POV: Beth
Sleep refuses me. The ship rocks gently, hammocks swaying like restless ghosts, but my mind won’t still. Lantern light throws unsteady shadows across the wooden walls, but even that is better than closing my eyes and seeing the wedding, Adrian’s disgust, Rowan dragged away, dungeons—everything.
I sit up, open the small chest beneath my hammock. Inside: a pale-blue hair ribbon. A smooth seashell. A folded paper I never dared to read since it fell from Rowan’s coat years ago. I hold it now, fingers trembling.
A whisper escapes me. “What if this explains everything?”
I unfold it carefully. Old ink, fading words. My mother’s handwriting.
My dearest Rowan
If you read this, then the sea has taken him back—
the man I should never have loved.
He was a storm wearing a smile. Eyes deep as midnight tide.
I think… I think he marked our child.
Keep her safe. They must never know.
Forgive me.
— Elise
I freeze. My heart stops. Then it begins to race.
Pirate. My mother loved a pirate. He marked their child.
“No,” I breathe. “No, no—”
I clutch the paper, shaking. “She lied. Rowan lied. Everyone lied.”
Footsteps creak behind me.
“You planning to drown that letter in tears or read it again for fun?”
I jump. Alaric stands in the doorway, shirt half-buttoned, hair loose, watching me with an unreadable expression. For once, no smirk. No mockery. Just eyes like the sea—dark and aware.
“Go away.” My voice cracks.
He stays. Of course he does. He walks forward slowly, not threatening, just… present.
“What is it?” he asks.
“Nothing.” I try to fold the letter away, but my hands shake too violently.
He kneels beside me and plucks it from my fingers easily.
“Don’t,” I whisper.
Too late. He reads quickly. His jaw tightens once—the only sign of emotion.
“So that’s the truth,” he murmurs. “Your mother loved a pirate.”
“My mother…” My chest hurts. “She called him a storm. She wrote that he marked their child. Marked. That must be the mark on my wrist. She knew. Rowan knew. Everyone knew except me.”
He looks at me, voice quieter. “Rowan hid it to keep you alive.”
“I lived believing I was noble,” I choke. “I believed in marriage, in court, in love. And now—now I’m pirate-spawn.” The word tastes like poison.
Alaric lifts a brow. “Would you rather be prince-spawn? They’re worse.”
It pulls a broken laugh from me. Not joy—just disbelief. Tears fall again.
“I don’t want to be this,” I whisper. “I wanted a wedding, gardens, children running in polished halls—”
He interrupts, gently brutal. “Dreams die. You build new ones.”
“Easy for you to say. You were born to saltwater and knives.”
He tilts his head. “And you were born to lies and lace. Which seems worse?”
I open my mouth, close it, open it again. “Why do you sound like you understand?”
His gaze flickers, something vulnerable hidden. “Because lies built my world too.”
A long beat of silence.
I wipe my face with the back of my hand. “You had a family once.”
He doesn’t deny it. “Everyone has something to lose. Once.”
“You speak like loss is normal.”
“It is,” he says. “Until you stop letting it take pieces of you.”
I stare at him. “You mean become cold.”
“I mean become strong.”
My fingers clench. “My father is going to die. Because of me.”
He leans back against the beam, voice controlled. “Because Adrian is a coward with a crown. Not because of you.”
I shake my head. “If I wasn’t marked—”
He snaps softly, cutting through my self-blame, “Beth. Look at me.”
I do.
His eyes hold mine steadily. “Prince Adrian ruined your life. Not your mother. Not Rowan. Him.”
I swallow hard. “I want to return and make him pay.”
“That’s the spirit I prefer,” he mutters.
Suddenly he rises and holds out the letter. I take it. His hand brushes mine—accidentally or not, electricity shoots up my wrist. I pull back too fast.
Alaric watches me for a moment longer than necessary. Then he clears his throat and stands fully.
“I hate this,” I whisper. “I hate not knowing who I am.”
He smirks faintly. “Good. Confusion sharpens teeth.”
“That’s not helpful.”
“I’m not here to be helpful.”
“Then why are you here at all?”
He pauses. A breath. The ship creaks outside, waves slapping hull.
Finally, he says quietly, “Because you sounded like you were drowning.”
I blink. “I didn’t call for you.”
He shrugs. “Your sobbing was loud enough.”
I glare through tears. “Heartless man.”
“Always.” He leans against the wall, crossing arms. “Now tell me—what do you plan to do with this truth?”
My jaw sets. “Find out more. Everything. About her. About him.”
“And?”
“Save Rowan. Destroy Adrian. Tear down the life that tried to bury me.”
He whistles low. “Now that’s pirate talk.”
I glare harder. “Don’t call me that.”
“You are that.” His eyes drop to my wrist. “Salt in your blood. Mark on your skin. The sea claims its own eventually.”
“I don’t want the sea to claim me.”
“Too late.”
He stands to leave. I expect the smirk to return, the cocky arrogance—but he hesitates in the doorway.
Then softly—almost unseen—
“You’re not weak. You just think you are.”
It hits deeper than comfort. Almost like faith.
I stare at him, surprised. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
“No.” He turns away. “It’s supposed to make you angry. Anger keeps you alive.”
I whisper to his back, “Why do you care?”
He doesn’t turn. “I don’t.”
He leaves. But the truth sits heavy between us—he didn’t walk away when I broke. And alone again, I hold my mother’s letter to my chest and whisper into the darkness:
“I’ll find my truth. Even if I drown doing it.”
The sea outside answers with a rolling roar, like it’s listening. Like it’s waiting.