CHAPTER TEN
❛ 𝚂𝙷𝙴𝚅𝚁𝙰𝚃𝙸 — 𝙺𝙽𝙾𝚆-𝙽𝙾𝚃𝙷𝙸𝙽𝙶𝚂 ❜

DESPITE THE MANY LANGUAGES MARYA HAS picked up over the years, there will always be a special place in her heart for her native tongue. She can't say it particularly surprises her— even when she was brought up speaking both Suli and Ravkan. And yet, she holds no warmth, no tenderness for the latter.

         Ravkan she learned due to necessity. Because her parents' tongue was a dying language from a dying people, as Ravkans often put it. Speaking Ravkan meant facing less judgement, it meant bigger chances at selling wares, it meant earning somewhat livable wages from her family's shows. Ravkan was the tongue of the land that once stood beneath her feet.

         Marya spoke Suli because of her family. Because it was the language of her mother's whispers, of her father's gentle encouragements. Suli was the tongue of her cousins, her aunts and uncles, her sister, her brother. It was the language of family, of home.

         No matter how many foreign tongues Marya learned with her years overseas, none of them would ever feel like Suli does. Not the breeziness of Zemeni. Not the sharpness of Fjerdan. Not the jaggedness of Kerch. Because speaking Suli would always be more than merely reciting words she'd learned from ports and sailors.

         Suli is the scent of clove, myrrh, wood and cinammon. Suli is the softness of aerial silks and chalk. Suli is her father's embrace. It is sharing a bed with Adjala. It is spinning in endless circles with Karim. It is watching Nisha and Arjan stand on a wire, defying gravity like birds bound to take flight. Suli is the humming of old songs, lulling Ravi to sleep. Suli is coming home.

         Home. What a small, insignificant word for something so boundless. Something incomprehensible. Something so close to her. Something beyond her reach.

         Home.

         Home is singing sea shanties aboard the Repentance. Home is long days and even longer nights hunting down slaver ships. Home is bringing those captives to safety. Home is offering a safe harbor for those who have nowhere to return to. Home is her crew. Home is Neyar, Emerens, Ravi, Karim. Home is her people.

         And now they all feel so unbearably far away.

         "Move," a brisk voice commands ahead of her.

         The scent of salt air and animal fat yank Marya back to reality. Back to the whaler. Her vision focuses, zeroing on the man barking out orders just a few paces away from her.

His red kefta flaps behind him with the ocean winds. Marya finds herself staring at his back, as if appreciating the sudden beauty of the scene ahead of her. Red is such an odd color to find at sea... other than blood, that is.

But the beauty of the picture in front of her is cut short as soon as the Heartrender moves to the side, revealing the collapsing body of Alina Starkov. And as the Heartrender shifts, he reveals himself to be none other than the Darkling's most precious attack dog, Ivan.

Ivan's boot shoves the body of Alina Starkov off to the side. He scowls. "I said move." But the Sun Summoner does not appear to be in good condition. She tries to stand, her knees scraping against the wood of the main deck, but she struggles with the weight of her own chained limbs.

Ivan's scowl deepens. He thrusts his hand forward— whether to yank her up to her feet or simply drag her by her hair, Marya can't tell. She doesn't wait to find out.

It takes her a second— maybe less. She blinks, and her fingers are curled around Ivan's wrist with a vise-like grip. His head snaps in her direction. Angry gray eyes meet with her brown.

"I don't know how you do it in the Second Army," Marya starts, voice cold and leveled. The fabric of his kefta tightens around her grip. "But over here, we're not in the business of assaulting our guests."

Marya drops Ivan's hand and turns away from him before she can hear a reply. Instead, she guides her attention to what truly matters at the moment.

Alina Starkov stumbles as she tries to stand. Marya quickly steps forward, offering her hands as support. "Can you stand?" she asks quietly, holding onto the Sun Summoner's forearms to offer some stability for her.

         Alina looks up to see her, a brief recognition crossing her dark eyes. Under the light of the sun, Marya can see just how pale her skin looks. Despite spending only six days on board, Marya has the inkling that her current state doesn't have as much to do with her quarters, but rather the fact that she hasn't been using her power.

Grisha power is like the water that feeds a tree. A steady flow is enough to turn a mere sapling into the strongest of trees— but cut the river, and life can wither away to nothing.

"You," Alina Starkov breathes, brows furrowed.

"Are you okay?" Marya asks, finally letting go of the Sun Summoner once she deems she can stand on her own.

A hand latches onto her shoulder and forces her to turn around.

         Ivan's gray eyes glare at her, a snarl parting his lips. "This is none of your concern."

         Marya slaps his hand off of her. Her mouth parts to speak, before a voice from behind him beats her to it.

"She's Sturmhond's prisoner," Tamar calls out as she hops off the ropes. Her head tilts almost imperceptibly. "She should be treated accordingly."

         "She's the Darkling's prisoner," Ivan spits, gaze focused on Alina Starkov. He sneers, "and a traitor."

         Marya nearly scoffs. "A traitor to whom, exactly?" she asks. "Look around, soldier. We fly no colors. No banner. There is no land to dictate the laws to abide by. Only a ship in open sea." Marya steps in front of the Sun Summoner, blocking Ivan's path. Her voice grows colder, sharper. "And until we reach land, you will follow the rules of this vessel."

