POV: Beth
Redwater by daylight is worse than by night.
Shouts clash with crying. Metal clangs from blacksmith forges. Men drag chained prisoners through mud. A girl no older than twelve carries tray of knives for sale—hollow eyes, bruised cheek.
Civilization, my father taught, defines morality.
Then civilization burned me alive.
Here, pirates rule—cruel, laughing, unashamed.
We came for supplies, so I follow Alaric through the market. Riva bargains for gunpowder. Bram tests swords like testing bones. Kaine argues with merchant over ship tar.
I lag behind, overwhelmed.
Then I see it.
A cage. Iron bars rusted red. Inside, children—thin, dirty, terrified—offered like livestock. A man in fur coat shouts prices.
“Strong lungs! Good hands for deck work! Two silver!”
My stomach lurches. I freeze. Everyone walks past like it’s nothing.
I step closer. A boy sits curled at back of cage—no older than eight. Big brown eyes stare through bars. Silent. Empty.
He reminds me of myself in dungeon—small, helpless, waiting to be discarded.
My breath shakes.
A voice beside me—low, mocking. “First time seeing slave market, dove?”
The merchant grins with yellow teeth. “You want one? Pretty girl like you needs servant?”
My pulse spikes. “How much to buy them?”
He laughs. “Five gold for whole cage. Or two silver for the boy.”
I have nothing but stolen clothes.
I grip bars tighter. “Why are they here? What did they do?”
He shrugs. “Orphan. Stole bread. Another sang while cursed. Another? Born wrong blood. Don’t matter.”
Born wrong blood.
Like me.
Anger burns behind ribs—hot and clean.
I look around. Crew distracted. Alaric arguing with blacksmith. No one watching me.
I shouldn’t.
It’s foolish.
It’s dangerous.
But morality is all I have left of old Beth.
I catch merchant’s wrist. “Water,” I say. “Let him drink. I’ll bring silver.”
He snorts. “Quick. Before someone else buys.”
He unlocks cage halfway, pushes boy toward me to fetch barrel. Boy stumbles, nearly falling. The moment merchant turns to spit, I grab boy’s hand and run.
Through crowd. Down alley. Heart pounding like drums of war.
We weave through fish stalls. Past drunk sailors. Into narrow gap behind warehouse where no one sees.
The boy breathes fast, eyes wide. “Miss… if they find us—”
“They won’t,” I say, though I’m shaking. “Go. Run. Find sea. Live.”
He stares—disbelieving—then clings to me suddenly, tiny arms around my waist. It breaks something in me I didn’t know could still break.
“Thank you,” he whispers.
I swallow hard. “Run. Now.”
He sprints into maze of alleys and vanishes like shadow.
I turn to go back before anyone notices—
Alaric stands at alley mouth.
Expression unreadable.
Sword hanging at hip. Hair wind-tangled. Eyes too sharp.
My heart stops.
“How long were you watching?”
He steps closer. Slow. Controlled. Dangerous in silence.
“Long enough.”
He crowds space, voice low—not yelling. Worse. Calm.
“You stole someone’s property.”
My pulse hammers. “He was a child.”
“Child or not—the owner saw.”
My stomach drops. “Is he coming?”
“No. I paid him.” He studies me. “With my money.”
I blink. Confused. “You… paid?”
“So your compassion doesn’t get us all hanged.” His voice sharpens to blade. “Do not do that again without thinking.”
“I did think!” I snap. “I thought he didn’t deserve chains.”
“And you think pirates care about what anyone deserves?” His eyes burn. “This world bites kindness. It devours softness.”
“I refuse to become monster to survive,” I whisper.
He steps close—too close—breath brushing my cheek.
“Then you will die,” he says softly.
Hurt slices through me—because he might be right. Because I don’t want to lose myself to survive.
But another truth rises like tide:
“I would rather die as someone I am proud of… than live as something I hate.”
For the first time, he falters.
Not much—barely a blink. But enough.
Something like respect flickers—small, fragile, unwanted.
He covers it with scorn. “Stupid. Naive. Reckless.”
“Human,” I correct.
His jaw flexes. “If you weaken my crew again—”
“I won’t,” I promise. “But I won’t close my eyes to suffering.”
He inhales—storms behind his ribs—then exhales like conceding battle.
“Next time,” he says quietly, “tell me first.”
Heat crawls up my neck. “You would have said no.”
“Probably.” His lips twitch. “But you’d argue. Loudly. I enjoy that.”
My anger melts and reforms—softer now, confusing.
He turns to leave. “Come. Supplies won’t steal themselves.”
I follow—heart unsteady—but something has changed.
He didn’t punish me. He paid for my mistake. He protected my decision even while hating it. And though he’d never admit it…
He respected me—even if only enough to be angry.