Archer knew why Silta had given him the corner room.

At first, he'd been surprised she'd let him have it—the largest room belowdecks—but now he realized why: to torment him. To force him to sleep in the bed where he used to sleep next to her.

Standing in the doorway now, leaning against the frame, he could see every detail depicting the last time he was in this room. The last time he'd first stepped into this room.

For a moment, Archer wondered what it would be like to go back. To be fresh out a crisp's uniform, his head buzzing with plots and ploys and mind games. For the first time in his life, he questioned if he would have opened this door that night if he had the knowledge he did now. The exhilaration, the excitement, the realization that life was more than fishing on an island for a living. Had it been worth it?

Archer always tried to tell himself that it had been. That those nights and the hell that followed made him a more solidified person—made him more him. He'd been miserable, but telling himself his experiences were beneficial felt like the easier way to avoid the depression he tended to skirt around.

Taking a deep breath, Archer sat on the edge of the bed, his mind whirling. He had to figure this out. Someone attacked Alli tonight—somebody who had to be working on the same side as Corpher. But that meant there were at least three individuals who were willing to die fighting for this 'other player': Corpher, the attack tonight, and the man Silta killed aboard the Myriad.

Archer long ago visualized Silta as a chess player. In this case, she was one player, and He was the other. Silta played a pawn game. She had to play a pawn game, because everyone who played for her was completely blind as to what she was doing. Perhaps Archer could be considered a rook or a bishop, but pawn was probably accurate considering everything.

Kerian, a pawn. She used him to get the map and control the Cobalts. The crew of the Avourienne, pawns. Britter and Alli, pawns. Controllable and disposable. Silta was the only one who knew the plan.

The Avourienne—that was her queen. Queens were easily exposed to attacks, especially if they were played on the offensive like Silta's tactic required.

But this other player? Was Corpher a pawn or was he someone who had known the full plan? And the attacker tonight? Another pawn, or someone more powerful?

But who was He?

Archer couldn't sleep once he started thinking. The possibilities were endless, and the longer Archer stayed up, the more insane his theories became: That the other player was another royal, that he was a son of Bardarian come back to avenge him, that it was really just a ruse Silta concocted and He didn't exist at all.

Archer, lying eyes wide on the white sheets, was stuck inside a box of logical thought. In his mind, Corpher, the assailant tonight and Him were quite obviously three separate people. They had to be. A man can't die twice.

Archer tilted his head to the side. A man can't die twice. Unless, of course, they can, because their heart is in Myria's chest.

Archer blinked. Corpher and Him weren't two different people; Corpher was Him, and Corpher was also the man who'd attacked Alli tonight—the one with more skill than even Britter. They were all the same man. The same, unkillable man that Silta planned to kill.

I want revenge.

Silta was going to the chest to take out the heart that was already in it. Corpher's heart.

But who was Corpher to her? Why was Silta so intent on getting rid of him forever?

*

"It's port day!"

The shout came from outside Archer's door, loud and clear. He jostled awake, still in his clothes and never having gotten underneath the covers. He sat up and blinked.

"Captain, you hear me? It's port day."

"I heard you." Archer ruffled a hand through his hair. He made his way to the door and opened it. On the other side, Pincho stood, his eyes sparkling with excitement. Behind him was Bickie, brilliantly white skin shining.

"It's port day!" Bickie said, taking little hops on the balls of his feet.

Archer waved them away, not ready to deal with their energy. He insisted he would be out soon, then turned back to the room and shut the door. He took a long breath and ran his fingers through his hair. It was curling around his ears and getting into his eyes; he needed to cut it.

The skin on the back of his neck prickled.

He whirled around and found her, sitting on the bed, leaning back on her hands. Her amber eyes were bright from the sunlight.

"You're damn quiet," Archer told her, turning back around.

She stood, still silent. He didn't turn around, but he could feel her there behind him.

A knife flashed in her hand, and before Archer realized what she was doing, she reached up to his head and sliced off a lock of his hair.

Instinctively, he leaned away from her, giving her a bewildered look.

