Something snappy, probably, like a water turtle. Something rude, but also short. Four words. A personal pronoun, her name. I'm speaking to you, Novari.

"I'm speaking to you, Novari," Seira snapped.

She made no indication, but she did adore a successful prediction. The satisfaction of a good kill, a job pulled off with the grace of a dancer. Sheer skill and undeniable talent, with the ego and beauty to match.

"Were you?" Novari asked. Her rock had the illusion of comfort, but it was quite the pointy resting place, probably formed by those volcanoes in this area hundreds of years ago. Unstable sea floor, shallow water. The perfect recipe for a floating island.

"You didn't answer me," Seira snapped. Snap, snap. The water turtles were migrating south this time of year, big herds of them.

"I don't recall what you said," Novari said, spinning her knife over her fingers in an impressive display of dexterity and detail. A useless skill, maybe, if one didn't think hard enough concerning the art of intimidation.

Seira snorted, for there was nothing in this ocean Novari Silta failed to recall. She could remember the exact tone and words somebody spoke ten years ago, the colours of a painting she saw once when she was fifteen. She remembered the migration patterns of the water turtles down to the meter, the exact capacity of a blue-tailed eyden's brain down to the syllable.

Seira began again, "I'm confirming that you're sure about this storm. If we're missing our chance now, and you're wrong about them coming back this way—"

Novari held up a single artistic finger to silence her mother. Grey clouds, high humidity and that heavy feeling of the air on her skin. It was so obvious to her. "There will be a storm, and it will be tonight. They'll turn the ship around and come back this way."

"They're passing in minutes. If we miss our only chance now—"

"Go ahead, attack now," Novari said, spinning her knife and keeping her eyes trained on the horizon. "I'll get the body bag. That way, you'll still be warm when I zip you up. Like a nice, warm, dead, burrito." Tomorrow was burrito kapas day in the mealroom, and inspiration must come from somewhere.

Seira's mouth was twisting in a way that resembled her features melting. "I have my doubts that this will go any different at night than it would during the day."

Novari said truthfully, "Perhaps you'd be a cold burrito instead of a warm one."

Seira glanced back out at the ocean, where the red sails had just appeared. That Siren look appeared, causing her to forget about her daughter's lack of an answer.

It was so small from this far away; Novari could cover it with only her little finger. It didn't look incredible at all, much less something to fawn over for your entire life.

"You think attacking at night will change the game all that much," Seira said, accused, thought, wondered with resentment, whatever fit her disdain most. Odd, how after all these years, Novari struggled to find the right variation of a synonym in this mental chaos. Odd, how after all these years, Seira still questioned brilliance when it sat spinning a knife in front of her.

The Avourienne wouldn't even waste energy on providing a scout at night. They'd be relaxed and turned off as soon as the sun set. The element of surprise, the underdog of the game: Novari's best ploy.

"Attacking at night is the only way we win," she concluded.

"And you'll take care of him?"

"I'll take care of him."

Seira looked away again to glance back at the Avourienne. "And you'll be able to find it at night?" she asked, pulling out her spyglass to get a better look at the approaching ship.

"If I can't, I'll send a Siren out there to swim until she knocks into something hard." Novari squinted at the shape in the water. Not speeding up, avoiding danger, being careful. The Avourienne was slowing down.

She lifted her chin. Maybe that amused her slightly, but only slightly. Captain Bardarian was an arrogant man, perhaps rightly so, but slowing down to pass some of the most dangerous islands in Myria for the sole purpose of showing just exactly who was in charge was beyond arrogance; it was a shocking display of ego. Everyone had to have a fatal flaw in the end. Arrogance, pride, the curse of talent or brilliance.

Seira passed the spyglass to Novari, who didn't take it. While beauty and power were very alluring things to her, they didn't root deep in her soul quite like they did her Siren mother's. Novari was as intrigued with the Devil's patron and ship as everyone else, but for slightly different reasons; the Captain had been a nobody, born to no money or fame. Sixteen years later, he was the biggest name in the sea. How did he do it? Charisma? Strategy? Good looks? Novari wanted to understand it—not because she wasn't born to money or fame, but because she was born to them, and now she had to figure out how to escape it.

"You must be sure about this storm," Seira muttered. "The way he'll react to it."

Novari was sure. Bardarian—as flamboyant and enigmatic as he seemed to present—held logic close to his heart, and practical was practical.

"Careful," Novari replied, "one may think you're doubting yourself."

