CHAPTER SIX
❛ 𝙲𝙾𝙼𝙼𝙾𝙽 𝙶𝚁𝙾𝚄𝙽𝙳 ❜

         THE MOON IS HIGH UP IN THE SKY WHEN careful, nearly imperceptible footsteps patter against the floors. They skip with light step, knowing full well which wooden boards creak and which don't.

         Gentle strides weave between purple threads and aerial silks, among lanterns and small trinkets that hang from the ceiling. The aroma of chalk, myrrh, clove and wood clinging to the walls. Four walls, tight quarters, and yet her nimble body moves with the grace of a ghost. Unheard, unseen.

         Just another shadow in the dark.

         Two big brown eyes peek down from the side of the bed. "I want to go see the coast," she whispers at the sleeping frame in the bed below hers.

         His eyes flutter open— perhaps, never asleep in the first place. The boy frowns at the girl. "Amma and Appa said we shouldn't go far away," he argues, tone hushed.

         A snore rumbles in the farther corner of the caravan.

         "They're already asleep," she grins, curls in wild disarray. "What's the harm? I heard the locals saying the ocean looks at its prettiest underneath the moonlight."

         Karim's lips part to protest, before the head of the girl disappears from his line of sight. She turns around to her bunkmate, an older girl that snores lightly by her side.

         "Adjala," she pokes her, watching as her back rises and falls with a paced rhythm. Even in sleep, she can't seem to lose her tempo. The younger girl curls her lips, shaking her softly. "Adjala."

         One eye blinks open, bleariness clinging to her face. The older girl groans. "What?"

         She widens her eyes, offering her brightest, most charming smile. "Come on! I want to see the coast. Please?"

         Adjala shakes her head, rising slowly from their shared bed. She runs a hand through her face and hair, a poor attempt at ridding herself from the sands of sleep. "Your curiosity is far too big for someone as small as you," she murmurs, but all three of them can hear the stifled amusement in her voice.

         Three shadows sneak out the door of the caravan, soundless in their step. Their silhouettes blend with the shadows of the trees, dark outlines indistinguishable from those natural to the place. They move with the poise of dancers, as weightless as the wind. And, eventually, the trees are left behind for sands and waves.

The little girl with spirals for hair stands a few strides ahead of them, her heart longing for the sight of the moon over the sea. Just a few paces behind, Adjala walks with a reluctant Karim clinging to her arm.

         Karim has always been the shyest out of the two. The one to watch from the sidelines, to stay away from trouble. Adjala says he took all the common sense when the twins were born. In some way, the girl and the boy are each other's balance. She's the one to have a dangerous curiosity, while he's the one to have a leveled head. Their restlessness and tranquil manner balance each other out— until one of them tries to tip the scales.

Unsurprisingly, it's usually her.

The sound of water rolling against sand and stones makes for a melody in her ears. And the locals were right— the moon sits over the sea with a luminous glow. It casts waves of ethereal light onto the dark waters, illuminating the bay.

         Her heart nearly soars inside her chest. "Is that a ship?"

         "Don't stray too far away," Adjala warns. Her older sister tries to reach for her hand, but her curiosity is a rampant animal, a bird fit for no cage.

         "But I want to see the ship!"

         Adjala calls out her name, but she doesn't listen. It gets carried away by the wind, deaf in her ears. Because, Saints, the ship seems to gleam underneath the moonlight, like a heavenly phantom from the stories Adjala likes to tell— like the ones she loves to hear.

         She draws closer to the line between land and sea. For a moment, it's as if she can feel the presence of Sankta Maradi, the Saint that parted the clouds for the light of the moon. Not a cloud in the sky.

         Adjala calls her name again, but she's too far away to hear her. Her toes are in the sand, her ankles in the waters. And Saints, the ship... she's never seen anything quite like it. It almost seems to grow in size with each passing minute.

         Then she hears it. The laughing. She sees the lanterns aboard the ship with such clarity, and for a brief moment, she feels as if she's already on it. What kind of songs do they sing on board? What do they eat? Where do they sleep?

         "We should head back now," Karim suggests, his short frame partially hiding behind their older sister.

