POV: Beth
I never woke to peace anymore—only to the sound of waves slamming the hull like a heartbeat I couldn’t silence. Dawn bled pale blue across the horizon when Kaine pounded on my door and tossed a rolled parchment inside without entering. It skidded across the floorboards, unraveling itself like fate had blown it open. One look. One sentence.
Governor Rowan to be executed in eight weeks.
My father. My gentle father. The man who poured rainwater into wine bottles and laughed as if it tasted rich anyway. The man who hid my pirate brand not to shame me—but to keep me alive.
My hands shook so violently I could barely stay upright. I pressed the parchment against my ribs like it could plug the hole in me, but all it did was let the emptiness seep deeper.
The ship outside roared with life—men shouting, ropes slamming, Kaine barking orders. I couldn’t move. I slid down the wall, parchment crumpling in my fist, and let the sob escape—quiet, breathless, the kind that tastes like salt and shame.
Eight weeks.
It felt like eight heartbeats.
A knock came. I wiped my eyes fast, smearing tears across my cheek with the back of a trembling hand.
“Beth.” Kaine’s voice. Rough gravel, not unkind, but not tender either. “We’re making ready to move.”
“I’ll come,” I croaked.
But I didn’t stand. Couldn’t. He didn’t wait for reassurance or comfort me—he simply left. Pirates never linger on sorrow; it’s a luxury, a death sentence at sea.
I pressed my forehead to my knees and breathed until it hurt. Grief wanted to drown me, but something else burned hotter beneath it—the kind of fury that cracks bone. A voice inside whispered fight. Another whispered kill him. Kill Adrian. Burn his throne and wear the ashes.
I didn’t know which voice belonged to me anymore.
When I finally stepped outside, the deck was alive with motion. Masts groaned, sails snapped, Mira stood laughing with two men as if she had never tried to steal a map piece and run. The crew accepted her now—but I watched her like a blade watches a throat.
Alaric stood near the bow, arms crossed, hair a dark mess in the wind. He looked… tired. More than usual. A shadow cut across his jaw.
His eyes slid to me. For a moment, for barely a breath, something like softness cracked through him—recognition, maybe even concern—and then it was gone, sealed under ego and iron.
“Good. You’re up.” His tone was sharp, but there was something withheld, buried deep. “We set course soon. The sword’s map trail leads to an island three days east.”
My voice shook. “Rowan is scheduled for execution. Less than two months.”
The crew quieted under the words. A whisper rolled across the deck like a cold wind.
Alaric’s jaw flexed, once. “We will get him.”
Simple. Certain. But his expression didn’t match his words. He looked at me like I was a storm he couldn’t read anymore.
I stepped closer, close enough to see the faint scar at his lip. “Will we? Or are we simply chasing your throne while time strangles mine?”
His eyes flashed—gold fire, wounded pride. “You think I’ve forgotten your father?”
“You’ve forgotten everything but revenge!” The words burst out before I could stop them. “What about mine?”
Silence. The crew stared, waiting for blood or surrender.
Alaric stepped in—close, too close—breath brushing my cheek, voice low enough only I heard.
“You assume I owe you comfort,” he murmured, calm like a blade before it cuts. “I don’t. But I will get him back for you. With you. That is what I can give.”
Something inside me cracked—a sob wanting to break free again—but I clenched my teeth and swallowed it back whole. I wouldn’t cry in front of him. Not again.
That night, rain came soft, barely misting the deck. The crew drank below. Laughter rose like ghosts of joy I couldn’t touch. I stood alone at the railing, parchment in hand, fingers numb.
My father’s face blurred in memory—warm eyes, weathered hands lifting me to ride his shoulders in summer markets. Don’t remove your gloves, little moon, he would whisper. Some truths are safer asleep.
Now truth was wide awake and hungry.
A shadow approached. Boots slow. Familiar.
Alaric.
He didn’t speak. He leaned beside me, gaze fixed on the black water like it might bite him. Moonlight washed his face pale, accentuating something raw—the kind of exhaustion pride could no longer hide.
He didn’t touch me. Didn’t offer comfort.
But he stayed.
And something in that silence softened the war between us.
For a moment, I wondered—if I turned, would I find a man instead of a monster? If I reached, would he reach too?
I didn’t test it. Couldn’t. Pride choked both of us.
When he finally left, I let tears fall again—quiet, hidden—but they didn’t break me this time. They sharpened me.
Eight weeks.
I would burn a kingdom to steal that time back.