was a lull in the conversation, like her question had brought a storm cloud that weighed over their heads.

“Yeah,” Kaito finally explained, just a tad less excited, “Like Captain rotates the ones who don’t make it ‘Officers’ between his allies.”

Ah. ‘Amy’ thought. That makes sense. 

Shanks teaches newbies and make them gain experiences on easier seas. Smart. Keeps allies sharp, debts paid, and promising fighters close.

She rubbed her chin in thought. Perhaps, even, keep an eye on allies?

“You alright?” Kaito asked softly.

She gave a single nod, brushing dust from the line again. “I’ve heard worse stories.”

“Well, don’t worry. If she shows up, I’ll protect you.”

At first, it was distant—laughter, urgency, the stampede of bare feet.

Then, a scream of her name, distinctive, playful. They came tumbling around a bend in the road, outpacing one another, shouting over each other to be heard.

“There’s a ship!”

“Docking right now—come see!”

“A pirate ship!”

The basket slipped a little against her hip.

She didn’t move right away. Her body obeyed older instincts—training carved into muscle and breath. Restraint. Poise. Breathe first. She set the basket down. Wiped her hands on the hem of her pants. Smoothed the seaweed band at her wrist.

Then she walked. Not fast. Not slow. Her stride was measured, but her mind was already racing—questions colliding, branching off, pruning themselves down to one central fear: what kind of pirates?

Her teeth caught her bottom lip.

If it came to violence, she had options. Knowledge of the terrain. A means to fight. But the people here were soft. Kind. They would never survive, not unscathed at least. It would scar them, leave deep wounds into their trust that would fester into fear. Like it did for Moelani. 

She’d rather not bleed that kindness out over the sand.

The children met her halfway, breathless and bright-eyed.

“It’s huge!” one boy gasped, eyes shining. “It’s got a dragon on the front!”

“They waved at us!” another beamed, clutching a tiny spyglass in both hands. “The red-haired one smiled!”

Her breath caught. 

Red-haired. An information she stored in her mind.

That narrowed the field. She could think of a few pirates with red hair. Only one with that moniker. Only one she would rather not meet.

Still, her expression stayed steady. Attentive. Empty of fear. Her throat tightened, but she gave nothing away. She followed them down the winding slope toward the Spiral Pier, feet landing lightly, as if the ground beneath her could turn traitor at any moment.

Shellmere was waking up too.

Doors creaked open. Curtains stirred like breath. Islanders emerged like tide-creatures drawn to a current—curious, cautious, blinking into the pink-gold morning. Merria stood among them, one hand raised to shield her eyes.

Someone rang the soft copper bell used to mark passing traders. A dog began barking, then fell quiet.

Merria stood among them, shading her eyes with one hand, the other still holding a spatula from the breakfast she’d been preparing. She casted a pointed glance when the children pushed and weaved through the crowd to get closer, a soft sigh escaping her lips.

The older woman nodded when she reached her side, acknowledging her. Her eyes landed on the basket against her hips, a brow arched. She remained silent, turning to the arrival of the ship. 

The ship cut across the water of the inner bay. A monster of wood and sails, the hull lacquered deep crimson—like dried blood sealed under sunlight. Far bigger than everything she’d sailed on. The port looked tiny in comparison. 

The bow gleamed with golden scrollwork and dragon-scale carvings that caught the morning light like embers.

One of the islanders—a boy in his teens, tall and sunburnt—whistled under his breath. “That’s no trader.”

“No flags of any kingdom,” someone else muttered.

“It’s beautiful,” whispered an older woman, more awed than afraid. Her hands were still dusted with flour.

The ship’s rigging creaked as it neared, taut and orderly despite the chaos of noise above. Its four masts carried thick sails rimmed in pale thread, all full with wind and perfectly trimmed. The Jolly Roger caught the breeze and unfurled above them—a grinning skull marked with two slashing red lines and crossed sabers behind it.

Red Hair Pirates. The thought seared itself in her mind. Her fingers curled tighter around the edge of the basket.

Even those who didn’t know what it meant felt something shift in the air.

A fisherman slowly lowered his net. A child clutched their mother’s leg, peeking around her skirt. One man spat and backed away toward his home. Another just stood there, slack-jawed, mouthing something like a prayer.

And yet…

Others smiled. Nervous, but curious. Shellmere had few visitors. Even fewer who arrived laughing.

The sound rolled across the water, booming and bright, as if the ship carried its own festival inside it. A tall figure leaned over the rail, waving at the crowd like royalty at a parade.

She stood still among the motion.

To the islanders, this was novelty. Excitement. A change from routine. A pirate ship with no drawn cannons, no fire. No threat. They saw spectacle. Color. Maybe even charm.

But she saw the teeth beneath the smile. 

She saw houses burned, earth drunk on blood, glints of silver in the hands. She saw chaos, expressions frozen in grimaces, tears and snots running down faces. She heard cries and pleads for help, screams of horror and grief. 

Devastation.

The Red Force was no ordinary pirate ship. It was a floating stronghold, a myth made of wood. A declaration.

An Emperor’s vessel.

Her lungs filled sharply, like she was about to dive beneath a wave.

Fuck.

Their sails swelled with pride. Their laughter carried violence in its echo. The kindness they offered was real. No civilian was armed under his protection. But their danger made them unpredictable.