She tilted her head and handed him the hair. Baffled, he let it fall into his hands.

She held his gaze. "It's port day, lover."

Archer almost laughed, but he was too uncomfortable to actually consider making the noise. "I know," he replied, still leaning awkwardly.

She held his gaze. "It's port day."

Archer frowned at her and finally had the nerve to lean back forward. "You're... a little off, Novari." His voice warbled slightly.

She leaned forward and cut another piece of his hair. It fell to the ground.

Finally, Archer took a step back and let out an uneasy laugh.

"You wanted it shorter," she told him.

"I did," Archer replied. "How did you know that?"

"You touched it like you wanted it shorter."

Archer raised an eyebrow. He might be insightful, but he wasn't that insightful. Insanity wasn't a surprising path for a woman that could practically hear the thoughts around her.

"I don't particularly want your knife near me," he told her, glancing down. It was supposed to be a joke, or some semblance of humour.

"You don't want me to do it?" she asked. Her voice was soft like he'd hurt her feelings.

Archer laughed now. He was so uncomfortable that he couldn't hold it in any longer. And once he did, her eyes started to water and her eyelashes fluttered. She was about to cry.

It took him a moment to speak, utterly stunned by her reaction. "Okay—Novari, it's fine," he said. "You can cut it if you'd like. Go on."

She reached up and brushed something resembling a tear from the corner of her eye. Her eyes were lovely and golden in the light—not intimidating, just beautiful. If she were acting, she would never make up a scene like this. This was not her image.

"You don't want me to do it, do you?" she whispered.

"I—I do want you to do it. Just be careful with the knife, that's all." Archer wasn't sure why he was lying and treating her like a child. He wasn't sure why he was giving in to the almost shed of a tear.

Slightly satisfied, she stepped forward and brought the knife up again. It had been recently sharpened, and although Archer had never really cared about uniform strands, she ensured it would be that way. Every time a slice sounded, he resisted the urge to flinch.

"Shorter?" she asked when she'd nearly finished.

"That's fine." He'd once obsessed over her hands, over the feeling of them and the proximity of her. He'd once dreamt about simple moments like this, but he now wanted nothing more than to take off running from her and the look of mania in her eyes.

The knife clattered to the ground, and Archer whirled around.

She was close, the feel of her breath on his jaw as she lifted her chin. "Then run." Her voice was a whisper of her usual tone.

Archer blinked. "Did I say that out loud?"

"It was obvious."

Archer searched her eyes, trying to retain some semblance of calm. "It wasn't obvious, Novari. You're reading me. Stop reading me."

She parted her lips, the bottom one trembling slightly. She took a shaky breath in. Every action she did was completely new in Archer's book of her.

"I can't stop reading you," she said. "It's what I do. I can't stop breathing, and I can't stop reading people. It's not my fault."

Archer had the immediate urge to reach out and place a hand to her face. He'd never had to comfort Silta, and even now he shouldn't have to. This wasn't his job anymore—none of this was. She had Harvi, her man of the week.

Her eyes were glassy. "That's not fair," she whispered.

Archer felt his skin turn cold and clammy. He couldn't think of a word to say.

Her eyes looked less narrowed than they usually did. She bit the inside of her lip, and Archer just caught a glimpse of one of those sharp canines. Moments later, dark red blood pooled over her lip.

He wasn't sure what to do. He just stood there, staring at her.

"It's not like I want to, really," she said. "It's just that it's what you deserve." She licked her lips. "And it's not like I'm the one doing it to you. I'm just letting it happen."

Archer latched onto that last part, hoping he could decipher it. "Let what happen?" he asked gently, taking a step closer. This time, he did reach out and touch her wrist lightly, as if to remind her he was still there.

"It's what you deserve," she said again. She glanced down at her wrist, with his hand on it. Then, quieter, "She can do it for you instead."

Archer felt his own sanity slipping from him. "Who, Novari? Give me more than riddles."

"It's what you deserve." She tugged her wrist away, backed up a few steps, then left the room.