         "Karim, look!" she calls out giddily, watching as the ship draws closer and closer to the coast.

         "Sora!" Sister. There's a new urgency to Adjala's voice that feels unfamiliar in her ears. "Get back here!"

         When she turns around, she's already waist-deep in the sea. It's a warm summer night, and she feels as if she could spend the whole night floating over the waters. The ship is close enough to send ripples over the waves.

         Adjala looks at her with a panicked look in her eyes. Karim clings tightly to her hand, torn between going after his sister and staying behind.

         "I don't want to!" she shouts back, heart racing with ecstasy. "I want to see the ship!"

         By the time she turns around, the sea vessel is close— too close. She can see the shadows on it, and that relentless curiosity evaporates like liquid on hot stones.

         The laughing silhouettes become men. She sees the crewmen with weapons that glint underneath the moon. She hears harsh words that don't sound either Ravkan or Suli. And it might not have been Sankta Maradi who parted the clouds— because it was the moonlight that alerted the ship of the three travelers by the coast.

         The ship is mere steps away, and the sea is no longer her friend. The waves fight against her body, like a hand holding her in place.

A weight drops inside her chest. Stones, piling up against her throat. She doesn't want to be here anymore.

         One of the men jumps off the ship. Saltwater splashes onto her face, and she can feel claws wrapping around her arm. The man hauls her out of the water with a sharp pull.

She screams— she screams, and the man only responds with words she can't understand, a language she doesn't speak. His eyes look blue, nearly white— inhuman, inhuman.

He looks like a ghost. Skin too pale, hair white with a shade she's only seen in her elders. But the man, the stranger, looks young— maybe only a year older than Adjala.

She can't tell the seawater from her own tears, both rolling down her cheeks at an unsteady pace. What's happening? What's happening?

         She can hear Adjala and Karim calling out to her, but she's paralyzed, she can't move. She feels like staring down a demon.

         Demons take away misbehaving children, her auntie always warned her, before her Amma urged her to stop scaring the children.

         Is this a demon? Is he here to take me away?

         More men jump off the vessel, ropes and knives in hand. They wear furs on their backs, silver medallions on their chests. Water splashes around them like an omen. There is no grace to their movements— only brutality.

Whether it's the wind or wolves howling, she can no longer tell.

         Adjala screams her name.

         As she struggles, she can see another man trying to go for Adjala. But her sister doesn't hesitate like she did, and holds out her arms defensively, making the man before her stumble. He glares at her with a type of fury and hate she's never witnessed before. Not like this. Not like this.

         "Drüsje," one of them announces, his voice bordering on victory and blood thirst. The demon holding her bares his sharp teeth.

         She wails louder, cries, screams— and for a moment, his grip loosens, and she believes he'll let her go.

         I've been good, I've been good, I promise I've been good.

         Karim cries out her name from the shore. The water batters against the intruders in loud sequences. When she turns to look, she sees Karim holding out his arms. But he's a novice— nothing like the Grisha in the Second Army.

None of them are.

         You're gifted, her Abba had once told her, and she believed it. Because Arjan couldn't create stars out of scraps of metal like she could. Nisha couldn't ease pains like Adjala and Karim did.

You're gifted, he had told her, and she believed it— but she always knew they were gifted differently than real Grisha.

They don't wear elegant keftas. They don't make others wither with a single look. Their skins don't glow with power. Their hands shake with lack of practice when they summon for too long.

         Karim has never stopped someone else's heart. He's never drawn blood out of someone. He has only healed sickness, cured small scratches and bruises. He can't stop the giant from taking them.

         A demon grabs him too.

His feet kick against the sand as the demon pulls his hands together with a rope. Karim struggles and pulls, screaming her name. Her throat feels raw as she calls out for him.

"Let him go! Let him go!"

Her legs beat against the sea, and the demon snarls more incomprehensible sentences. His hands curl around her waist, holding her in position to keep her from struggling.

"Adjala! Karim!"

         She's crying, sobbing, screaming for help.

         Please, I've been good.