There was one certainty, though: Merria’s cave was about to empty. Hide the rums and the daughters. The Red-Haired Pirates are docking.

The innkeeper’s voice pulled her from the brink. “You alright, dear?”

She blinked once. “Just surprised.”

“They seem friendly enough,” Merria offered. “One of them was playing a fiddle as they approached. Haven’t seen a flag like that before, though…”

“I have.”

Merria tilted her head. “You recognize them?”

Yes, she thought. They’re the top of the food chain. The ones even other pirates fear. The ones who can level an island before breakfast and laugh through lunch.

But she only said, “No. Just the kind. Pirates.”

The ship was close now. A voice rose from the ship—singing, or maybe shouting in rhythm. The fiddle joined in, wild and reedy, barely staying in tune as someone stomped in time on the deck. Ropes were cast. Anchors groaned. The crew came into view—bright as coins, loud as gulls. Shirtless men shouting jokes. A tall one on the prow pointing toward town. Someone calling out for rum and mangoes—an allegory for boobs, she thought grimly.

One girl giggled. “They’re not scary at all.”

She didn’t answer. Her jaw was tight.

Instead, she stepped back from the crowd, slowly. Carefully. She didn’t run. Running would attract attention. And she needed none of that. She needed time. Space. She needed to think. Because her mind had already begun weaving threads into something sharp and stupid—something she had in spades. 

A plan. An idea barely worth calling that. But it might work.

If they were docking, she could get aboard. Just for a ride.

They would never take her as she is but they wouldn’t recognize her either. The bounties all contradicted themselves. No picture. No description. Just a name—one easily shed—and a reputation easily buried under a smile and a lie. Maybe she could convince them—play lost, pretty, desperate. 

Civilian.

It would play in her favor. They liked them weak—just look at their allies. Pirates who shouldn’t have survived the New World if it weren’t for them. Him.

And she’d seen the women who clung to pirates like these—the soft-spoken, the starry-eyed. She could be that for a day. Long enough to climb a gangplank. Long enough to follow the vivre card east.

Just to reach Glass Vale Island. That was all she needed.

She would need to change. Hide her calluses. Her scars. Maybe wear the dress Alua gave her, the pretty white one to soften her edges.

She swallowed. The taste of salt and nerves coated her tongue.

An Emperor. In the flesh. 

He was going to be a challenge.

But he had a ship. And she had a reason.

Whatever cracked open in her chest—dread, awe, doubt—it bent beneath something older. Sharper. A storm that had been waiting far too long.

She wasn’t going to let the trail go cold.

…

By mid-morning, the tavern had lost its hush. Word had spread quickly that pirates had docked, and the islanders, ever polite and ever curious, had poured in with cautious smiles and nervous glances. They watched as the Red-Haired Pirates settled into the space like they owned it—boots on benches, laughter shaking the wooden beams, and rum already flowing like spring water.

Merria was hard at work behind the counter, already filling drinks. They’d yet to eat lunch. 

She kept her distance, standing by the open-air bar window, hands wrapped around a mug of kelp tea that had waited for her since her departure at dawn. The wrap Alua gave her felt tight—like it knew she wasn’t made to wear it.

A clatter of shells broke her thoughts. One of the pirates—cheeks round with youth, sunburned nose and wild hair tied into a short, spiky ponytail—cursed softly as he bent to gather them. His shirt was too big, sleeves rolled to the elbows, and his expression hovered between overwhelmed and thrilled. 

Definitely new.

The woman bent to help. She handed him a handful of the scattered shells that were used for some kind of dice game. He grinned sheepishly.

“Thanks. Uh—sorry. This island’s too pretty. Makes me drop things.”

His tone was unfamiliar, different in many tones and shades. His rhythm was chaotic, words pronounced with an ever changing accent. A cosmopolitan island. His was the accent of a city where nobility and peasants mixed, of traditions clashing together to create a whole new culture. 

She raised a brow. “That’s a new excuse.”

“I’m not great under pressure,” he admitted, scratching the back of his head. She nodded her understanding and perhaps, sensing someone willing to listen, he continued. “Still getting used to the crew. Kinda hoping if I don’t mess up this supply run, they’ll let me keep sailing with them. I’m Kaito, by the way.”

“I’m—” she paused for a second, thinking, then her lips curled into a smile. “‘Amy’. You can call me ‘Amy’.” 

They shook hands. His was sweaty and soft, eager in his grip but not enough to hurt her. Barely there calluses. When he released it, she leant back against the edge of the table, cocking her hips.

Behind him, someone wolf-whistled his name. The boy turned scarlet to his ears.

“Supply run, you said?” ‘Amy’ asked, as casually as she could manage.

He nodded, still shy, still nervous but leant with the eagerness of someone still desperate to prove themselves. “Aye, we’re just stopping here to refill—fresh food, booze, maybe some medical salve. Nothing major.”

“Then?”

“Then we’re heading to Glass Vale Island. Captain wants to check on someone. Said he made a promise.”

‘Amy’ froze for half a second—just long enough for the silence to crack open something sharp inside her. Her heart hit her ribs like a war drum. She blinked once. Twice. Then turned her head, just enough to mask the flicker of fire in her gaze and the smugness of her smile. 

A ship and a destination in common. 

“How long will you stay docked?”

The boy shrugged. “A day, maybe less. I heard Captain doesn’t like lingering when he’s needed. Especially not somewhere this quiet.”

