He watched the Forlorn drift away into the darkness. They were, without a doubt, going to put as much distance between their ship and the Kipperly in the next few hours. Once this got out, everyone would be keeping away from Archer. The Avourienne lacked what made it the Devil's ship in the first place, but he guessed sailors would be too wary to cross them out as a threat.

He rested his arms on the cool metal rail, searching the ocean, attempting to find some break in the clouds or a trail in the water. He knew they were out there, floating in the darkness like their ghostly legends, but they had always been good at hiding.

He could feel the ship, close by somewhere. There was some sick internal compass in his soul that could find her day or night. It pulled him back to that dizzying adventure, those bloody sails. Was it pulling him back to the ship, to the crew, or just the memory of her?

He moved on from the thought. These days, he stuck only to logic and science, for it kept him away from anything deep enough to cut where it hurt. In this instance, the true, logical mystery was what the point of this was. If they wanted revenge, they should've attacked with the element of surprise. Ever the dramatic ship, though, they lived for audacity. They wanted a daylight battle, blood smattered and lives lost for the sake of a good story.

Something thumped into the wood next to him. Embedded in the rail, was a black, sleek knife.

Archer looked back out to the water. If he didn't know that ship, if he hadn't lived in its game, he might think he imagined the knife. He wondered if it were Rusher, standing on that deck in the dark, tossing knives. Or perhaps it was Britter, smirking as he remained invisible.

He wrenched the knife from the rail. He threw the it back, and somewhere between him and the ocean it should've dropped into, it disappeared into nothing.

Archer leaned over the rail. "Cowards," he said to the darkness. It did not instill fear in his mind, not quite. It was unnerving to know they were there, trailing along silently, but it did not scare him. If they were stalking him, there was a reason for it.

He pushed off the rail and made his way to his quarters. Before he even entered the room, he felt a familiar cold feeling. Not quite terror, but something unsettling all the same. He tossed open the door.

"Anything worth discussing?" Isabella asked. She sat comfortably on his couch, ankles crossed. She held a glass of amber liquid, but she was too young for it to feel natural.

"If there's something to discuss, we'll do it in the strategy room, Rodriquez," he replied, heading to his desk. He felt unease here in his own home when she was near.

"Perhaps I wasn't talking strategy," she replied, bringing the glass to her mouth.

"We don't speak unless it's strategy," he answered.

"We could," she said. She looked over at him.

He didn't look at her, didn't engage, just gestured to the door. It was constant, this treatment. No matter how fast he was, he'd never outrun the incessant whispering of rumours. He had one, short-lived relationship with someone outside his rank, and now he was supposedly predisposed to it.

Rodriguez tilted her chin down. "Or maybe we don't have to talk at all," she said.

Archer held her gaze. "Get out, Rodriguez. Don't come in here again." It was obvious who she was—a woman that had too long been denied respect for simply being a woman. Quietly, perhaps even unbeknownst to herself, she nurtured a hate for all men. Isabella was interested in revenge on his gender, not him. Since she couldn't have power herself, she settled for bringing powerful men down to her.

"I think it was the Avourienne," she told him, leaning forward to place her glass on the table. She spoke the ship's name with a slight accent, pronouncing it exactly as it should be pronounced. "That attacked the Forlorn."

"Get out, Rodriguez." Before I make you.

"A strategist who isn't allowed to strategize," she mused. She stood, rolling back her shoulders like a stretch. "Interesting." She walked to the door and closed it tightly behind her.

Archer waited. He kept his eyes on the door, but he knew it was coming. It always did once the room settled into silence.

"She's pretty."

"You think so?" he replied, eyes still on that closed door. "I always knew you played both sides."

But he could see that smile in his peripheral, pearly and elegant. "Smart boy," she said.

He shook his head. It didn't matter if she was dead or alive; she spoke to him as she always had: condescension and tyranny mixed with enough sultry tone to overlook everything else.

"Your ship is after me," he told her, glancing over for the first time.

There she was. Novari Silta, with her cunning amber eyes and cutthroat Siren allure. She stood over by his door, the deadly muscles in her shoulders tightening as she tilted her chin down to meet his gaze. "Are they?" she asked.