The little Suli girl wails, hair beating against her face as she thrashes in the demon's grip. Her eyes find the distant image of the village they were passing through. Someone will hear them. Someone will come for them. Her Appa, her Amma, the people who watched their show, a Grisha from the King's Army. Anyone.

Adjala is taken down by two men, dragged ashore with her hands bound in front of her. She struggles and pulls back, but they're too strong, too brutish, and is nearly thrown face-first onto the sea. Karim pulls and thrashes against the demon, kicking up water as he takes him to the ship. She looks up.

Please, please, please.

         The moon has never looked brighter.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━

"BRING HER OUT OF IT," Marya hears distantly.

         Her lids open slowly, eyes bleary against the sharp light. Underneath her, the unmistakable rhythm of the sea.

         It takes her a second for her eyes to finally adjust to the room; two until the shapes and silhouettes around her take form.

         A boy leans over Marya. A wave of nausea rolls through her as she tries to blink away the stars in her vision. Once her mind finally seems to adapt to the sudden change in scenery, her gaze find his.

         Muddy green eyes. Red hair. Broken nose.

         "I'm not one to impress easily," Sturmhond begins slowly, tilting his head as he kneels down to Marya's level, "but the number your crew did to my ship might just be enough." His green gaze watches her carefully. "You have my attention now."

         Where is she? Where's Karim? Where's Adjala?

         She doesn't look away from him— not when that would mean giving him the satisfaction of knowing she's panicking. Where is she? Her throat feels dry, and her head feels as if someone has hit her with a sledgehammer.

         She's not in her cabin— she would know if she was. Marya tries to move, maybe lunge at the man in front of her, before she realizes there's cuffs around her hands. Tied behind her back, bound together so she can't summon any defense or attack.

         Chains rattle behind her.

         "You see, I knew I recognized you from somewhere. Back in Ketterdam," Sturmhond continues, undisturbed. He stands back up to his full height, and Marya has to crane up her neck to meet his gaze. Her chest rises and falls unevenly, as if her heart is only starting to get used to her body. He rounds a desk at the end of the cabin. "You said you were looking for me— quite the journey you've taken yourself on to find me. Should I be flattered?"

         Marya's mind is reeling, stumbling in on itself.

         Sturmhond. His ship. The knife. The Heartrender that nearly killed her. She could feel her own heart constricting inside her chest. She was dying— but, somehow, she managed to pull through the Heartrender's hold on her heart. How did she—

         "Where's Ravi?" she demands, his name coming to her with overwhelming clarity. A tidal wave against the marrow of her skull. Her chains rattle again. "What did you do to him?"

         Sturmhond clicks his tongue. "That would be the kid, yes?" he asks nonchalantly. "Brown hair, big eyes, about yeah high— has the lungs of an opera singer?"

         Marya leans forward as much as her bindings will let her. "If you so much as touch as single hair on his head, I'll—"

         "Make a pillow out of my luscious hair? Cut my face off and wear it as a mask? Use my innards as cabin decoration?" Sturmhond takes a seat, leaning his feet against his desk.

         "You're giving her ideas." A man standing next to Sturmhond shakes his head, voice a low rumble.

         "I'm a creative soul at my core, Tolya."

         Marya's gaze sharpens. She remembers him— the Shu Heartrender that knocked out, maybe killed Neyar.

         Tolya, she repeats inside her head. Tolya. She commits the syllables to memory. She won't be forgetting his name any time soon.

         As if reading her mind, or most likely sensing her glare, Sturmhond turns to her. "What's your name?"

         "Go to hell."

         "That's an awful name," Sturmhond tuts. "Your parents must've hated you."

         Marya can barely hold back a scoff. Says the man named Sturmhond.

         The ruddy-haired pirate seems to consider her for a brief moment. Her knees scrape against the wooden floor, as the cold cuffs around her wrists strain her movements. "The boy," Sturmhond hums, tapping his lips with his index. "Ravi, you said?"

         Hearing the two syllables roll of his lips sends thunder down her spine. "Say his name again and I'll cut off your tongue."

Tolya raises a brow. "She's telling the truth."