She nodded and passed him the last shell. “Then you’d better make yourself useful.” A pause. “And thank you.”

“For what?” Kaito called, but she was already walking away.

She rounded the corner of the tavern, heart pounding, and nearly collided with Merria, who stood in the shade with two pints filled with beer and a look that said she’d heard everything.

The silence between them stretched.

‘Amy’ folded her arms. “Sneaking up on people is your new hobby?”

“I was bringing two gentlemen their pints,” Merria said coolly. “Didn’t mean to overhear.”

But she did and she was judging her decision.

She sighed softly. “It’s just a ship. A way off this island.”

“With pirates,” Merria said, not asking. “You’re going to ask them?”

“Ask him—the captain. I only need his approval.”

“Is that why you’re suddenly dressed like that?”

‘Amy’ frowned, pursing her lips and furrowing her nose. A sweet breeze ruffled the wind chime. “Like what?”

The innkeeper raised her brows as she made a show of staring at her cleavage and all the places the fabric was snuggled against her silhouette. “Like you’re going to seduce a problem.”

The corners of her eyes creased in spite of herself. Amused. “Or maybe I’ll seduce the solution.”

A pause. Merria shifted her weight, her voice gentler now. “You think he’ll say yes?”

Somewhere behind her, someone shouted a bet-something about bagging a beauty at the next island, then: “I think I need him to.”

“And if he says no?”

She hesitated. Then—too sharp, too fast—“Then I’ll try something else.”

Merria studied her. “I knew you didn’t abandon the idea of leaving before the trader’s ship. But pirates?”

‘Amy’ looked away. Two men toasted their drinks, spilling half on them. They guffawed a laugh. By the time they leave, she thought, the tavern will smell like a tavern. Like rum and bad decisions.

“You’ve been helpful,” Merria went on. “Respectful. Good with the children. You didn’t owe us that.”

“I can’t stay,” She said softly. “But I didn’t want to leave like a ghost. You’ve been good to me first.”

It’s only natural.

Merria exhaled, shoulders sagging just a little. “Do you trust him?”

“I don’t know him.”

“Then don’t gamble your life on a man.”

She didn’t answer. She didn’t tell her that she would always fold for a good gamble, that she had spent hours in a casino to get her money back. It’s the rush of adrenaline, the uncertainty, the frustration of a loss so close to a win and then the euphoria of the win. 

It wasn’t an addiction. But it could be.

Merria stepped closer, placed a hand lightly on her arm. “If you change your mind, you can stay here. The bed’s still yours. For as long as you need it.”

‘Amy’ nodded, but her jaw was set. “Thank you.”

Merria let her go.

But as she walked toward the dock, the innkeeper’s voice followed her, low and sad. “Don’t become someone you need to lie to.”

She raised her hand over her shoulder in a lazy wave.

She didn’t head straight to the captain.

Instead, she walked along the outer edge of the dock, fingers grazing the coral-stone walls of the houses bordering it, eyes flicking toward the coast. She watched the crew bring life back into Shellmere Island. Searched for him in the crowd. Searched for his signature red hair and found a shimmer of it near the ship. Alone, for now.

Good. 

Turning to a window, she squinted at her reflection, wet her lips, straightened her spine, and adjusted her hair, just wild enough. Smile, soft but fraying. And with that, she walked to the pier.

She saw him before he saw her, and that was an advantage.

Shanks. The Red-Haired Pirate. An Emperor. A name spoken in half-whispers, in taverns thick with smoke and rumors—wary awe and spiteful respect. She’d heard the stories—everyone had. The man who allied with weak crews, laughed like a drunk, and fought like a god.

But stories didn’t do justice to the figure leaning back against a coil of thick mooring rope, half-shadowed by the late morning sun. The light poured golden over the harbor, setting the waves aglow like rippling coins. He held a bottle loosely in his hand, legs crossed at the ankle, his entire posture speaking of someone who feared nothing, not boredom. 

He looked like the sea had shaped him itself—broad-shouldered, sun-browned, his red hair burning like embers against a sculpted jaw. Less drunk than the stories made him sound like. The kind of man who laughed with his crew and still made every room he left feel quieter.

But the sea certainly did not dress him. His pants were a murder attempt on her eyes. A clear lack of taste. Of modesty. Of respect. More than his flag, it screamed of danger—that he wasn’t above doing crimes. Fashion crimes.

And she had to seduce that?

Her steps barely faltered as she adjusted the neckline of her dress with a subtle flick of her fingers—just enough cleavage to be noticed, not enough to scream for it. The white fabric caught the light, soft and delicate in all the ways she never let herself be. Her hair, freed from its usual binds, curled in the wind, with a few braids strung with nacres shimmering faintly. Windswept and fizzy like it wasn’t by design.

She didn’t play this game often—not for pleasure, but for necessity. 

Like now.

So she smiled like she wasn’t thinking about how many zeros there were in his bounty, and walked with the slight stumble of someone lost, tired, grateful for a savior. A pretty thing in the wrong place at the wrong time.

He caught her in the corner of his gaze. She felt it land on her skin, warm and assessing. Not lewd. Not shy either. Just curious. Unbothered in a way that bothered her. Like he’d already decided that she wasn’t a threat, just a puzzle in white—and that stung more than she liked to admit.

She tilted her head, dropped her eyes, softened the lines of her mouth. Made herself vulnerable, pliable, something he could ignore or help. But inside, she was blade-sharp and watching. Every twitch of his hand. Every breath.