Big insult. Big, catastrophic, potentially life-ruining insult. Ironic that they were Seira's rules, and yet she was the one that so often failed to conform to them. Control their vision of you. In their minds, you are who you wish to be. Seira was near-awful at that rule, and Novari was quite good at it. What did she get for her hard work? A whole lot of satisfaction, nothing more. Seira was once a Siren, and nothing was ever enough for that kind.

Seira tossed a nasty look at her. "Explain to me how you're sure about this storm."

Novari could embark. Off and away on that lifelong diatribe of explaining every one of those echoing thoughts. Past the southern border, where the storms never came from, to chart weather. Off and on, explaining things for the rest of her life.

"No, thank you," she replied, pushing off that sharp, pointy, uncomfortable rock. Ignoring those kinks in her back, she left Seira by the shoreline.

Seira was the boss, and walking away from her should've resulted in consequences, but those kinds of things didn't exist to Novari; she'd had the superior skill for as long as she could remember. Oddly enough, such a thing didn't allow her to lead as glamorous a life as one would think, for no one wanted to speak up or challenge the one on top. It created a very heavy mind and a very empty soul. Everything comes with a price, and Novari's skill was no exception.

The red stones blurred into view as fog drifted in. Dense air, cold to the south. Easy, predictable fog. Predictable water turtles and predictable Seira.

Someone was trailing her. She saw this and that and everything around her before it came to be.

"Novari!"

She turned to the source of the voice, coming from the water. The Siren was reaching onto the rocks, trying to get far enough up to get her attention.

"Your mother back yet?" the Siren asked. The distaste in her voice was evident even when there was no reason for it.

"She's not," Novari replied. "She's at the vantage point."

"Did you see the Avourienne?" Her eyes burned with curiosity and desire—curiosity or desire? Curiosity and desire. Insatiable for a meal that would never satisfy.

"It's passed," Novari told her, turning away.

Finish, leave and dissect. The Sirens on this island didn't like her; they had no reason to. She wasn't a Siren herself, and she didn't really care for their cause, either. Those things alone wouldn't be enough to fuel a fire of hatred, but her being in charge of the complicated logistical aspects? That lack of an edge up? That was a match on a fire of insecurity.

She reached for the door and stepped into a musty, dark place, one she hated beyond hate. There was the mouldy smell of stagnant lives and a maze of dark hallways with only one way in and out. She held her right hand on the stones, the rough surface guiding her to the east corner. All of these rooms looked the same, the same smell with the same red bricks. All the same to everyone else, but that one there? It had a dent. That one over to her right? It had three. That one had that little slime of algae on it right there in the top left corner. Everything always had something.

Her fingers brushed against the wooden door on her right. Stale, stagnant, resistant to change.

Ri! Milia was a fan of nicknames. You see the Avourienne?

Novari pushed the door open.

"Ri!" Milia exclaimed, rising from the sprawled position she'd been in. "You see the Avourienne?"

Novari shut the door behind her, offering nothing more than a glance that insinuated she had. Despite her silence, everyone in the room stopped their conversations in her presence. Sometimes she wondered if their lives even existed beyond her, that if she left, they would simply all short-circuit and remain unmoving in this soulless room, their haven from all those banished Sirens.

"What did it look like?" Sam asked, leaning forward on his elbows. He was sitting on the loveseat with another boy she'd never spoken to.

"Like it should," Novari said, settling down on the arm of the couch next to him.

"Did you see him?" Milia asked. She was a short girl, a daughter of one of Seira's followers. After a quick exchange years ago, she'd vowed to worship Novari no matter how little her feelings were reciprocated. She'd build a church if someone else did the logistics.

"Him?" Novari asked.

"Bardarian," Milia clarified. Her eyes sparked with wonder.

"I didn't see him," Novari said truthfully. She glanced down at Sam, attempting to tell him with a look that she wanted to leave. He looked up at her and raised an eyebrow, a simple expression for a violently simple man. There was a time he hadn't been quite so obvious to her, but with time, everyone became an exact copy of themselves in her head, repeating the same little patterns that made them easy to guess. A word they used nearly every sentence, a habit they did every moment of nervousness. Repetition, the inevitable drowning of a smart mind.

"You know his eyes change," Keira piped up, "with the colour of the ocean."

They do not.

Sam snorted. "They do not."

It was so uniform, their conversation. The men hated a man they couldn't compete with, and the women wanted to curl up in the safety of his surety. They were fantastic stories, after all—colour-changing irises, unflinching wit and charisma that reached out with invisible hands to keep your attention, pulling everyone closer until they were just one more notch in either his pistol or his bedframe he'd soon forget.