Ivan's lip twitches into a sneer, and without bothering to hide his contempt, he does a quick once-over of her. He barks out some stunted nonsense in what Marya can only guess is a poor attempt at Zemeni.

         Marya snorts. "For your own sake, let us hope you're a better Heartrender than you are at speaking Zemeni."

         Footsteps echo behind the Heartrender. "It's embarrassing, really," Neyar pipes up from the side, watching the exchange from near the rigging. Marya spots Tolya and Tamar hovering nearby— close enough to intervene. Neyar's jaw tenses, but she plays it off with a close-lipped smile. "You should just stick to Ravkan in the future."

         "And we don't take any orders from you in any language," Tamar adds, now shoulder to shoulder with Neyar. Her hands linger near her twin axes. Tolya doesn't say anything, but allows his hand to reach over to the hilt of his weapon.

         The threat is evident.

         Marya clicks her tongue, offering an appreciative nod. "Now, those are words to live by. I'll be sure to write them down somewhere." She watches Ivan cautiously, feeling the Sun Summoner's eyes on her. "Whatever rank you had in the Second Army is meaningless here, bloodletter." Marya narrows her eyes. "We bow to no one. Especially not you."

         Ivan's lip twitches upward. "Don't you?"

         A flick of his wrist is enough for Marya to feel that awfully familiar hand closing around her heart. She instinctively reaches for her own chest, as if that will ease the pain that threatens to make her keel over. Her knees hit the deck with a loud thud.

         "Stop!" Alina protests. "Leave her alone!"

Her heart clenches inside her chest, making her head dizzy. Marya struggles to raise her head, but when she finally does, she finds herself staring up at Ivan's smug smirk. He curves his hand, and a choked gasp leaves her.

         Saints, if she could just use her powers. Keftas are Fabrikator made. It wouldn't take more than a turn of her wrist to choke Ivan with it. Every bone in her body cries for her to use them, to call for that power lying dormant within her chest.

         Saints damn it.

         Marya can feel blood rushing up to her head. Her vision blurs. It focuses again, just in time for her to spot Angus and Raziya across the deck, both bringing their hands up. She doesn't doubt there's other members of her crew ready to pounce on the Heartrender.

         "Don't do something you'll regret," she manages to get out, loud enough for Angus, Raziya, Neyar, and any of her people to hear. Don't step in. Don't intervene. Don't do anything that can backfire on you.

         The Heartrender seems to get the impression she's talking to him.

         He chuckles, grip tightening. Her vision blurs again, except this time, it doesn't fade away. Darkness trickles in. "Let's not get out of line, mazenja." Of course the only Zemeni word Ivan doesn't completely butcher is an insult.

         A rattle of chains. "Stop! You're killing her!"

         Marya eyelids feel heavier, her body weighing like heaps of metal. Something rattles behind her again, but Marya's ears feel clogged. As if she's sinking, deeper and deeper into a watery abyss.

         Steps hurry across the deck. Whether its Angus or Raziya coming to her rescue, Marya can't tell. Whoever it was, she never gets a chance to face them.

         A loud double click echoes aboard the whaler. Marya opens her eyes, the hand around her heart still gripping it, but no longer tightening around the organ.

         Ivan's smug look vanishes.

         "I'm a gracious host, bloodletter. But as my darling Second has already told you, every house has its rules."

         This might just be the very first time she's actually relieved to hear Sturmhond's voice. After all, Corporalnik or not, nothing beats a bullet to the temple.

         Ivan drops his hands. The blood and air return to Marya at an unsteady pace, nearly making her stumble again. She manages to stay upright, quickly raising her palm, as if to say, I'm fine. The last thing she needs today is for her crew to go in for the kill— despite how much she'd love to witness it. For the time being, she'll have to settle for glaring at Ivan.

         "That's a good fellow," Sturmhond commends. It's only once Marya's blood fully returns to her system that she notices the steel barrel of a pistol being pressed to the back of Ivan's neck. Sturmhond's steady gaze doesn't flick away from the Heartrender, not for a moment. "Now, I'll be taking the prisoner back to her quarters, and you can run off and do... whatever it is you do when everyone else is working."

         Ivan scowls. "I don't think—"

         "Clearly," Marya scoffs, voice still hoarse from the Heartrender's powers on her.

         Sturmhond shrugs his shoulders. "Why start now?"

         "You don't—" the Heartrender starts again.

         The privateer turns to Ivan with a dangerous glint dancing in those muddy eyes of his. "I'm not in the habit of repeating myself, but I'll make one exception for you, since you seem to have a problem grasping important information— and even if my Second has already told you, I'll give you the honor of hearing it from me." Sturmhond reaches to straighten Ivan's kefta, dusting off his shoulder. "I don't care who you are on land. On this ship, you're nothing but a ballast. Unless I put you over the side, in which case you're shark bait. I like shark. Cooks up tough, but it makes for a little variety." He leans closer to Ivan's ear. His voice darkens. "Remember that the next time you have the mind to threaten my Second, my crew, or anyone aboard this vessel."

         Sturmhond steps back with a little jump on his step, beaming manner restoring as if it was never gone in the first place. He holsters his pistol. "Go on, shark bait. Move along."

         The Heartrender's nostrils flare. "I won't forget this, Sturmhond," Ivan hisses.

         Sturmhond quirks a brow. "That's the point. Have you not been listening?"