“If you're looking to make a few belies, you’ve picked the wrong pirate,” Shanks called, raising his hand lazily. The bottle caught the light, and so did the smirk on his lips. “I only do it for pleasure.”

Something jumped inside her chest. Something old and fanged. It snarled at the insult, at the casual dismissal. She imagined wrapping her hands around his neck and it made her smile—small, soft, amused, civilized.

It wavered when he turned. 

Up close, his presence hit harder. He was all the things the stories hadn’t said—alive in the way only truly dangerous men are. Her eyes traced the curve of his neck, the slope of his exposed chest—

Hmm. Maybe she was no better than a man. 

Her gaze drifted up and collided with his. His grin split his face in two—wide, careless, knowing. His eyes were half-lidded and amused. Cocky. She’d been caught.

She cleared her throat, angling her shoulders, trying to claw back control. Her cheeks burned. “No. Only a bit of passage. If you're heading east.”

He blinked, tilting his head, as if tasting the shape of her words. “And what’s east that can’t wait a few weeks?”

She inhaled slowly, kept her voice light, her pace natural. “My home. My people. I missed the civilian ship.”

“Unlucky.”

“Maybe not. I’ve heard your ship is safer than most. And kinder.” She leaned in slightly, gaze earnest. Wind tugged at her robe. “I’m ‘Amy’.”

He studied her for a beat too long. The silence pressed in, broken only by the creaking of ropes and the low gulls' cries. Then he chuckled, shaking his head.

“Someone’s been talking,” he said. The way his tone lifted at the end—sweet and dangerous—made it hard to tell whether the weight beneath his words was made of lead or salvation. “You already know me but—the name’s Shanks. Lovely to meet you.”

She took a careful step closer. Not too bold, not too timid. Her robe swayed with the sea breeze, revealing just enough leg to suggest, never confirm. 

A smile, soft as foam. “You have a reputation.”

“That’s the problem with reputations—half’s earned, the rest is good storytelling.” He stretched, rising to his full height, bottle dangling between two fingers. He was taller than she expected. Taller than her by a good head. Broader. The kind of presence that filled every empty space around him. Lazier, too—until he looked her directly in the eyes. “And what are you, Amy? Another story?”

“Just someone trying to get home.”

He began pacing in a slow, loose arc around her. Not circling like a predator—more like a man measuring something he hadn’t decided whether to buy or break. His gaze flicked past her—never lingering, yet seeing too much. She kept still. Let him move but kept him in her line of vision even if she knew he could lunge at her faster than she could react. 

The thought made her cling harder to her facade, put the smile back on like armor, softened the mouth and tucked her fluster back under her tongue.

The sea sighed behind them, the tide pulling against barnacled piers. A distant gull cawed. The red-haired pirate stopped just short of her, closer than before. Close enough that the scent of salt, sweat, and worn leather met her nose. His cape whipped faintly at his heels. His hair glowed where the sunlight caught it—like fire dancing on water.

Above them, the flag of the Red-Hair Pirates flapped in the wind. A warning or a promise.

Shanks tilted his head again, watching her with an idle kind of focus that made her skin itch. “You don’t carry a bag. No tools. No sunburn. No dirt under your nails.”

Her lashes fluttered. Coy. Harmless. “Should I?”

“If you’ve been waiting here more than ten minutes? Absolutely.”

A beat. A pause. A tell. She didn’t flinch, but her breath stuttered. He caught it.

“I left my bag at the inn,” she said, voice soft but sure. “I’m sure you’ve seen how few ships are docked here—and even fewer headed toward Glass Vale Island.”

He grinned, taking a step back. Taking back his suffocating heat. “My crew’s full of big hearts and bad ideas. They love taking in strays. Me? I like knowing who I’m feeding.”

“I’m no one dangerous,” ‘Amy’ answered. And she said it like she believed it. Like a lie whispered enough times could become a prayer.

To him? Without a doubt. But she knew even the mightiest could suffer terrible wounds when the blows came from within. 

To his rookies, though—that was another story.

Shanks studied her with quiet amusement—or perhaps, it was boredom? Hard to tell with a man hard to read. “Oh, I believe that.” He took a long pull from the bottle, throat moving slow. 

A single bead escaped the corner of his lips, curved his cheek, dripped off his jaw and crashed on his collarbone. It continued his path down his ch-

Dangerous zone.

She casted her eyes up as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. There was no visible reaction. Inwardly, she sighed. She wasn’t caught again. 

“But the answer’s still no.”

The heat coiling in her guts turned to ice. Her jaw tensed. “Why not?”

There it was—just a flicker. Frustration, like smoke beneath silk. Tension that pulled at her features, hardening them.

“Because you walked up to a pirate in a pretty dress and asked for a favor. Either you’re very brave… or very good at lying.”

His tone was too casual. No shift in stance. No dilation in the pupils. He wasn’t biting her bait—just amused. Too amused. 

She tilted her chin like an invitation. Like a challenge. But her nails were digging in her palm. “Can’t I be both?”

“My favorite kind.” He grinned. “Keeps things interesting.” 

Her voice, her poise—excellent. But he saw the gleam of something forged beneath the surface. Not performance. Training.

“You’re good,” he said, tone like a toast raised in her honor. “If I didn’t know better, I’d almost be tempted.”