         Only now does Marya notice that the Heartrender keeps both his hands outstretched in front of him, just below his waistline. She narrows her eyes. She's seen that trick enough times to know he's listening to her pulse. A living lie detector. As if this day couldn't get any better.

         "I can tell." Sturmhond lifts his chin, doing a quick once-over of her. "And while that does sound like a thrilling invitation, it's quite hard to accomplish when you're in chains."

         The reminder of the metal binding her hands together makes her clench her jaw. Marya finally gives herself permission to divert her gaze from him and take in her surroundings.

         For a pirate's cabin, this one looks remarkably empty. There's a few old maps rotting by the corner, a few empty shelves gathering spiderwebs. A poor stack of books collecting dust. From where she sits, she can only spot two bottles of ale.

         "This whole cabin for little old me?" Marya asks, wondering if the lack of furniture was intentional. She doubts the pirate in front of her is as cunning as he claims to be. Then again, keeping a cabin as empty as it can get is an easy way to avoid giving away things about yourself. Marya's cabin is an illustration of her soul— her Suli heritage, her faith in the Saints, her years in Novyi Zem. Compared to that, Sturmhond's cabin looks barren. An empty husk.

         "What can I say?" Sturmhond shrugs his shoulders. "You made an impression, gorgeous."

         Marya doesn't answer. She continues to look around, keeping her ears open for any signs of her crew. They must've been stashed somewhere else.

         Or they're dead. A very real posibility she should prepare herself for.

         But then the question arises— why is she still alive? He had the chance to kill her before. Even if the other Heartrender didn't go through with it, all Sturmhond had to do was grab her knife and drive it through her chest. Why is she still here?

         You're not worth anything to him if you're dead, Karim crows into her ear. Marya has to stifle the urge to flinch. It's her brother's voice, but they are the words words of other slavers, of ghosts she's killed in the past.

         "He seems to be quite valuable to you." Sturmhond shakes out his cuffs, and Marya doesn't miss the fact that he doesn't say Ravi's name this time. His muddy eyes turn back to her. "Is that because he's a Heartrender? I hear they're quite rare to acquire at sea."

         Her face whips back to him. "Acquire?" she repeats, the single word dripping with poison.

         Acquire. Acquire. The way you acquire a weapon. A gadget. A toy.

         "He's quite adept for his age," Sturmhond continues in that relaxed manner of his, dropping his legs off the desk. "It's hard to go up against Tamar, and yet he's the reason your heart is not a pile of mush."

         Her gaze darkens. Saints forbid, if he even comes close to Ravi— "I'm going to kill you."

         "Yes, you've said that already."

         Tolya seems to consider it. "I don't believe she has. She's threatened to gut you, cut off your tongue, bleed you out slowly, use your intestines for decoration... but never just kill you."

         Sturmhond half turns towards the bigger man. "Now, I believe that last one was my idea."

         "Oh, apologies."

         Is this a joke? "Where is he?"

         He waves her off dismissively. "He's safe." The 'for now' echoes unspoken. Marya ignores the chill running down her spine. "Everything will go swimmingly as long as you cooperate."

         She locks her jaw tight. Ravi is still alive. That's good— that's great news. Even if he's being used as leverage. Maybe some members of her crew are still alive as well.

         Unlikely, Karim's voice discards easily, and Marya gets the distinct urge to knock her head against the wall. Saints damn it, not now.

         The linen shirt Sturmhond wears hangs loosely around his chest, kelp-colored vest unbuttoned around it. Sturmhond cocks his head to the side, leaning over his desk. "You see, usually, I wouldn't mind taking time getting answers out of you. Maybe have Tolya here slow your heart for a day or two, knock you out, then try again." He taps his ringed finger against his desk. "But you've just managed to land here during a rather tight window of time."

         Sturmhond pauses for a moment, eyes scouring the room around them, as if he's still getting used to the sight of it. And what a depressing sight it is, Marya thinks bitterly.

"You see, I'm supposed to be meeting with a very important client within the next two days— which means everything has to be in order." Sturmhond works his jaw with his knuckles. "It also means that if you prove to be an obstacle, I won't have any moral qualms with throwing you and the rest of your crew overboard."