         Ivan clenches his jaw, glaring daggers at the privateer before turning on his heel and stomping off. It's only once he's gone from their sight that Sturmhond allows his green gaze to trail back to Marya. He offers her a hand, which Marya reluctantly takes.

         "Took your time there, didn't you?" she asks, low enough for only him to hear. She rolls her shoulder, as if that will somehow get rid of the phantom sensation lingering inside her chest.

         Sturmhond gives her a loose smirk. "You know I love to make an entrance," he says, voice light, but Marya can still feel his eyes on her, as if making sure she doesn't have any major injuries. She supposes she won't be of much use to him if she's incapacitated in any way.

         Marya is quick to turn away from Sturmhond's prying gaze, playing off the lingering effects of the Corporalnik's work. She clears her throat, her eyes catching Angus and Raziya's gazes from across the ship. By the looks of it, Sturmhond stepped just in time before Raziya outed herself as Grisha.

         "Everyone back to your posts," she calls out. Her command is soon followed by footsteps shuffling along the deck. Marya moves to join them, before a pair of steps sidles up besides her.

         "Amazing how quickly a ship feels crowded, no?" Sturmhond asks, tilting his head down at her.

         Marya huffs. That feels like an understatement. "Tell me about it."

         He considers her for a second. Then, in a softer voice, he adds, "You did well."

         It's only after hearing those words that Marya finally becomes conscious of her clenched fists. She lets go, leaving imprints of her nails on her palms.

         She turns to meet his olive gaze. "All in a day's work, Kapitan."

         Sturmhond observes her. An indiscernible glint dances in his gaze. Curiosity, maybe. Before Marya can attempt to decipher it, he clasps his hands together, as if snapping himself out of some self-induced reverie. "I'll take her belowdecks. Go check on the other one."

         Marya's jaw twitches. He already went to see her last night— for what, she can't be sure. And now after Ivan's little stunt, no one will dare follow him into her prison. Sturmhond never does anything without some ulterior motive. What is he planning, exactly?

         Marya's body itches to protest, to argue that maybe she should be the one to escort the Sun Summoner back to her quarters. But there are too many unfamiliar eyes on her— and she's not on her ship. Here, she stands below Sturmhond. She doesn't give him commands— she simply follows his orders.

         Even if it makes her want to pull her eyes out.

         "Of course," she says behind a forced smile. "I'll go check on her afterwards," she adds. A warning. Don't try anything.

         "Marvelous," he says, voice deceivingly sweet. His focus shifts to the girl still standing behind Marya— the girl watching them with wary eyes. A charming grin pulls on Sturmhond's lips. "Shall we go, then?" he asks airily, as if inviting her off to dinner.

         Marya spares Alina Starkov one last glance. Her first time meeting a living Saint, and the legendary Sun Summoner is chained during both occasions— in part due to her. Definitely not the best impression to make.

         The Suli girl turns away before she can let go of herself any longer. Her boots creak along the wooden planks, heading towards the hatch. She goes to pull it up, before a hand carefully latches onto her shoulder. This time, Marya spins, yanking down the arm. She pull the hand away from her, her elbow reaching to jab someone in the face.

         "Kapitan," a familiar voice hisses, stopping her elbow just in time. Marya inhales sharply, letting go of the Squaller's hand as quickly as her limbs will let her.

         "Angus," she breathes out, features apologetic. The Kaelish boy straightens, and Marya silently thanks that he stopped her before she had the chance to give him a black eye. "I—" she licks her lips, eyes darting off to the side. She clears her throat. "Don't call me that. Not here."

         Confusion flashes across his gaze, brows furrowing. He exhales. "I wanted to check on you," he finally says, Kaelish accent thick on his words. "We should've intervened," he grumbles, jaw tensing. "Standing by only makes the Heartrender think he's got some sort of power over us," Angus mutters.

         "For once, I agree with him," Raziya says, walking up and sidling besides the Squaller. The Zemeni girl glares at a few of the Darkling's Grisha— most of them lounging around the whaler as if they were merely taking a quick vacation. The sight of it only makes Raziya scowl. "I don't particularly enjoy watching some smug, toad-faced bastard brag about bringing our Captain to her knees," she pauses, embarrassment flashing over her features. Her dark eyes flit over to Marya apologetically. "No offense."

         Marya exhales. "None taken." She runs a hand through her curls, steadying her breath. The sun is barely up in the sky, and yet she already feels like today has been more than enough. "You two made the right call there— not stepping in. I know it was hard." Her brown eyes flit between Angus and Raziya. Two Grisha she —at some point— managed to rescue from either slavers or hunters. Other than that, the only thing they share is their stubbornness— which is why Marya can't help but be surprised at their sudden restraint. Her voice softens. "Thank you. Both of you."

         Raziya quirks a dark brow. "I can't say I've ever been thanked for standing by and doing absolutely nothing."

         "We don't want trouble," Marya reminds her. "You did well." She inhales sharply. "But you need to stop calling me... that."

         "Calling you what?" Raziya asks, pushing away a stray braid from her face.

         Marya purses her lips. Kapitan. Saints, how she misses her title— a title she clawed, killed and bled for. One she earned, just like the scars that litter her body.

         And yet, aboard this ship, the title of Captain is not a crown to wear or a sword to wield. It's a liability— a danger to both her and her crew as long as the Darkling's men remain on board.