“And if I were just a woman trying to get home?” ‘Amy’ pressed—insisted, really—keeping up the charade because they were still talking and it wasn’t over.

As long as they were on that island, she could still try.  

“I’d still say no. Because then you’re a liability.” Then, as he turned to leave, he tossed over his shoulder, “Don’t get yourself drowned before you find a better crew, yeah?”

‘Amy’ stood still as he turned and walked away, the breeze tugging at her robe and hair like invisible hands trying to hold her here. Her jaw locked—not from rejection, but from recognition.

He saw her.

Saw through her.

And smiled anyway.

“Dammit.”

…

‘Amy’ didn’t return to the inn immediately.

She hummed under her breath, arms crossed and eyes cast forward without really seeing. Deep in thought. She let instinct carried her along the dock, slowly and quietly. A flock of seagulls observed her from the wooden posts. One cried like he was laughing. Or warning. She wasn’t sure which.

Her lips thinned. Her finger taped a fast rhythm against her arm. There was an ache in her chest, something heavy and constricting, like an anchor pulling at her lungs. But it wasn’t hot, not anymore. It wasn’t anger—not the full blaze, more like embers. 

More like frustration. 

Shanks had said no.

A soft breeze swirled through the dock, every wind chimes clinked together in soft whispers. It brushed past her cheek, caressing it with ghostlike fingers as strands of her hair were pushed from her face. The little seashells glittered in the light. 

But—

The pirates hadn’t left. Not yet. And as long as they were still here—as long as that damn crew still sang and laughed somewhere in the glow of Shellmere’s lights—there was a window. Thin, maybe, but open.

And so she walked, and thought, and reformed her strategy. Again and again until the puzzle was whole again.

And the beginning of a solution appeared. 

It was near the east dock that she found it.

It sat in the shallows, wobbly and crooked against the reeds like it had washed up and never left. The hull, once white perhaps, was now a bruised patchwork of peeling paint and soft, green algae. A thin trail of water leaked from one side like the boat had grown tired of keeping itself together.

She crouched beside it, reaching out a hand.

The wood gave slightly under her fingers—gone soft with time and mildew, swollen from shouldering too many waves and never enough care. The gunwales were splintered, frayed with old rope burns and sun-warped nails jutting just a little too boldly. A spider had claimed the inside of the bow. Colorful and—did it have shoes? Anyway. The thwart was cracked clean through, and rust stained the bolts like old blood. A single oar rested awkwardly inside, its handle warped and chipped.

It didn’t look like it was used by anyone—or, at least, not as a means to get food. With good reasons.

The mast sagged. The sail—if you could call it that—was a patchwork of old canvas, stitched together with what looked like bits of tarp and fishing net. One section was unmistakably part of a yellow raincoat. Another, she thought, might have been a curtain once. Everything about the dinghy whispered: not seaworthy.

And yet…

It floated. 

Barely. Like a stubborn stray dog with too many scars and just enough pride to stand up when called.

She exhaled softly, brushing her fingers along the rim. Someone had tried to repair it before. Resin dried and flaked like old scars along the seams. Maybe it had saved someone once. Maybe it still could.

She sat back on her heels, quiet for a long moment. The air at the east dock had a different quality: warm and gentle with a touch of algae and neglect.

It wasn’t a good plan. It wasn’t even close to a plan. But it was a tool that could sway Shanks’ decision—at best—or take her to the sea—at worst. 

She wasn’t stupid enough to believe she could sneak on his ship. She wouldn’t have been the first to try that trick and she had heard what happened to people imposing their presence on pirate ships. 

She wasn’t interested in following their footsteps. Especially as a woman.

Her eyes narrowed faintly.

This could work. With a little sealant. Some rope. A few careful hours. She could make this wreck move. And if not—if it sank before it ever reached the open current—well, at least it would be her choice to go under.

She stood again and took one last look at the crooked vessel.

“I’ve had worse odds,” she murmured with a soft hum.

She turned back on her heels with a plan reshaping in her head.

…

What does it feel to be undeniable? 

…

The Red-Hair Pirates were still at their table when she slipped back into the inn.

‘Amy’ felt their presence before she saw them: laughter rising and falling like the tide, chairs scraping against the driftwood floor, the familiar clink of tankards and cutlery striking in rhythm. They were eating well, loud and at ease, their voices rolling through the hush of Shellmere like thunder on calm waters.

One of the taller men—Bonk Punch, if memories served her right—let out a belly-laugh so deep it rattled the spoons on the table. Limejuice swatted at a fly with a roll of dried seaweed. Hongo leaned over a chart, arguing with someone about wind patterns, while Yasopp spun a fork through his greasy fingers like a flintlock. They were halfway through what looked like their second dinner, and the table was littered with crab shells, lemon rinds, and wet-glass rings.

Shanks was among them, not at the head of the table but woven into its center. His lone arm rested over the back of his chair, a faint grin on his lips. He wasn’t in the spotlight, not regaling the crowd with stories and quips. His gaze wandered now and then, absent-minded on the surface—but not truly. His eyes tracked the door before it opened.

She hesitated in the doorway.

Her spine straightened. Her chin lifted. The same neat appearance but her demeanor had changed, her steps no longer carried the softness they had this morning. She didn’t look their way—not directly. But she was aware of their presence. Felt the ripple of their attention brush her as she passed.