When he'd last been on Chorro, he'd told his crew he was spending the night at the palace when he'd actually gone to a mind doctor on the south side.

I see things, he'd admitted. I want to get rid of them.

The doctor told him he was struggling with grief. That they weren't really there, just in his head.

I can talk to them, Archer insisted. Sometimes, they feel as real as me.

In the end, the doctor gave him some herbal remedy that didn't work.

"You know," Archer said, "some part of me thought they wouldn't survive the loss of you."

"People rarely do."

Archer scoffed. "Some people do."

She smiled, beautiful as ever. If he told himself the truth, let himself understand the comfort he felt in his own mind, maybe he could admit that he didn't want the visions, hallucinations—whatever they were—to end. Maybe he just wanted to see her, even if it was in his head.

She didn't say what was so clear.

Not that you would know.

*

The sun glistened over the water, slowly morphing back from the navy ocean of Myrian to the bright blue of the Cobalts.

"Captain, we've crossed back over into the Cobalts. Estimate to Chorro is about three hours."

Archer nodded to his head navigator. "Thank you, Belford. You can start prepping those maps for the King."

"Aye, sir," Belford replied.

Archer continued to squint at the horizon. The Avourienne would've dropped back now, out of sight. Since the Kipperly was heading for Chorro, they might've dropped back even more to avoid the royal island.

He shook his head. He shouldn't care, at least not before he had to. He followed Belford to the navigation room. Like Marquis, the navigator gave him comfort. At sixty-two, he quietly worked away at his craft instead of harbouring hate for his young captain.

"Good morning, Captain!" Alli chimed the moment he entered the room. She grinned up at him, sunny aura a little too bright for such an early hour. Her sister, Shuri, sat quietly beside her, making markings and causing no disarray, acting as navy navigators were taught.

Alli didn't care for such rules. Both she and her sister were in a trainee period—having snuck by the King's rigorous initiation process—that depended on their performance in the next few months. Shuri may have reason to worry about her progress, but Alli, with her incredible ability to memorize and recreate maps, didn't have a thing to prove. She had a set position on the ship, and she knew it.

"Morning, Laurier," Archer replied. "Belford gave me three hours."

"Belford is an old man that rounds numbers to hell and back," Alli replied, grinning. "I'd give it two and a half 'till we knock right into Chorro."

Belford gave her a look and pointed back down to the map. Shuri's face bloomed red.

"Do we get shore time in Chorro?" Alli wondered, ignoring Belford.

"Sir," Shuri whispered under her breath. Her fingers shook as she positioned a ruler.

Archer glanced at Alli as he rolled up a few of the maps. "A few hours," he said. "Just enough time for me to speak with a King." Alli, like most of the Cobalts, was obsessed with those vastly elaborated stories of Archer. While she didn't cross any moral boundaries, she was prone to accidental disrespect because of her constant battering of questions. Did you really have a nighttime battle with the Champion? Did you really beat her at her own game? Did you really win for skill? Before Archer could say, no, Laurier, I put a knife through her back, Belford or Shuri would settle her down. Good intentions, bad executions.

"The King," Isabella mumbled. "Hell of a friend to have."

At that, Archer did flinch. Isabella's unsettling trait of always being there somewhere was possibly her worst one. She would constantly be reading a book in some dark corner.

"I agree," Alli said, drawing her legs up to her chin, spinning around in her chair. "It's so cool that the two of you are friends."

"Sir," Shuri whispered again.

"Sir," Alli finished.

Archer put a roll on one of the maps. "I'm not sure I'd call us friends," he replied, dusting an eraser shred off the next one. These were the only maps of Myria in existence, other than the ones Rusher drew for the Avourienne.

"You're far too modest," Alli said with a grin. "I believe you saved the King's life." She cleared her throat after a poke from Shuri's pencil. "Sir."

Archer sighed. At the very least, Alli didn't have to salute him or run out of his way, but sometimes, her fawning was a little too much. A little too deep with the prying.