"They do change colour!" Milia insisted. "I heard that, too."

"You hear that in port?" Novari asked, leaning back on her hands.

Nobody spoke for a moment. They'd never been to port.

Edwards spoke up from his position on the floor, "You've got a skill for bringing conversations to a crashing halt."

"Go on, fawn," Novari replied. "You're not his type."

Edward sat up, ignoring the snickers from the other boys. "You're quick today," he noted, dark eyes shining.

"I'm quick every day."

He smiled, but Novari had a bit of trouble placing his expression. Since he was Sam's brother, she struggled to separate their actions and tendencies and because of that, he'd become the most mysterious thing in her life, and therefore something she took great interest in. Unfortunately, she'd come upon Sam first, and now she was stuck with him—but maybe not for long. While she understood the undoubtedly callous nature of leaving a man for his brother, she was also Novari, and immoral acts like that were just things she did.

"The two of you could just start throwing fists at eachother," Sam said, oblivious to the suggestiveness of their little stare-off.

"Sure," Novari said. "Up for a go, love?"

"Not really," Edwards replied, falling back onto the floor.

Novari prodded Sam with her elbow. I want to leave. Come with me. Remind me that I could still use you.

Instead of deciphering her look, he was speaking, "I heard Seira talking about who gets to go on this mission."

Edward sat up again. "Is she going to take one of us?"

Keira snorted. "Who do you think?" She twirled a long blonde curl around her finger.

Edward looked back at Novari. "Tell her to let me come," he begged.

Novari took a deep breath and rose. Begging was a turn away; it was allowed, but only for her.

"Novari," Edward continued, following her to the door. "Please. Please let me come."

She pushed open the door and turned right down the hallway. She ignored him, running her hand down the bricks. She wasn't sure if he would follow her or back off. She wasn't quite sure.

But he was hot on her heels, breath on the back of her neck as he spoke, "You know I'm capable. I'm the most capable. Besides you. You're very capable. You're also stunningly beautiful and incredibly smart."

Novari glanced beside her as he hurried to catch up. "Sycophants," she said.

"Come on," he said. "I need to get off this damn island.

"Nobody is asking you to stay on this damn island, love. Leave."

He rolled his eyes. "Nobody leaves. You know that. Just let me come."

"You'll mess something up, Eddie. You can stay here."

"I will not mess anything up, Novari. And for angel's sake, the last time I was called that, I was twelve."

"You're not coming, love," Novari told him, reaching her door and pushing it open. He followed her in.

"Let me go. Please."

Novari turned quickly. "I hate repetition, Eddie," she said. "And I hate begging."

Edward searched her eyes. He was taller than his brother, so she had to glance up to meet his gaze. His eyes were dark, his steely gaze producing a deep, brooding aura. She liked it.

"What, you want to be convinced?" he whispered, lowering his voice.

She kept her hands to herself, but she was considering it.

"Stare-offs again?" Sam asked, coming into the hallway behind Edward. He pushed past the two of them and wandered into Novari's room, completely oblivious. Completely stupid. Completely useless. Officially nothing.

Still, this tension could be made useful at a later date. She placed a hand on his chest and pushed him out. He stumbled backwards into the hallway.

"I'll tell you how it goes, Eddie," she told him, shutting the door.

Behind her, Sam rolled onto her bed, nestling under the window and into her fluffy duvet. "Tell me how you got this blanket," he said, his voice muffled by the layers.

Novari ignored him, preferring not to reiterate how she'd spent a particularly short night with the man who collected supplies for the island; he'd gotten an unbelievable story to tell his friends, and she walked away with his expensive down blanket.

She sat down at her desk, crossing an ankle over her thigh as Sam fell asleep. Tomorrow night was going to be the first time where a mistake could cost her life, even if it were someone else's. Tomorrow had to go perfectly.

And so, she thought.

She thought about the winds, about the Sirens they'd chosen to go—the most influential of them all. She thought about the plan; she worked through every minuscule detail, up to the shape of the waves and the pull of the current. She ran through every single thing that could go wrong, every path that they might have to go down. She prepared for it all.

She thought into the late hours of the morning, her fingers never moving from their clasped position and her head never turning. It was an eerie focus, a certain dissociation that could so easily go wrong unsupervised.

Eventually, when the air around her cooled, she slipped into her bed, Sam's breathing soft beside her.

And somewhere in between the plans and the thoughts and the preparation, she fell asleep next to a man she didn't like on an island she hated.