She made her way to the counter in silence, seashell charms at her back clinking faintly with each step. Merria was there, drying a glass with a towel patterned in sea-flower ink.

“You didn’t change your mind, did you?” the innkeeper said, not looking up. “You’ve got the look of someone who just swallowed a hook sideways.”

‘Amy’ slid onto the stool, fingers curling lightly around the edge. “You said there were no fishing boats that go far.”

Merria’s hands slowed. She glanced at her with a slight frown. Curious but cautious. “There aren’t. Not ones that are seaworthy. Why?”

‘Amy’ pressed her flat palm against the countertop and leaned in. She spoke loud enough to be heard through the lull between bursts of pirate laughter: “Then who owns the wreck at the east dock? Half-sunk near the tide reeds.”

Merria blinked, cocking a brow. “That thing? That’s not a boat. That’s a stubborn apology. Belonged to a man who tried trading clams during storm season. Nearly died twice.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly. “But it floats.”

“Only when it wants to.” Merria finally set the glass down, a new tension gathering in her shoulders. “Why?”

At the pirates’ table, the rhythm of cutlery slowed. No one spoke, but movement stalled—a bite half-lifted, a drink paused mid-tilt. The air tightened just enough for the attentive to notice. Or the gossips.

‘Amy’ kept her tone level but she jerked her chin in the crews’ direction. “Because no one’s going to take me. So I’ll take what’s left. Patch the hull. Rig a sail. I’ve handled worse.”

Benn Beckman leaned back in his chair, cigar ember glowing low, his gaze slipping briefly in her direction before settling on his captain, narrowing just slightly. Lucky Roux chewed a tad slower.

“You’re not serious.” Merria’s voice dropped, tension fraying her calm. Then sharper: “That thing can barely turn in calm water. You’d be lucky to drift a mile before it folds under you.” A pause. Then, gentler: “You’ve done enough. You’ve earned rest. Why chase danger again?”

‘Amy’s jaw tightened. She stared at the counter. It wasn’t enough, it was barely a try. And they needed more than enough—they needed her best. 

“Because I care. And I might be the only one who still does.” Her voice grew softer, a murmur taut with everything she wasn’t saying. “I can’t comb coral gardens while they scream underwater.”

Across the room, the pirate table had quieted. No one turned, but forks hovered midair. The silence that followed wasn’t empty—it was listening.

Good. Let him listen, she thought, let him hear about what I’m willing to do to leave the island and what he could prevent.

Merria folded the towel slowly now, her eyes on her guest. “Then let me find someone. Ask around. You don’t have to do this alone.”

“There’s no time. I’ve wasted it enough.” ‘Amy’s voice cut in, quieter now. “I’ll fix it myself. I just need to borrow a patching kit. Resin. Rope.”

She reached forward when the older woman’s features tensed and gently caught her hand, the touch firm but steady. “I know what I’m doing.” There were no theatrics in her gaze. Just a calm conviction. A quiet vow that said ‘Trust me’.

“The moment you reach the reef, the currents will tear you apart.” Merria held her eyes. Seeing she wasn’t budging, she sighed and returned her grip. “No one sails out of Shellmere on a dinghy. Not without disappearing.”

A faint smile ghosted across ‘Amy’s lips. “Then I’ll be a ghost.”

She rose. Her fingers slipped free from Merria’s. The seashells behind her chimed once as she stepped away. 

Across the room, Shanks looked up and just as she reached the door, their eyes met—deep purple to golden maroon. The corner of his mouth curled.

She didn’t smile back.

The door closed behind her with the hush of old wood.

…

She didn’t rush.

The winding path toward the east dock wound past tidal grass and still shadows. The breeze was low and teasing, tugging at loose strands of her hair, carrying the scent of seaweed and wood rot. Far from the hum of the market square, there were no flower beds here, no clang of metal or voices calling out for fresh coral dye. Just reeds shivering along the banks, the rhythmic lap of brackish water against aged pylons, and the hollow creak of an old tide leaning into itself.

Overhead, the gulls circled lazy and low, their wings catching the golden light. They didn’t cry out—not yet. Just shadows slicing across the clouds like they were bored with peace.

And there it was.

Tethered by a single fraying rope to a leaning post, the dinghy slumped half-submerged in the shallows like a drunk too proud to lie down. It had no dignity left—just defiance.

It looked like it shouldn’t survive a breeze. But maybe—just maybe—it remembered the wind.

‘Amy’ crouched beside it, fingers trailing the hull. The wood rasped beneath her touch: swollen, salt-rubbed, wearing the bruises of years and storms. But not broken. Beneath the grime and crust, something stubborn clung to shape.

“Wanna go on one last adventure, old dog?” she whispered.

And, as if to answer her, the sail swelled.

The corners of her eyes crinkled, not with joy, but the soft throb of recognition. They say kindred spirits could recognize each other in every shape and every form. 

Yes, she could fix it.

Not well. Not safely. But enough. Enough to drift. Enough to slip the lip of Shellmere and follow whatever current hadn’t given up on her. Enough, perhaps, to make it to Glass Vale by stubborn will and salt-pickled luck. She had read the winds. The sea would carry her. 

Probably.

She had done worse with less.

From the rise behind her—footsteps. Not running. Not sneaking. Just… present.

She didn’t turn.

“I thought you might need something like this,” said a voice behind her.

Not the one she’d hoped for. But not unwelcome. Merria stepped into view, a cloth bundle tucked beneath one arm, her other hand gripping it like she was afraid to let go.