The rest of your crew. So, a few of them are alive. Marya quietly thanks her Saints.

         Sturmhond leans his head to the side, meeting Marya's gaze. A strange glint dances in his eyes. "Swimming with chains can prove to be quite difficult. I'm sure even a skilled Fabrikator like you would have issues." Sturmhond raises a brow, slumping against his chair. "What do you think, Tolya?"

         "Tragic. Poetic." He straightens. "Reminds me of Sankt Ilya in Chains."

The comparison draws a frown on Marya's features. "The Bonesmith," she says slowly. She eyes the man. Tall, slightly tanned skin, golden gaze with that Shu tilt Neyar shares. Armless shirt, sword strapped to his back, hair held in a bun behind his head. "You're religious?"

         Sturmhond chuckles. "Don't get him to start talking, or else he'll never stop."

         Marya ignores him. Instead, she stares at Tolya with a newfound disbelief in her voice. She knows the words she would speak if he were Suli. Instead, she says, "Just what kind of follower of the Saints heeds a slaver's orders?"

         Tolya furrows his brows, sharing a brief glance with Sturmhond.

         "Slaver?"

         The pirate straightens at that. "Now, darling, the list of my alleged crimes is long and wide," Sturmhond announces, retrieving a knife from his belt, "but I'm afraid slaver isn't one of them."

Her lips curl into a snarl. "Drejki mali paun," she curses.

He quirks a brow. "What was that?"

Tolya stifles any visible amusement. "I believe she just called you an insolent little peacock."

Sturmhond ponders on it for a moment, knife spinning against the desk. He shrugs. "That's a new one. Points for originality."

Slavers always deny it at first. Marya's met her fair share of those— men and women who won't tell her the truth until there's a knife to their throat. Until the promise of death is as real and solid as the chains restraining her hands together.

"Do you keep the boys and the girls separate?" Marya prods, expression hardened. She can feel the twitch of her cheek, the tense line of her jaw. All cues she should be concealing. She should be more patient, but lately, that string seems to run thinner and thinner. And she's had enough of waiting. "Where do you sell your indentures?"

The knife clatters against the desk. The chair screeches against the wooden planks.

"Darling, I believe there's been a misunderstanding of sorts here," his voice is light— deceivingly so, "you see, I deal in countless forms of trade. Jewels, coin, priceless artifacts. I once even accepted a small herd of Zemeni horses as payment, if you can believe that." His jaw tightens ever-so slightly, voice sharpened with a dangerous edge. "I don't deal in the trade of people."

Marya's face twists into a sneer. "Prove it," she snaps. "I've faced enough slavers in this lifetime to know the truth only ever comes out when there's a dagger against their necks."

"Yes, we tried that, didn't we?" He narrows his eyes. "You stabbed me."

"I nicked you," she corrects, rolling her eyes. "It was barely a lovetap."

Tolya coughs, hiding his smile behind his fist.

Sturmhond drums his fingers against his desk. "Prove it," he hums to himself. He pauses for a moment, before telling Tolya something she doesn't manage to catch. Sturmhond nudges his head towards the door, and without question, the tall man exits the Captain's cabin.

The door shuts behind him. Sturmhond plays with his ring, pensive.

"What are you—"

Sturmhond raises his hand. "Patience, gorgeous."

Marya's face twists into a scowl. "Do not call me that."

He pauses, lips pursed for a moment. "Well, you haven't yet told me your name, have you?" Sturmhond circles his desk again, now leaning against it. "You know mine. I believe it's only fair I learn yours." His voice lowers. "Who are you?"

Marya stands straighter, eyes slowly scouring his frame. Finally, she meets his gaze. "I hunt your type. Kill them and leave them for to rot at sea."

"My type?" he questions. "The impossibly handsome type? Or the devilishly valiant type?"

"Preening peacock," Marya sneers.

Sturmhond shakes his head, disappointedly. "Now, that one I've heard before." His fingers drum against the desk. "What's your name?"

He'll die by her hand. He might as well know who will send him to the afterlife.

         "Marya. Captain Marya."