"The King is quite fond of this ship," Isabella noted from her corner.

"The King is a good man," Archer said, just shy of argumentative.

"To his friends."

"You know what, Rodriguez?" he asked. "Why don't you put down the book you've most assuredly read twice before and practice combat with Pincho?" It was hardly a secret that Isabella Rodriguez—though smart as a whip—could not fight if her life depended on it.

"Snappy," she answered, turning a page.

"The day you beat someone in a match is the day I'll stop sending you to him. Get up."

She glanced up at him, eyes dark. "Why be athletic if you can be intelligent?"

"Intelligence doesn't stop a bullet, Rodriguez. Move."

She hummed slightly, marking her page. She left the room, but he doubted she would go to Pincho. She'd just go pick up a book she'd stored elsewhere and read it there until someone came along and told her to move.

Lyra was ordering the crew to make way for port, so he wove through them as they did their jobs. Meeting with the King always made him antsy. Kerian had allowed him a lot of freedom to explore and chart Myria through the Navy, and that made Archer resistant to any pushback he might feel inclined to give over whatever odd thing Kerian was doing.

Chorro was now visible, just a string of land in a cobalt ocean. It was no coincidence that the new palace resided on an island so close to Myria; the idea was to draw the two worlds together. The King had certainly done a fine job of it thus far.

The newly royal island was beautiful in a very original way, the perfect contrast of building and nature. The palace itself was much smaller than the one on the Kingsland, sparkling with personality. As the Kipperly pulled into port, the townspeople waved and smiled, excited over seeing them. Archer hadn't caught sight of smiles like that since Orphano, and the people there always had undertones of sadness.

Archer turned to his crew, gathered on deck to be dismissed. The sun gazed down on their tanned faces, turning them all into happier people. They awaited his words eagerly, but he didn't give them much. "You're to be back on the docks by sunset," he told them, gesturing to Lyra. "Dismissed." He found his way to the plank.

He wasn't one for speeches or excitement. Those things had been Bardarian's forte, and Archer was not nearly the leader nor man the late captain had been. While he'd been an immoral evil, the King of the Sea had always known what he wanted and how to get it. Leadership and charisma had come easy to him.

Lyra trailed alongside him as they disembarked, watching the countless crews loading up. The King's ship was off to the side of the docks, the sails a royal blue. Beside it was a ship of a streamlined design, sparkling furled sails too new to have ever been used.

"Who's that?" Archer asked Lyra, nodding to the ship.

Lyra shrugged. "I'd bet on some rich privateer with money to burn. Pretty, though." She kept going down the dock.

Archer threw one last glance at the ship. It mimicked the shape of the Avourienne, making him feel uneasy over who was in control of something so fast. He almost tripped as he jogged to catch up with Lyra. He hated the predictability of solid ground.

Chorro was alive. It had always been a populated island, but now it was brimming with people. Rich, poor, Myrians and everyone else. Two members of the King's guard met them exiting the docks, escorting them through town. They moved away the admirers desperately trying to get a glimpse of Archer, begging to touch his hand or thank him. For what? He didn't care. He spared them no glance, didn't enlighten them with words he didn't have.

A townsman covered in a robe and hood pushed his way through the guards to them, drawing shouts as they struggled to restrain him. He just managed to get by, reaching for Lyra's shoulders and jerking her forward. "Hail the King," he hissed to her, lips drawn back in a snarl.

Archer reached over and wrenched the man back by his hood, revealing a tattooed face of aztec designs. The man spun around to face him, pressing a cross to his chest.

"Hail the King of the Sea," the man whispered, foul breath in Archer's face. "May he release you of your heavenly sins."

Archer shoved the man back into the crowd, tossing the cross after him.

Lyra gritted her teeth as she adjusted her coat. "Touch me again and I'll slit your throat," she snarled at the man as they passed.

Archer didn't look back. Sometimes, especially in the presence of those unsettling Devil-worshippers, Lyra showed a hint of that aggressive pirate spark she used to have.

"He is a forgiving man!" the townsman shouted after them. "We must prepare for his hellish return, lest the Devil destroy us all."