“I brought the resin,” Merria said, voice quiet against the wind. “Some rope. A sealant for the hull, though you’ll have to pray it holds.”

‘Amy’ looked back, lips parting—but Merria raised a hand before she could speak.

“No thanks,” the innkeeper said. “I’m doing this with a stone in my gut. You go out there alone, and I’ll be the one explaining to children why the woman who played Tide Thieves never came back.”

‘Amy’ rose, brushing her hands on her dress. The planks groaned beneath her, as if weary from her weight. “I can’t ask you to understand.”

“Because I’m an innkeeper?”

“Because you were made to stay,” She said. Her face had turned gentle, soft. She took a step forward, enough to wrap her hands around her shoulders. She squeezed once. “And I wasn’t.”

It landed between them like a truth both had carried but never spoken. Merria didn’t flinch, tilting her head down. The shadows grew on her face, shrouding her smile. Small and sad.

‘Amy’ retreated to the boat, hands running the seams, eyes narrowing on weak points, already mapping repairs in her mind and timing it. “I’ll leave at dawn. Or before. I’ll go quiet. Unnoticed.”

“You won’t.”

The younger woman looked up. Strands of copper hair had fallen from her scarf, languidly fluttering around in the sweet breeze, creating a halo and the sun behind her crowned her in gold. 

How fitting, she thought. 

“You’ve been helpful, and you think people will forget?” Merria raised a brow. “That’s without even talking about the pirates. And… Well, I didn’t help much, causing a bit of a scene.”

“…Is it a scene when it’s for someone else’s sake?” ‘Amy’ murmured.

She didn’t answer, let the wind answer while Merria studied her, the sun catching in her lashes. “You talked loudly back there.”

She didn’t speak more but her eyes told her everything.

‘Amy’ paused. Her gaze dropped—then lifted again with a twist of her mouth. Wry. Almost bitter. “You notice too much,” she muttered. No deflection this time. No mask. Just a raw, unhidden truth.

Merria nodded, stepping back. “Then maybe you’ll get your wish.”

‘Amy’ hummed, watching the silver of the horizon.

“Concerning the owner of the boat-” She started, only to be shushed almost immediately.

“Don’t worry about that old fool. I’ll take care of him.”

And for some reason, she made it sound terrifying.

…

Her time on Shellmere was coming to an end, whether she would sail on her own or with a crew.

…

She had been expecting him. Just not this late.

She was knee-deep into the water—the length of her dress now knotted asymmetrically at her hips. Little halos of gray stained the white. A nail between her lips, a hammer in a hand and a battered length of sailcloth she was trying to stretch across a splintered frame like it might hold if she believed in it hard enough.

The wind had risen, tugging roughly at her hair and slapping strands that had slipped from her headband into her eyes and cheeks. The air tonight was cold, stinging the tip of her nose. She sniffed as she rubbed roughly her nose into her shoulder.

She wedged a plank into place and spit the nail. She didn’t curse when the rope slipped or when the hammer caught her finger. She hissed between her teeth and kept going.

By now, most of the stars were out—scattered like distant fires she couldn’t reach. The tide had turned. Shellmere behind her had stilled into hushes and occasional laughter, fading like echoes behind stone.

And no one had come.

She hammered a tad too roughly, missed and left an indent in an old plank. A curse slipped past her lips and she pinched the bridge of her nose. Her jaw was tight. Her shoulders tense from too long holding onto hope.

She needed a break. A moment to gather herself and lock it all under the fattest lock possible. She also needed a drink. Something strong and sweet, something easy to drink to make it hard to remember.

She hadn’t just spoken loudly in the tavern for drama. She’d done it to be heard. To spark something. To draw them out. Maybe one of them. Preferably him.

But now—

Now, the dinghy didn’t look so foolish. It looked like inevitability. Like the only choice left that still belonged to her.

Her fingertips ran across the hull, mapping soft rot and splinters like they were braille. “You and me,” she murmured. “We’ll make it work.”

Her knees creaked as she moved back to the pier. The air stung her thighs where the dress didn’t reach—but she didn’t loosen the knot. Her toes were numb and the only thing she could hear was the song of a sea frog—bigger and louder than his counterpart. No boots, no words, no sign of any listening ears. 

No song answered the frog.

You and me, pal. She thought wryly. You and me.

It was her, the stars and a lone frog.

She swallowed hard. A strange heaviness settled on her shoulders. Her breath caught halfway. The thought came to her as an inevitability. He isn’t as you described.

She had held too long onto hope—onto the words of a man gone long ago. The disappointment was heavy, but not enough to make her beg. 

“All right,” she said aloud to the sea. “I’ll go alone.”

She’d made her bed and now, she’d—

“I’ve seen prettier boats pulled from shipwrecks,” said a voice behind her.

She froze. Not startled. Just… breathless. The hush broke. Her heart thudded like a slap. Like something inside her had been wound too tight, and suddenly snapped loose. 

She turned slowly toward the sound, shadows spilling off her shoulders. Her mouth opened just a bit.

The moon touched gold, streaking silver hue to her hair.

Shanks stood just a few steps back, hand on his hip, eyes pensive on the crooked boat. His voice rolled through the night like surf over sand—lazy, amused, maddeningly unbothered. But she heard it now for what it was: arrival.