         "I have to go check on our little guest downstairs," she mentions after a beat. She meets the Tidemaker's dark gaze. "Think you could sneak some food and water down there?"

         She nods. "Right away, Kap—" her shoulders stiffen. "Ah. Right. Sorry— I'm on it... Marya," she says tentatively, her name dropping awkwardly from Raziya's lips.

         The Zemeni Tidemaker turns to make an exit, leaving both Angus and Marya alone near the hatch. The Squaller turns to follow Raziya, before Marya interrupts.

         "Walk with me," she says. It's not a question. Angus stares at her for a brief moment before nodding once.

         The two of them climb down the stairs to the belly of the ship, revealing a long hallway with oil lamps hanging by the sides. Belowdecks, the stench of blubber and animal fat grows thicker.

         "Are we going to check on the tracker?" Angus questions, a skeptic edge to his words.

         "We are," Marya concedes. She can hear Angus steps trailing behind her, and while she can't see him, she can imagine the expression on his face. "But before we do, I wanted to talk to you."

         "Talk?" he repeats. Marya spares a brief glance over her shoulder, catching the confused furrow of his brow. He sets his jaw. "Talk about what?" he asks tensely.

         They finally reach the door to Malyen Oretsev's quarters— tucked away in a dark, inconspicuous corner of the whaler. The Darkling never even bothered to place guards outside of it.

         Marya halts in front of the door, allowing herself to fully turn to face Angus. Captain or not, she knows her crew— it comes with the job. She meets the Squaller's gaze. "You haven't said anything yet."

         His jaw twitches, but he makes an effort to downplay it, shaking his head slightly. "About?" To anyone else, Angus looks confused, if not uninterested.

         She knows better by now.

         "When we split up from the others," Marya prompts, watching as the Squaller folds his arms over his chest. "You didn't protest about separating from Fiona."

         Angus clenches and unclenches his jaw, looking as disgruntled as he always does. He raises a brow. "Did you want me to argue? To make some big scandal about it?"

         Marya purses her lips. "I don't know," she answers honestly. Ever since she first met the two siblings and they joined her crew, she's never once seen them far apart. A day, maybe two— that's the longest they've ever been separated since they chose to leave the Wandering Isle. It makes sense, considering all the years Fiona and Angus only had each other to rely on. Betrayed and backstabbed by their village, sold to Kaelish hunters for a handful of coin.

         Despite deeming it the best course of action, Marya expected Angus to be angry. To demand he stay with Fiona on the Repentance— to scorn her decision and demand that she make a different one. She was prepared for that scenario. What Marya wasn't prepared for was for Angus to step aside without protest, without a sound of disgruntlement. And as such he has remained.

         Except his shoulders are tense, his jaw is set— and Marya recognizes the want to get into a fight.  The bottling up of an anger that is bound to burst violently once it reaches a limit.

         She should count herself lucky. Lucky that it was Sturmhond who interfered when Ivan saw it fit take out his contempt for the crew out on her. Because as much as Marya hates to admit it, Sturmhond has a talent for handling delicate situations. She supposes it gives some use for his loose tongue and suave demeanor. Otherwise, had it been Angus who stepped in, who knows what could've happened?

As much joy as the image of Ivan kneeling with the air leaving his lungs gives her, they've already risked far too much to put an end to it now. She's already crossed her fair share of lines— at the very least, it should be worth it.

Marya exhales. "I'm simply not particularly fond of the idea of bottling up your feelings until you explode." She meets Angus' gaze evenly. The Suli girl folds her arms over her chest. "If you have something to say to me, I'd rather hear it now."

         Angus purses his lips, jaw clenching and unclenching. "I've got nothing to say, Kapitan," he says finally. He waits a beat, his fingers tapping against his forearm. Then, reluctantly, "I'm fine. I... I won't do anything rash."

         It sounds like a promise. A vow. "Why is that?"

Angus straightens, a strange look crossing his gaze. He hesitates, just for a moment, before saying, "Because even if that Barrel rat is the one manning the Repentance, I can rest easy knowing Fiona is safer over there than she is here."

Ah.

Marya nods once. Her palm presses against the door of Oretsev's quarters. "Good to know."

The door opens with a loud creak, revealing to people inside. Mal Oretsev is back in chains, sitting in some obscure corner with a ever-present glare. Across the room stands Darius, arms folded over his chest. Justa few steps away from him, back rigid as a pole, the same oprichnik from earlier.

         The soldier in black garments scowls. "What are you doing here?"

         "Orders from above, I'm afraid," Marya quips. "There was quite a commotion. The—" the Suli girl coughs, "—the Captain wanted to check on the boy. Make sure he's not turning into one of those unbearable headaches."

         Marya hears chains shifting by the corner where Oretsev sits, but she doesn't allow her attention to flit over to him. Instead, she simply looks at the oprichnik, watching as his dark gaze flicks between her and Angus.

         The man with the black uniform scoffs loudly, annoyed. His attention goes to the tracker, eyeing him dismissively. "He's all yours," he huffs, bumping into Marya as he walks out of the room.

         If they were planning anything, they'd go for the Sun Summoner, not the tracker. That's what Marya would think if she were in the oprichnik's position. She wonders if a similar thought crossed his mind, or if he was simply all-too glad to get out of the foul smelling quarters.