Lyra sneered, still on edge. Her outward aggression was simply an outlet for the eerie feeling the cult gave everyone. They mumbled of Bardarian's return, insisted the Devil would resurrect him. It was invertible, this martyring. No one who was adored so widely could simply die.

The guards apologized for the mishap as they came up to the palace, dropping them off on the steps and leaving them with new guards.

"This place had a minor upgrade," Lyra mumbled, glancing around at the walls, which were built of sleek glass. Rainbows of colours danced across their feet as they walked, the sun filtering through.

"It's for heating," came a voice behind them. "Not arrogance."

They both turned to see Kerian, come down the hallway unescorted. He opened his arms wide, his grin spectacular. It should've been a comforting expression, but those sharp royal canines only reminded Archer of who else had once smiled with them.

"Kingsley, Tailsley," Kerian said, reaching out to shake Archer's hand with those telltale uncalloused fingers. At a mere twenty years old, the new King was young to say the least, but here, in his palace, he looked more well-placed than he ever had.

"Your majesty," Lyra said, dipping into a sarcastic curtsey.

"Royal slander is a punishable offence," Kerian reminded her as he reached for her hand.

Archer gave him a look, to which the King rested a gentle hand on his shoulder. "I must be strict, Kingsley," he offered. "Rebellions are most prominent during transitions of power. Come, walk with me."

Lyra glanced over, wondering if she should tap out. Archer nodded to her, so she slipped away, muttering something about admiring the beautiful walls.

"I'd like to bring something to your attention," Archer began, looking back at the guards following at a respectable distance.

"Go on," Kerian said, leading them around the corner to a stunning skywalk over the palace grounds.

"I had a visit from the Captain of the Forlorn yesterday. He advised me of an attack on their ship by the Avourienne."

Kerian's face did not contort with surprise. He was a reserved, controlled man. "Is that so?" he wondered, placing both smooth hands on the skywalk railing and turning to look at Archer.

"I have reason to believe they're trailing me at night, then backing off during the day. They have something in the works."

Kerian shrugged. "Don't they always? I'd hardly call it our concern."

Archer leaned against the railing himself, examining the King's face. "They're breathing down my neck. Every night."

Kerian waved a hand. "You're not their objective."

"You've come to this conclusion how?"

He shrugged again. "I hear things, as a leader does," he said dismissively. "I wouldn't worry about them."

Archer stayed very still, watching the King tap a thick finger on the railing. He was a peculiar man to begin with, but this secretive approach was new. "Listen, Kingsley," he said, gesturing for Archer to follow as he began walking again. "I have something for you." He took the stairs back out of the skywalk, and the guards around them multiplied as they exited the palace once more.

"For me?" Archer repeated, glancing around. Kerian waved to the people as they passed.

"Yes. You might've seen it." He pointed over to the docks, near the royal fleet.

Archer followed his finger. He didn't want to fall for what was clearly misdirection, but Kerian was pointing at that deep blue ship with the furled sails.

"I had one of my engineers draw up a schematic of the Avourienne," Kerian explained. "Then I had my best ship's architect twist it into a concept design for a navigation ship. It's the fastest one in the royal fleet, constructed tirelessly for the past year." He turned, still walking. "It's yours, Kingsley."

Archer didn't answer as they stepped onto the royal docks. She was floating there in the water, silent despite the heavy presence.

"Her name is the Myriad," Kerian announced as they approached. He reached out to touch the deep blue hull, motioning for the guards to bring up the planks. "I think it's a fitting name for the place you're exploring."

Archer couldn't fathom it. His own ship? Small, streamlined, fast? He stepped over the plank, hand out to run it over the smooth rail. He looked back at Kerian.

The King grinned. "Beautiful, isn't she?"

"I'm not sure I deserve this," Archer muttered, glancing over at the sails. They were so new they sparkled.

Kerian scoffed. "Nonsense, Kingsley. You're the first navy ship to sail in Myrian waters, and you give me essential details of an otherwise cryptic sea. This is what you were promised."