Brief recognition flashes in his eyes. His lips part to speak, before the door creaks open. Tolya's big frame strides back into the cabin, followed by a significantly smaller boy.

         Ravi.

         He stares at the ground, curls of earth in wild disarray. Marya has the distinct feeling she matches him in that regard. Marya can't disguise the overwhelming relief that threatens to topple her over. He looks uninjured— other than a few minor scratches. She's surprised to see that there are no restraints around his wrists.

"What is this?" she demands, struggling to keep her voice leveled.

         Ravi's head snaps up, his honey brown eyes meeting with Marya's. He wants to run to her, hide in her embrace. But Ravi's smart— smarter than most give him credit for. And so, he remains glued to his spot, all-too aware of the two strangers that also reside in the room.

"A sign of good faith," Sturmhond says simply. He gestures forward. "Go on."

Marya moves on her spot, wanting nothing more than to put distance between them and the young Suli boy. Metal rattles behind her, pulling her back.

         "Unchain me," she says.

Sturmhond raises a brow. "We're not quite there yet, Captain."

Ravi glances back at the red-haired man, then back at Tolya. He swallows sharply. His head turns towards Marya, and she offers the barest of nods.

         He doesn't hold himself back. He scrambles to get over to her, arms wrapping around her neck with the strength of a bear.

         A weight falls off her chest. "Ravi," she sighs in relief. Her hands itch to run her fingers through his hair, to gently comb it until he can peacefully fall asleep. "Are you okay?" she asks, as softly as she can manage. She looks back at the two men, voice dropping to a whisper. "Jesu li te povrijedili, mejo?" she asks. Did they hurt you?

"I'm okay," he whispers back, hiding his face in her neck. He glances back at Sturmhond for a brief moment. Marya can't find it in herself to search for the man's reaction.

Saints, she wants to hug him back. She wants to hold onto him and not let go until they're off this damned ship. Instead, she can only ask, "Jesu li ostali dobro?" Marya keeps her voice quiet, now aware of Tolya's knowledge of the Suli language. Are the others okay?

Ravi hesitates, body stiffening. He swallows. "Većina njih."

         Most of them. How many of their crew, of their friends, died? Which ones survived? Where are their bodies? Who's injured? Who's dead?

Marya inhales, then exhales. "You've been strong. Thank you," she murmurs quietly, only for his ears. Ravi pulls away from her, brown eyes meeting brown. She wants to run her hand down his cheek, tell him all will be alright. Instead, she says, "Brave boy."

         "He can stay."

         Sturmhond's voice is a harsh reminder of the situation around them. Of the fact they're not alone.

         "Where are the others?" Marya asks, voice unwavering— even when her insides feel like they might crack and splinter.

         "All in due time," Sturmhond dismisses, and Marya can feel how Ravi's gaze is now focused on her chains. "So?"

         Marya stares at him. "So?"

         "This is a gesture," Sturmhond explains, tilting his head. "Common courtesy is that you give one in return."

         She huffs. "What do you want?"

"I want to know why you've gone through all this trouble to find me." He taps his fingers against the desk. He shrugs. "I would usually take it as a compliment, but as I said, time's short for dancing around the subject." Sturmhond raises his head, an unreadable glint in his eye. "You think me a slaver. Why is that?"

         "Because you took people from Novyi Zem," Ravi responds, his lighter voice a stark contrast to the pirate's. He doesn't shift away from Marya, holding his head up to meet Sturmhond's gaze. His dark brows settle into a frown. "Grisha."

         "Ravi," Marya scolds, but the Captain has already heard it. The gears spin in his head.

"You mentioned that earlier," he murmurs. "A Suli man— a Healer. Is that who you're looking for?"

         Marya clenches her jaw. "Red Harbor," she bites. "You were there, weren't you?"

"I've traveled to countless lands, Captain. I'm sure you of all people can relate."

"Three weeks ago," she adds, watching closely for any reaction from him. "Other slaver ships were scared to dock near the bay— because they heard you were there."

"I was," he concedes, giving her what might just be the very first straight answer she gets from him.

         "Why?"

