POV: Beth
The tavern feels like a cage with no bars—only teeth.
Men shout at each other from two tables over, chairs scraping against splintered floorboards. Rum sloshes in mugs that have seen more battles than most soldiers. Women dance atop tables with knives strapped to their thighs. The whole room smells like sweat, spilled alcohol, and sin.
Alaric sits beside me, boots up on table, drinking as though peace were his companion. He looks like he belongs here—like chaos was sewn into his veins at birth.
I sit rigid beside him, back straight, pretending confidence I do not own.
Every time laughter spikes, I jump. Alaric notices it.
“You shake like a kitten in wolf den,” he mutters, amused.
I grit my teeth. “And you enjoy that.”
He smirks. “Deeply.”
Before I can retort, a huge man—half a head taller than Alaric, belly stretching his stained shirt—staggers toward me. His eyes are red and unfocused, breath so thick with rum I nearly gag.
He plants one hand on the table beside me, leaning close enough I smell rotting fish between his teeth.
“Haven’t seen you here before,” he slurs. “Pretty little thing. Governor’s doll snuck into the wolves’ den?”
Alaric doesn’t move. He just takes another drink.
“I’m not interested,” I say, voice shaking.
“Hear that, boys?” the man laughs harshly. “Noble blossom thinks she’s too good for us.”
A rough hand grabs my chin, forcing my face upward. I freeze—heart punching ribs as panic sharpens vision. His other hand slides toward my waist.
“Let go,” I whisper.
He laughs louder. “Make me.”
Alaric watches like this is theater: Not rescue, lesson. I remember his words: You’ll learn, or you’ll die.
Fear cracks—then rage leaks through.
“I said let go,” I say louder, my voice raw.
He ignores me, fingers squeezing my chin until pain shoots across my jaw. Laughter erupts across the room—pirates enjoying a show they think will end with me crying.
I won’t cry. not again. My hand shoots out blindly. Fingers close around something cold—a broken bottle left by a previous fight. Time slows, heartbeat loud as cannonfire.
Before doubt returns, I swing.
Glass bites into flesh, blood sprays warm across my knuckles. For a moment, nobody moves.
The man roars, stumbling back, hand clamped to his arm where a jagged bottle tore through skin. His blood drips onto floorboards, bright red against black wood. He looks at me—shock, then fury twisting his face.
“You little—!”
He lunges.
I step back too slow—his fist grazes my cheek, pain blossoms white. My heel hits the table leg. I nearly fall—would fall—but panic fuels me. I slash again, messy and desperate.
Glass catches his forearm, tearing deeper this time. He screams.
Tables crash as men leap aside. Someone cheers. Someone bets loudly on who bleeds first. Rumors whisper—Governor girl fights like cornered fox.
I grip the bottle tighter, chest heaving, breath ripping throat raw. Fear still rules me—but something new threads through it.
I survived. He didn’t break me. I drew blood.
The man clutches his arm, cursing through clenched teeth. A smaller pirate laughs and shoves him back. “Stormborne’s pet bride bites harder than she looks!”
Pet bride. I should hate that name. Instead—a small flame of pride burns beneath ribs.
I turn to Alaric, victorious and trembling. “I—I did it. I fought him. I made him bleed.”
Alaric doesn’t applaud. He doesn’t praise. He drinks, unimpressed.
“Barely,” he says.
Heat floods my face. “What?”
He sets mug down with lazy disinterest. “He was drunk enough to kiss the anchor , thinking it was a mermaid. Sober man would gut you faster than blink.”
My pride deflates like a punctured sail. “I—he attacked me, I defended myself—”
“You got lucky.” He leans forward, voice calm like a storm eye. “Luck is a coin that runs out. Skill keeps you alive.”
Anger surges. “You watched. You could have helped!”
“I did,” he says. “I didn’t interfere.”
“That’s not help—that’s abandonment!”
“No.” His eyes pin mine. “That's a lesson.”
My breath shakes with fury. “You wanted him to hurt me.”
“I wanted you to choose whether you wanted to live.”
The man I cut is hauled away by friends, still cursing, leaving droplets of blood behind like crimson breadcrumbs.
I stare at them—proof of what I did. I stabbed someone. Not accident, choice. My hand trembles, knuckles wet with someone else’s life.
Bile rises at the throat—horror tangling with twisted pride.
“I’m not like you,” I whisper.
“No,” Alaric agrees. “Not yet.”
His lack of comfort hurts deeper than blade could. He stands, tossing coins at the bartender like a scene is done. “We’re leaving.”
“But—”
“You want to save your father?” he asks without looking back. “Then stop shaking over spilled blood. You’ll spill oceans before this is done.”
I follow, legs weak, stomach turning.
Outside, night air hits like a slap—cold, sharp, full of salt. Laughter and music echo behind us. The sound of blood dripping from broken bottle still haunts my ears.
“I survived,” I say again, quieter, as if needing his validation.
He doesn’t give it.
“You lived,” he says. “Survived would mean you could do it twice.”
“I could.”
“Prove it next time.”
We walk through port shadows. Pirates stumble, shouting shanties; some glare at me like fresh meat, others nod with grudging respect.
I touched violence—and violence looked back. The girl from the wedding would faint at blood on her hands. This Beth stands shakily—but stands.
Alaric finally turns, studying me with a slow, calculating gaze. “First blood changes you. Either you fear it or crave it.”
I swallow. “I don’t crave it.”
“We’ll see.”
His smirk is a challenge.
I clench broken bottle until glass digs skin. “Teach me better then.”
“Tomorrow,” he says. “When you’re done shaking.”
“I’m not shaking.”
I am. He sees it. He laughs softly—low, cruel, almost fond in twisted way. “Still weakling, princess. But less pathetic than yesterday.”
I want to stab him with a bottle.
I settle for glaring. “I’ll become stronger.”
“Good.” He steps closer, voice dropping like weight. “Because execution clocks don’t slow for tears.”
Father’s face burns behind eyes—kind smile, hands warm around mine as child. He believed in me when I was fragile.
Now fragility will kill him.
I lift chin, resolve hardening like cooling steel. “I won’t fail again.”
Alaric nods—one small acknowledgement, rare as kindness from him.
“Then we begin early,” he says. “Training at dawn. No excuses.”
The words feel like shackles and wings at once.
We walk back to port lodging—a warehouse corner where floorboards are dry enough to sleep on. I curl under a thin blanket, bottle still in hand like a talisman.
Blood stains my knuckles. Guilt throbs, pride hums. Fear curls beside them.
“I lived,” I whisper into darkness.
Wind answers with salt breath through cracks. Waves crash like heartbeat against docks. Somewhere out there, Prince Adrian sleeps in silk while my father waits for gallows.