Archer glanced over at the captain's balcony. A big, dramatic balcony just as Bardarian had. He looked at Kerian again.

The King sighed and glanced over at the guards, in formation on the dock. He stepped forward, leading them to the captain's quarters. "It's not just business, Kingsley," he said, opening the door so Archer could enter first. "This is thank you."

Archer took a deep breath as he ran his hands over the new shelves, the mahogany desk. His ship. His ship. The perfect ship. "I didn't do what I did for an expensive gift," he said.

"I'm aware," Kerian replied. "That's all the more reason to give it to you." He settled down into one of the chairs, poised as ever. "Have a seat, Kingsley. I have one more thing to discuss."

Archer collapsed into the plush chair across from the King. It was made of some smooth blanket-like material. He ran his hands over it. "What's that?"

"There's something I need you to do."

Archer looked over at him. So it wasn't just a gift for saving his life. It was a bribe, a segue. "Go on," he prompted.

Kerian lifted his chin, acting reserved as a royal should. He did not move like he was cocky or confident, just stiff. It was a perfectly respectable way to hold oneself, but Archer had always aspired to move as Bardarian had—control, never in a rush, comfortable in all circumstances.

"I need a map," Kerian said.

Archer didn't bother to look at him. It was better that the King didn't think he was paying attention to his odd behaviour. "Out with it, Kip," he said.

Kerian wrinkled his nose, the first sign of his previous pirate disguise. "The map to Myrian's chest."

Archer snorted out a laugh, glancing over to make sure he was serious. He was. That chest just wouldn't leave him alone, apparently. Ethereal, otherworldly, could give immunity from the word's horrors. It was also supposed to be fake.

Archer threaded his hands in his lap and composed himself. He watched Kerian carefully. "Why would you need the chest?"

"I don't," Kerian said, quicker than ever. He took a breath to reset. "Need the chest, I mean," he clarified. "I need the map."

"The map leads to the chest."

"I know that." Kerian paused. His eyes flicked around the room like he was rewording his sentence in his head. "I just need the map."

Archer tilted his chin down. "Why?"

"There's been talk," Kerian said, quick once more. "There are pirates that want the chest. Not any pirates—some sort of sick cult that worships Bardarian. Should they get it, it would be dangerous for the people."

Archer considered this. It could be dangerous, but there was something off about Kerian's sudden antsy urgency. "I haven't a clue how to find the map," he said.

Kerian grinned. He gestured to the table to his left, where a covered package sat. Archer rose and pulled off the cover. A map.

"You're giving me a map to find a map," he said. Although Kerian laughed and said something back, Archer wasn't really paying attention to him anymore. It was one of Archer's maps that he had sent back to the King during his excursion, just a rough sketch—the master one was still aboard the Kipperly—but the lines had been drawn over with pen in neat, sharp instructions. His gut twisted.

This, Kingsley. This map should make you feel fear.

Archer turned back to the King. "I'm not interested."

"Use your head, Kingsley," came Kerian's next rapid reply. "You know how the chest is opened." He leaned forward. "Royal blood."

Archer leaned back, eyes narrowing. Kerian's responses weren't just too quick and choppy; they were conditioned. Someone had told the King was to say in reaction to what Archer might say. Someone else was at play here, manipulating the very ruler of this entire ocean.

"It's my blood that opens that chest," Kerian pushed. "Just mine. They'll come for me."

So someone was using Kerian, somehow, feeding him lies and preparing him. Somebody needed this map, and they'd forced Kerian to use the Myriad to get it.

Archer leaned back, glancing out the window to see the guards on the deck. Nobody was around, nobody could hear. He looked back at Kerian.

"You're lying to me, Kip."

Kerian's head snapped up. "I'm not lying about anything."

Oh, he was. He was lying through his teeth, but he wasn't willing to admit it, even here in safety. Whoever was pushing Kerian around was either powerful or well-connected enough to be of serious concern.

"I'll get your map," Archer said, still eyeing him. When he did, it wouldn't go to Kerian until everything had been fully explained.

After all, it was better for him to be in control of the map rather than whoever else was involved.