Once the door slams behind them, Marya looks over to Darius. He looks bigger in this room, especially given the slanted ceiling over them. She clicks her tongue. "How's your nose?"

Darius shakes his head with a scoff. The older Zemeni man throws one quick look at the tracker, eyes narrowing slightly. "Kid landed a good hit." Mal scoffs through his nose, making Darius roll his eyes. "I'll live."

Marya nods. Finally, she allows herself to look at the tracker. She tilts her head ever so slightly, considering him for a moment. If she thought Angus was bottling up his anger, Mal is definitely farther down that line— somewhere that would raise flags if he were a crew member of hers.

"Thank you, Darius," Marya moves her head with an appreciative nod. One of her hands rests over her pistol. "I'll take it from here."

         Darius nods once before striding towards the door without question. Despite him being at least a decade older than her, he's always regarded her with the utmost respect. When it comes to him, she never has to repeat herself, to make herself known, to make her voice louder.

"Marya," Darius starts once his hand is on the door. Her name echoes with that warm, earthy voice of his. "He's a handful." He pauses, before adding with a rough chuckle. "You know how soldiers are."

Marya huffs, a faint tinge of amusement hanging from it. Oh, she's well aware. As someone with her fair share of crew members from both the First and Second Army, it wouldn't surprise her if she found out that relentless stubbornness was part of their military training. "Thanks for the heads up."

The door closes again, gentler this time. Mal sits with his knees against his chest and his back pressed against the wall. His hands hang loosely over his knees, making the chains around his wrists all the more evident.

"Marya," Oretsev tries. He tests the syllables, as if unlocking a secret that was beyond his reach before. He sniffs. "Is that your name?"

She shrugs. "One of many."

Those brown eyes of his look up at her, and Marya has the sudden urge to sit down, to talk to him on the same level. Force of habit. She stifles it, instead turning to look around the barren quarters.

"Who's he?" Mal gestures vaguely with his hand, the sound of metal against metal following the faint movement.

Angus stands just a few steps behind Marya, probably wearing that scowl of his Emerens mocks ever so often.

"He's Angus," Marya says simply, as if that explains it.

The Kaelish boy inhales sharply. "Hi."

Mal furrows his brow. "...Hi." He blinks, before turning his attention back to the Suli pirate. "Why are you back here?" he asks, his voice sounding more confused than angry this time around.

"Didn't you hear?" She shrugs her shoulders. "I'm making sure you don't become a headache. You'd have to be unbelievably stupid to stir up trouble now but..." Marya considers him for a brief moment. "I wouldn't put it past you."

Mal doesn't scowl. He doesn't argue. Instead, he says, "You didn't tell the Darkling."

"About your attempted murder of one of his men?" Marya tilts her head, wild curls following the motion with ease. If anything, his little stunt earned him her respect— even if he's unaware of it. "You confuse me with one of his lapdogs. I don't work for him."

"But you work for the Captain of this ship," the tracker prompts. His nose scrunches. "Sturmdog, or something like that."

Marya snorts. "Sure, let's go with that."

         "What does he want with Alina?"

         "I believe that's for him to know," Marya responds. Her fingers drum against her belt. "He..." she stops herself, breathing deeply. "He doesn't have ill intentions. She'll be fine."

Mal huffs in disbelief. He makes a point to shake his chains, creating a loud, bothersome sound. "You're working for the Darkling. Do you think she's safe with him? That any of you are safe while he's around?"

"I don't work—"

"But you do," Mal snaps. "You work for Sturmwolf—whatever his name is— and he works for the Darkling. That's how chains of command work." His jaw twitches. "You don't need to be a soldier to grasp that."

"Deserter," Angus corrects, voice carrying a sword's edge. "And you ought to watch your mouth when talking to her."

"Why?" Mal demands. "You've got some centuries old bastard upstairs running this whole show and you think I'll be scared of you two?" He scoffs, leaning his head back against the wooden wall. "He's using you, you know."

Marya feels her body growing tenser. She offers a smile. Revulsion climbs up her throat as she says the words, "Not if we get paid."

"You're doing this for money?" he asks in disbelief. He scoffs, then chuckles, then starts laughing. "Saints," he says between breaths, "you're all insane."

Angus and Marya share a quick glance. The Kaelish boy looks about as uncomfortable as Marya feels, even if he tries to play it off. "In all fairness, it's a lot of money."

Marya turns to look at the tracker. "You don't trust the Darkling. Neither do I," she starts. "You don't trust Sturmhond, which is fair. You don't trust me."

"Clearly."

"But I'll let you in on one thing Sturmhond and I have in common," she says carefully, as if each word was been thoroughly planned. "We don't relish seeing our— our prisoners be mistreated." The word feels like acid on her tongue. "No harm will come to you or her. Not as long as we're around."

"That's not what the General said though, is it?" There's a dark glint in his eyes. His jaw sets. "I step out of line, and he hurts Alina."

"Then don't step out of line," Angus growls.

"He won't even let me see her. Won't let me talk to her," Mal snaps. Frustration flashes on his features, before he scoffs a breath. His chains rattle again, a loud reminder of his current state— both for him and Marya alike. "I don't even know if she's okay, if she's—" he cuts himself off, gaze zeroing on Marya. "You need to let me talk to Alina."

         Marya arches a brow. "You're confused, Oretsev. I don't need to do anything."