         Sturmhond raises a brow. "I wasn't there to take Grisha captives, if that's what you're asking." He exhales, thinking. He rolls his shoulders. "So, let's lay our cards on the table and see what we actually know."

         Sturmhond runs a hand through those ruddy curls of his, lips pursing. "Your people killed three members of my crew. Injured quite a good portion of them." His eyes narrow into slits. "Now I've got Squallers who can't summon wind to move this damned ship."

         Marya presses her lips together. So, he's in more trouble than he originally let on. Perhaps that's why she's still alive and breathing. Why he's trying —albeit failing— to get on her good side. Why he brought Ravi to her. Why he's allowed him to stay. The thought nearly makes her laugh.

         Sturmhond needs something from her.

         "So, I'll make you an offer."

"An offer?" Marya chuckles, the sound coming hoarse from her throat. She shakes her head, disbelief clinging to her words. "You knocked me out and chained me to your cabin."

"And you raided my ship and stabbed me with a knife. Ruined a perfectly good coat." Sturmhond shrugs. "I've had partnerships based on less."

"Is that what you propose, then?" she asks. "A partnership?"

         If a partnership is what he wants, having her chained to the floor of his cabin is certainly one way to go about it.

"An alliance. A temporary alliance," he corrects. Sturmhond takes a stride closer to both Marya and Ravi. Despite the evident power difference, she meets his gaze evenly. "I need a larger crew. Squallers to get this ship moving. Fighters. Men and women with enough ambition and experience to take on a god."

         "I don't believe in gods."

         Sturmhond grins. "Neither do I."

Intriguing. Marya quirks a brow. "What's in it for me?"

         "Other than freedom for you and the rest of your crew?" He smirks. "You're trying to find someone. So far, you don't seem to be having any luck. And if I was the last lead you had, then you've ran out of string to pull on."

         Marya's jaw tenses. Because, after all this... perhaps a part of her knows the truth. Grisha rarely side with slavers— much less if they are well trained, like the two Shu Heartrenders. Sturmhond also mentioned having Squallers in his crew. They would have no reason to stay with him if they didn't want to.

         Perhaps a part of her knows the truth, but wants to deny it— because if Sturmhond is being honest, then he's right. She's ran out of leads to chase. Of string to pull on. It means she's led her crew into a wild goose chase that was never going to end with them finding Karim or any of the other Grisha taken from Red Harbor.

         If Sturmhond's telling the truth—and Marya has that awful, truly horrid feeling he is— then she's no closer to finding Karim than she was three weeks ago. If he's not a slaver, then it means she's been wasting valuable time traversing the True Sea.

         For nothing.

         He lowers himself to her level. Green meet brown.

"Help me with this job, and I'll help you find who you're looking for," he vows, and Marya should know better than to trust the word of a pirate. "So, do we have a deal?"

         Marya ponders on it for a moment. What it would mean for her crew. What it would mean for her. He's neglected to mention what the job is— and that certainly cannot be a good sign.

But even if he's half of what he pretends to be, Sturmhond might just be the person to help her find Karim.

"Unchain me," Marya says finally. "Then, we can talk."

━━━━━━━━━━━━━

A/N.

i said i was gonna wait until the weekend to post this...... and then i DIDN'T :)
(read: i have no self control and cannot understand how author's schedule their chapters)

you guys better appreciate those sentences relating to saints because there's a 50/50 chance i've rewritten them more than once while i was writing. i think this is the first time i make a character of mine to be actually religious which is (fun fact time!!) something i really struggle with?? my characters are usually raised on a religion but learn to distance themselves from it because i myself was raised religious but am now an atheist :) so yeah.

anyways!!! what do we think of that tiny flashback at the beginning? karim is now officially confirmed to be marya's brother. i'm surprised some people picked up on that and not on things i thought were much more evident but yknow that's just how things work i guess?? foreshadowing and whatnot.

fun fact!!!! i was looking for gifs of medalion rahimi (the faceclaim for marya) and i realized most of the gifs i use of her are from a show that amita suman was also in???? apparently they didn't coincide timewise but yknow :D

[ Started: Jun 25th, 2023 ]
[ Posted: Jul 5th, 2023 ]

( word count: 5.6k )