POV: Beth
Morning in Redwater burns hotter than forge smoke. I wake to bruises, stiff muscles, and aching palms—reminders of yesterday's choices. Alaric said nothing to me at breakfast, only a curt nod as I joined crew on deck. Riva smirked. Kaine cracked his knuckles. They enjoy watching me struggle.
I hate how much I need them to learn.
Today, training is different. No swords. Kaine tosses two knives at my feet—short, weighted, wicked sharp.
“Blades,” he grunts. “Close range. Dirty fights. No elegance.”
I pick one up. It feels wrong in my hand, heavier than expected, cold like ocean bones.
“Stand,” he orders.
I do. My stance trembles.
He laughs. “Noble girl holds knife like dinner fork.”
Heat flares cheeks. “Teach me then.”
He moves fast—too fast. His knife taps my wrist, slicing glove. Sharp sting. Blood beads. Crew pauses to watch like vultures waiting for corpse.
Pain shoots up arm. I grit teeth.
“Hesitate again, and you’ll lose more than glove,” Kaine warns. “Aim for gut. Throat. Anything fatal.”
“I don’t want to kill people,” I say, voice thin.
He snorts. “Then you will die instead. Lesson one.”
He lunges. I jump aside, barely. My heartbeat slams ribs. I swing weakly. He dodges with insulting ease. His knife slaps my shoulder—not deep, but enough to burn.
I gasp. He circles like predator. “You think survival is polite? You think pirates fight fair? We stab backs. Poison rum. Slice throats as they sleep.”
I swallow hard. “I’m not like you.”
“Then stay soft,” he growls, stepping in close. “Or bleed out on deck.”
Riva calls from mast, “Ten silver says she cries!”
Bram laughs. “Too kind—five silver she quits first.”
They find joy in my pain.
Good. Let them.
I grip knife tighter—so hard fingers cramp.
Kaine attacks again—low sweep. I trip, hit deck hard. Knife skitters away. Crew snickers. Tears sting eyes—humiliation sharp enough to choke.
Kaine stands over me. “Get up.”
My body begs to stay down. Pride drags me up anyway. Knees wobble. Blood runs down forearm. Sweat stings cut. My breath shakes—but I raise knife again.
Kaine’s brows lift—faint approval? Maybe hallucination.
We fight again. If you can call it that. He dominates. I defend poorly. Cuts multiply—thigh, shoulder, side. None deep, just cruel.
“Stop thinking,” he snarls. “Instinct. Rage. Survival.”
I snap.
I swing reckless, screaming wordless fury. He blocks, but not perfectly—I graze his arm. Not deep. Not impressive.
But blood spills.
For a moment, silence drops.
My first real hit.
Kaine looks at cut, touches blood, and grins with teeth like a wolf. “She bites.”
Crew murmurs. Riva whistles. Niall smirks grudgingly.
I stand, shaking, soaked in sweat, bleeding, exhausted. But alive.
Kaine attacks harder now—testing. I dodge once. Twice. Third time he feints and I fall again—but this time I roll and slash blindly.
Knife connects.
Second hit.
He shoves me down, pinning me with knee to chest. Pain explodes. Breath ripped away. Knife at my throat—light touch, cold promise.
My knife trembles between us, tip aimed at his ribs—millimeters from flesh.
One wrong breath, blood spills.
We freeze.
He laughs—short, disbelieving. “You’re insane.”
“I’m trying to survive,” I whisper hoarsely.
“And you still fight like frightened deer.” He pushes off me, stands, offers no hand to rise. “But better deer than corpse.”
I stagger to my feet on my own—trembling limbs, burning lungs.
Kaine wipes blood from arm. “Not useless.” He says it like insult, but something warm flickers in me anyway—accomplishment.
He tosses knife back to me. “Tomorrow again. Harder.”
My legs nearly buckle. I nod wordlessly.
Crew disperses. Some disappointed I didn’t die. Others quietly impressed. Riva tosses me rag for blood. Bram grunts approval like rock praising pebble.
When they leave, only Alaric remains—leaning against mast, watching.
Watching everything.
Expression unreadable—not mocking, not amused. Something heavier.
“You could’ve stepped in,” I say. “He nearly killed me.”
Alaric walks toward me—slow, controlled. No smile. No softness. “Training is meant to nearly kill you.”
“That’s barbaric.”
“This is piracy.”
I glare. “You could at least pretend to care whether I bleed out.”
He steps close—closer than necessary—eyes burning. “If you bleed out, Beth, it will be because you chose weakness over fury. Because you hesitated. Because you begged storms for mercy instead of learning to ride them.”
His voice is low, commanding, furious and thrilling all at once.
“I didn’t hesitate,” I snap.
“You cried.”
“One tear.”
“One weakness.” He leans closer, breath brushing cheek. “If you want to survive, you fight like the world owes you nothing.”
My pulse jumps traitorously.
“I’m trying,” I whisper.
“No.” His hand grabs my chin—not gently, but not cruel either. “You’re surviving. I need you to become.”
Heat floods chest—anger mixing with something terrifyingly close to admiration.
I pull away sharply. “You enjoy hurting me.”
He smirks—nasty, infuriating. “I enjoy watching you refuse to stay down.”
I want to slap him. Or kiss him. Or run.
He turns away, then grabs my wrist without warning, dragging me toward lower deck.
“Where are you taking me?”
“To remind you there’s more than training tomorrow.” He doesn’t slow. “We go to the market at dawn. You will walk beside me, not behind.”
I trip, catch myself. “Why?”
He stops just long enough to look back—eyes storm-shadowed.
“Because if you’re going to be part of my crew, you must be seen as something more than fragile noble scrap.”
Then he drops my wrist and walks ahead—leaving me breathless, furious, trembling with new resolve.
I won. I bled. I rose again. And Alaric noticed. Even if he’ll die before saying it.