"Do you know who she is?" he questions. "Alina—"

"—is the Sun Summoner?" she finishes for him. "I'm well aware."

"Then why aren't you helping her?"

"You know, you've spent precious time pleading her case, Oretsev," Marya says, voice eerily calm, as if she hadn't just witnessed his outburst. "I'd worry about yourself. Plead your case— convince me, and maybe you can manage to get your own freedom." She pauses, watching the boy carefully. "But you and I both know Alina Starkov is far too important to both of the men upstairs. Like it or not, she's not leaving this ship until one of them says so."

Mal snarls, his restraints beating against the ground. "Go to hell. I'm not leaving her."

"Interesting choice to make," she hums. The barest of smiles curls onto her lips. Marya chuckles. She likes this one. "Wish we could've met under different circumstances."

Mal scoffs loudly. "Why?" he sneers. "You wanna buy me a drink?"

A knock at the door.

Marya shakes her head. "Maybe some other time." She turns to the door ever so slightly. "Come in."

Raziya walks in with her back towards the door, shoving it open with her shoulder. The Zemeni girl wears roughspun just like the rest of the crew— a remarkably good way to blend in.

"Did anyone follow you?" Angus asks, moving to close the door behind the Tidemaker.

"Obviously not," Raziya retorts. She turns around, revealing a small tray with one dish at the center. From what Marya can tell, salted meat and dried beans along with a water canteen.

"What're you doing?" Mal asks, eyeing the Tidemaker cautiously, before turning back to Marya. "What is this?"

"Food," Raziya responds, shooting a look at the boy. "Do Ravkans not eat or...?"

Mal narrows his eyes before straightening on his seat. He licks his lips as the sudden smell of food reaches him. His stomach growls, and his cheeks flush.

"They haven't been feeding you," Marya says quietly, guiltily. "Not enough, anyway."

"I can handle a few days without food," Mal snaps, but his voice has grown noticeably weaker. The Darkling's men must've been giving him enough water to keep him alive, bare scraps of food if he was lucky.

"You could," Marya says.

"Eh. Your body will start to feed on itself before long," Angus says in that monotone voice of his.

"It's not pretty," Raziya adds.

"It's really not." Marya clicks her tongue. "Trust me."

After a moment, Marya gives the Tidemaker a nod, and the Zemeni girl walks closer to Mal. The boy stiffens at first, features hardening. Raziya meets his gaze for a quick moment, before dropping the tray close enough for him to reach.

Mal's eyes flick between the tray of food and the three pirates inside his prison. Marya recognizes distrust when she sees it, and Mal's face is dripping with it. He licks his lips again. "What do you want?"

"Do I need to have an ulterior motive?"

"Yes."

"As I told you, I don't take pleasure in seeing either of you getting mistreated." Marya wonders if he'll do something stupid— like turn away the food that would give him enough energy for when they ditch this whaler. "Eat."

Mal glances at Marya, then at the food. He's skeptic, but the temptation is there— and yet he's holding himself back. A remarkable show of restraint, but one she doesn't have the time for.

Marya exhales loudly, clicking her tongue as she casts one long look towards the door. "I suggest you eat before someone realizes we're taking too long." She meets the boy's gaze. He hasn't dared to move— not even an inch. Marya makes an exasperated sound. "It's not poisoned or anything," she says, waving her hand dismissively. "My poisons guy is otherwise preoccupied at the moment with more pressing matters than a tracker with a stubborn streak."

Mal's brown eyes flick back to the tray, and she can see his determination wavering. But despite however hungry he may be, Marya knows he won't eat as long as she's in the room.

"Raziya," Marya says suddenly. The attention of all three of them flicks over to her. "Make sure no one else comes in until he's finished eating— especially not our most esteemed General's men."

Raziya snorts, but nods nonetheless. She tucks one of her braids behind her ear. "Of course, Kapita—" she blanches, eyes widening. She coughs loudly. "Ma'am— Marya."

But it's too late, and it's evident what Raziya had been about to call her. Marya doesn't dare look at the tracker.

"I'll stay," Angus quickly adds, as if that might make up for the Tidemaker's slip up. "I'll keep watch."

"Great," Marya says, already heading for the door. "I'll let the Captain know."

━━━━━━━━━━━━━

         THE WHALER FEELS QUIETER AT NIGHT. Although, maybe quiet is not the right word to describe it— that unspoken stillness that seeps through the cracks of the vessel. That feeling of awaiting something to jump at you, to attack you from the shadows. Perhaps it's the growing cold— the winds of the north that gnaw and claw at your skin, trying to burrow their way into your bones.

         Ever since Ivan's little stunt, things have been tenser amongst the crew— at least, among deckhands and Second Army Grisha. Surprisingly enough, it has helped Marya and Sturmhond's crew grow closer. There's still an air of caution, of distrust— but tensions are loosening. And all it took was an attempt on Marya's life.

         Marya walks below the decks of the whaler, humming an old song she remembers Fiona singing a few weeks ago. She can't quite remember the words— something about lovers and drowning and general calamity.

         The Suli girl moves down the hallways relaxedly, feeling as a few planks of wood creak beneath her feet.

         Noisy, she notes absentmindedly. Whatever miserable sailor owned this whaler before Sturmhond stole it, they didn't seem to care for the state of it.