“It floats,” she said stiffly, voice more breath than strength.

Something swelled in her chest. It was light, wild and too warm. Completely out of place. Hope.

He had taken the bait. It wasn’t over yet.

“Most of the time?”

Her heart strummed against her ribcage, menacing to slip out. “When it matters, I’ve heard.”

Shanks walked closer, steps measured, shirt snuggled against his ch- Not quite circling her, but enough to get a good look at the dinghy. A whistle escaped him.

“She’s an ugly thing.”

She tsked, crouched beside the hull. “I’ve tried my best.” 

Even to her ears, it sounded like a pout. 

A beat of silence. Then a laugh—from the gut, genuine. It caught her off guard. When he glanced at her, his expression was open. Almost kind.

Too kind for a man who had reached the top.

“You’re here to mock me?” she asked flatly.

“Nah.” Shanks shook his head, his grin tugged sideways. “Just curious.” 

She raised an eyebrow.

“You made a scene back at the tavern—telling Merria you’d rather drown than wait your turn.” A pause like he was appraising her. “That’s gutsy.”

“I didn’t think anyone would listen.” A lie to deflect. She had hoped he was.

Shanks shrugged lightly. “They weren’t. Not until you made them.”

So, he saw through that too.

A pause. 

“Why?” he asked, and for once there was no smile behind it. Just the question.

Her fingers curled loosely over the rim of the boat. “Because waiting gets you nowhere. And asking nicely gets you left behind.”

That hung in the air for a moment—something sharp but true.

He tilted his head. “You always this dramatic, or just when you’re losing patience?”

Her lips curved faintly. “Only when I want something.”

He chuckled. “Fair.”

“I spoke with Merria,” he added after a beat. “Said you’ve been kind. Useful. Stubborn. She doesn’t trust easy, but she didn’t want you sailing out alone.”

That was why he was here—because she spoke on behalf of someone she barely knew. And it made him curious.

That caught her off guard more than she’d like. 

Her shoulders tensed, squared as if braced for the impact of his words on her heart. She looked back out at the sea. The tide was shifting again, waves rippling sideways. 

A sigh, at last.

“Shellmere’s soft. Its people too.” She said quietly. “They give too much.”

That hung between them a moment—salt-sweet and raw. An earnest truth.

Shanks tilted his head, studying her with something unreadable in his eyes. His tone softened at the edges. “Is that why you’re leaving?”

She wiped her hands on her thighs, streaking them with dark grit and dust, and continued with more strength. “This island gave me rest. But rest isn’t the same as peace. It doesn’t owe me more than that.”

Shanks hummed, soft, low, like a caress against her skin. “So you’re reaching.”

A guess or a taunt? Maybe a bait to have her slip and reveal more than necessary.

‘Amy’ shrugged. “Would you care either way?”

“Not really.” He said. “But I get it.”

Shanks had turned back to look at the boat, pushing at the hull with his foot. It creaked ominously.

Here goes nothing.

“I’m not asking for a place on your ship,” ‘Amy’ said plainly. “I’m not trying to join anything. But there are people waiting for me. I need to get to them.”

“And this is your plan?” He said, gesturing to the boat.

She crossed her arms. “This is my backup plan.”

“You always choose the worst option first?”

“Only when the best one laughs in my face.”

A pause. A longer silence than before, thick with the scent of brine and tar. He studied her—the set of her jaw, the defiance standing in place of fear.

“She was right, you are stubborn.” And prideful, she could almost hear in his silence. Then, softer: “You remind me of someone.”

She blinked, caught off guard. “Should I be flattered?”

“Not necessarily.” His smile was crooked. “He didn’t live long.”

She didn’t ask who he was talking about. He didn’t offer.

“You’re not here to stop me.”

“No.” His eyes flicked toward the patched dinghy. “I’m here to offer something better.”

She folded her arms slowly. Still braced. “And why would you?”

Why so suddenly? Why the change of heart?

“You’ve got grit,” he said. “And if someone’s waiting for you on the other side, they’ll want you in one piece.”

‘Amy’ didn’t reply. Her gaze dropped to the boat again. Her hands curled at her sides.

“And in return?”

“Nothing. Just get where you’re going alive.” he said. “Whatever happens after, that’s your business.”

She studied him for a long moment. The way he stood, patient but not passive. The way he didn’t press her, but didn’t retreat either. The sea whispered at their backs.

She should have said ‘yes’ before he changed his mind. Instead, she said: “You’re awfully generous—for a pirate.” Because she didn’t believe in favors with nothing in return. Not from people, even less from pirates.

She had made the mistake before and it continued to burn her to this day.

Shanks shrugged with a grin. “Only to the ones who’ve already taken the plunge.”

She glanced at the dinghy. Her patched-up maybe-plan. The sea, wide and watching. Her lips twisted thoughtfully.

The answer was obvious and he read it in her eyes. “We leave at dawn. Or sooner if Benn gets impatient.”

“I travel light.” She said with the meaning of I have nothing to give you.

“After being thrown overboard, I would expect you to.”

Inwardly, she cursed. Merria had said too much.

He turned, sandals echoing softly across the dock. Then paused, glanced back. “What should I call you?”

She hesitated. Then: “…Amy works.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Is that so?” And walked away.

As his footsteps faded, she let her fingers trail against the rotting boat once more.

“Not tonight, old dog,” she murmured. “Looks like I’ll ride something with teeth.”