         Marya misses her ship, her beloved Repentance. In here, she has to be conscious enough of her steps to keep them light, to weave around the creaks. But this day has already been long enough, and Marya can't find it in herself to care for the loudness of her steps.

         There are ropes tossed haphazardly on the floor, unlit oil lambs hanging from the ceiling above. She's used to darkness like this, and her eyes easily adapt— otherwise, it would feel like walking around blindly.

         "You're making this harder than it has to be," an unfamiliar woman speaks, voice muffled by the walls.

         Marya continues her path, passing in front of a door.

         "Oh, my deepest apologies," another voice snaps, and this time, Marya halts mid stride. Because this voice she recognizes. "I'm sorry that trying to fight for my freedom has put a dent in Kirigan's plans to enslave Ravka. Truly, Genya, I'm sorry," Alina Starkov bites.

         Marya inhales sharply, suddenly too aware of her footing. One of her boots shifts against the floor, and a quiet creak follows it.

         "Freedom," Marya hears that first voice huff. It's gentle, but with a regal cadence to it. "There a reckoning coming, Alina," she inhales sharply. "Grisha are being persecuted again— by the King's own soldiers."

         Marya can feel her fist tightening. Again. Again. Again. Beskrajna prica. The tale that never ends. The gift that keeps on giving.

         "Most are defecting to the General's side," the stranger continues at the sudden quietness of the Sun Summoner. "He's managed to raid a few camps, searching for Grisha prisoners. People taken from their homes, from their posts— they're gathered at the borders of cities, at ports, near the fold... all ready to be burned at the stake for just being."

         Grisha taken from their homes.

         Marya's hand tightens, pressing harder against the door.

         Something dangerous flickers inside her. Her bones feel heavier, her body stiff like an oak. The odds are slim. Unbearably so. But what are the chances that Karim would wind up aboard a slaver ship on its way to Ravka? Of him finding his way into a port raided by the Darkling?

         Or maybe he was already burned at the stake, a nagging voice in her head supplies. Have you considered that?

         She must've made a sound, accidentally pushed too hard against the door, trying to catch something— anything that could help her find the answers she seeks. Because, as soon as the thoughts start bombarding her skull, the door swings open.

         Marya nearly jumps. The girl in front of her she surprisingly recognizes— the redhead Heartrender who had been visiting Alina while she was unconscious.

The girl raises a brow, gray eyes scanning Marya with thinly veiled suspicion. Her hand rests across the door frame. "Can I help you?"

Marya straightens. "Ah, I—" Her eyes drift past the redhead's arm, meet Alina's gaze behind it. The Suli girl turns her eyes away from her and onto the girl's kefta.

Now that she's close enough to her, she realizes she's not a Heartrender. Her kefta bears a combination of colors she's never seen before. Red fabric for the Order of the Living and the Dead, the Corporalki, but the embroidery down the edges is blue. Heartrenders wear crimson and black, while Healers wear crimson and gray. What the hell does a red kefta with blue detailing stand for?

Marya's brown eyes meet the girl's scrutinizing gray.

"One of the deckhands got injured while looking after the tracker," she says after a beat. She can only hope she doesn't look as caught off guard as she currently feels. Marya relaxes her shoulders, letting the half-truths roll down her tongue. "He needs a Healer to treat his nose."

The girl narrows her eyes. "Fine," she says primly, though she looks as if it is anything but fine. As if it is absolute waste of her time. The Corporalnik turns her head towards Alina. "I'll be right back," she promises, and pulls the door behind her.

Marya's foot stops it from closing. She pushes the door open, meeting Alina's gaze. The two stare at each other for a moment, before the Sun Summoner decides to break the silence.

         "It's you," Alina says, turning in her bunk.  She straightens, inching forward. "Marya— right?"

         She nods once, and when Alina doesn't back away, she takes it as a sign to step inside. The door closes behind her with a soft click.

         "I never got to thank you... for, for earlier." Alina glances behind Marya, towards the door the Corporalnik just left through. Alina Starkov's gaze flits back to her. "I'm sorry Ivan took it out on you."

         Marya feels unbearably conscious of the fact this is her first real conversation with the Sun Saint. "It's not your fault."

         "I know. But it doesn't make Ivan any less of a idiot," she scoffs. "I swear, he was born with a stick so far up his ass it's no surprise he walks around like that."

         Marya snorts, then quickly covers her lips with the back of her palm. She can't say she expected a Saint to... well, talk like that.

         The corner of Alina's lips curves upward, only slightly. A beat. "You said you were with Mal?" she tries carefully, as if one wrong move will send Marya running. "Is he—How—" Alina stops herself, gnawing at the inside of her cheek. Her shoulders tense. "...How is he?"

         "He's as stubborn as a mule."

         Alina's face brightens a little. "Definitely."

         Another beat of silence. "He's okay," Marya says. "He..." she clears her throat. He only ever asks about you. He's worried about you. He wants to know if you're okay too. "He has a talent for getting himself into trouble."

         Alina scoffs, but there's an underlying fondness to it. "Sounds like Mal."

         "Have—" the pirate clears her throat. How does one go about talking to a living, breathing Saint? "Have they been treating you well?"

         Alina's jaw tenses as she turns to look away from her, and Marya knows she's asked the wrong question. The girl mutters something unintelligible. "I'm being kept here against my will by a demented, centuries-old power-obsessed psychopath. But, yeah, fine," she says bitterly. Then, her eyes flick up to Marya, and embarrassment catches on her features. "...Sorry."

         She should be the one apologizing, not her. This whole situation Marya's brought up herself is getting out of hand.

Marya's brown eyes meet Alina's darker ones. The pirate purses her lips. She knows Alina recognizes her from last night. From when she snuck into her quarters and tried to break her out, before leaving her behind. She wonders why Alina hasn't asked her about it. Or perhaps she wasn't as conscious as she originally thought.

         "How do you know Sturmhond?" Alina asks abruptly.

         A long story for another time. "Life has a curious way of bringing people together."

Alina furrows her brow, and Marya suddenly remembers that Sturmhond conveniently volunteered himself to take Alina back to her quarters earlier this morning. She wonders what he told her— what she knows now. "What are you to him?"

No one. "His Second in Command."

Her answer does nothing to ease the confusion. "You helped me," she says with a frown. "He threatened to sell my finger bones the moment I let my guard down." The statement makes Marya stiffen. He wouldn't dare— would he? Maybe— maybe it was just a way for him to trick her into staying alert. "How can you believe in a man like him?"

         "Believe in him?" Marya repeats in disbelief. "I wouldn't trust him as far as I can throw him." She offers a shrug. "But, alas, that is the life, isn't it?"

         "The life of a privateer?" Alina prods.

         "Oh, no," Marya says with a light laugh. "I'm a pirate. Nothing about what I do is within the confines of the law."

Alina looks like she wants to ask something else, but the door creaks open, and she stands up.

"Genya, you're—" Alina's words die on her lips, shoulders dropping. A sneer contorts her features, disappointment bleeding from her frame. "Oh, it's you."

         "Don't sound too excited, sunshine," Sturmhond greets from behind Marya. The pirate turns her head slightly, meeting the privateer's gaze with veiled surprise.

Sturmhond raises a brow. "I didn't know you had company." His muddy green eyes look back at Alina as he gestures at the door. "Do you want me to give you two some privacy?"

         Marya has to stifle the urge to roll her eyes. At this point, it might start to have permanent consequences. "How has no one strangled you yet?" she asks the ruddy-haired privateer.

         "Many have tried," Sturmhond shrugs nonchalantly. A devious glint crosses his gaze. "Would you care to add your name to the list?"

         "Gladly."

         "Well, this room suddenly feels incredibly overcrowded," a new voice says. All three of them turn, and Marya sees who she guesses is Genya, the Corporalnik from earlier, standing by the door. Her dismissive gray flit over to Marya. "I'm done playing Healer for the day," she states simply, ushering both Sturmhond and her out of the Sun Summoner's room. "Goodnight."

         "But I—"

         "Good. Night," Genya repeats, before shutting the door in their faces.

         "There's a good show of Ravkan hospitality," Marya mutters, shaking her head as she steps away from the closed door.

         "Well then," Sturmhond clasps his hands together, "shall we walk?"

Marya clicks her tongue. She exhales. "Let's go."

Once they walk out of the narrow hallway that leads to Alina's quarters, Sturmhond walks besides her.

         "She was trying to get information out of you," he says, unprompted. "Your new friend."

"I know."

         "Fraternizing with prisoners is never a good idea, Captain."

         "I wouldn't know." Marya raises a brow at Sturmhond. "But either way, you should learn to take your own advice." Her face shifts into an accusing look. "You only knew I went to visit her last night because you went right in after I left."

         Sturmhond raises his hands innocently, teal frock nearly glowing underneath the dim light. "I knew you had been in her quarters because her restraints had signs of tampering. The kind of tampering a Fabrikator in a hurry would be capable of doing."

         Marya narrows her eyes. "Why did you go to visit her?"

         Sturmhond's brow twitches, and for the most fleeting of moments, she could've sworn he looked genuinely offended. "To try and help her."

         Marya searches his face, before promptly turning away to face the many barrels stacked across the room. If they're leftovers of the former owner of the whaler, her best guess is whale meat sunk in salt and maybe oil.

         Sturmhond doesn't move to catch up to her. "You think me a liar."

         If only it were that easy. "I don't, actually. I think you are telling the truth." Brown meet green. "Which is precisely the problem."

         He tilts his head. "Is it, now?"

         "You can always trust a dishonest man to be dishonest. At least they're predictable." Marya shakes her head as she works to scrutinize the privateer. "I don't know what you are. I don't like that."

         Sturmhond chuckles, that signature smirk of his curling onto his lips. "Well, my darling, give me a night alone and a bottle of rum and I can show you exactly what type of man I am."

         Marya scoffs, shaking her head to hide the barest of smiles. "Tell you what," she says patting his chest twice with her palm, "we make it out alive of this little undertaking of yours, I might just take you up on that offer."

         Sturmhond grins. "Looking forward to it, Captain."

━━━━━━━━━━━━━

A/N.

i've been writing a few random scenes that will come up later on and you guys are not ready for the angst let me tell you

it is wayy to late for me to be writing i am EXHAUSTED and my eyes have been closing for a while so if this chapter makes no gramatical sense just ignore it and pretend it does.

anyways!!! thoughts? updates will probably be a little slower now because i'm back at uni and i took more courses this semester to get a few classes out of the way.

[ Started: Jul 11th, 2023 ]
[ Posted: Aug 10th , 2023 ]

( word count: 8.2k )