Archer would've liked to go after her, snatch her back and demand something concrete. In the end, though, his feet stayed still.

She was a master manipulator, and despite something in his gut telling him these manic moments were authentic, he couldn't help but analyze his feelings in that moment and wonder if they aligned with what Silta wanted him to feel. If she was interested in reeling Archer back in, this was the perfect way to do it: show vulnerability, a crack in her perfection, get him comforting her, give him a purpose to her.

He glanced down at the floor, where little pieces of his hair were scattered. Maybe it was an act. Maybe he was a fool for falling for it—and he was falling for it. He couldn't bear to watch someone so unbelievably brilliant spiral into nothing more than a disoriented shell of a woman. Those witty replies, the calculated gaze, the enthralling adventure.

Archer closed his eyes. He could feel the ghost of her fingers on his neck, so gentle and precise. He could feel the brush of her nails on his skin and could see the sheen of candlelight in her irises. Had it really been all that much better back then? He'd been at the mercy of someone who claimed to never have loved him. Maybe it hadn't been much better, but he'd still been in love.

He'd always known that, of course, but admitting it to himself now felt new. He'd loved her. He was allowed to feel a pull back to her. He was allowed to reminisce, and he was allowed to care about what happened to her. He wasn't evil for that. He'd loved her.

He opened his eyes. He'd solve her insanity problem. He would help her with Him, and then he would call it quits. That was the plan.

He stood there for a moment, gathering himself. Then finally, he made his way out the door.

The ship had stopped already, and Archer was surprised to not have noticed immediately. He hurried down the hallway, taking the stairs two at a time. He crested to find a sunlit deck, the sky startlingly blue. They were docked in a Myrian port, already tied down.

Somebody bumped into Archer from behind. He turned around quickly to find Rusher, tugging a shirt over his head.

"Hair looks good, Kingsley. You manage to do that yourself?"

Archer blinked. "You're complimenting me?"

Alexander shrugged. "I'm supposed to get everybody on deck for a meeting. You and your crew."

"What for?"

Alexander was walking away as he said, "Nobody knows. Probably something to do with that attack last night."

Archer tried to figure out what Silta could have to say about that, but he couldn't think of anything. As he waited, the other crew members found their ways on deck. He found Courtley first, as his face was bruised over the eye and his lip was split. He was talking in hushed tones to Kourvourk.

Marquis and the rest of Archer's crew found him. Alli was without Britter for once—he was probably with Silta.

"You know what this is about, Captain?" Marquis asked.

"No. Not sure."

The doors to the captain's quarters flung open, and Silta came through with Britter. She jogged down the stairs, her movements quick, easy and calculated. She searched the deck as she moved, just like Bardarian always had. There was no indication that she had nearly been in tears over hair a few minutes ago.

She stopped at the bottom of the stairs, eyes scanning over the crew. "Eiler!" she shouted. Her voice was back to normal.

Sam Eiler—the ginger from the other night—stepped forward. He took Silta's side like he was familiar with what was happening.

"Ranks!" Britter shouted.

Immediately, the crew of the Avourienne sorted themselves, leaving Archer and his crew to the last rank.

Rolling her shoulders, Silta stepped up to the first rank, starting with Starle. "Who do you play for?" she asked.

"You, Captain," Starle replied.

Silta took a step to her right and repeated the question to Rusher.

"You, Captain," he answered.

She moved on to Harvi, then to Jackson, then the next and the next. Eiler stayed by her side, his eyes flicking over their responses. Noticing who was lying.

Silta seemed to be satisfied with their answers, until she got to Kourvourk. He replied the same as everyone else, but Eiler shook his head, to which Silta lifted her chin.

"He's not telling the whole truth," Eiler said.

Kourvourk cleared his throat, looking to Silta. For a moment, there was a pause. Then, the cook's voice came, "I played for Bardarian. He was the man I pledged my life to. Not you." The tension on the deck was thick and heavy as Kourvourk paused again. Silta was patient, her eyes on his.

"But he left me to you," Kourvourk said. "So I'm yours. In his name."

"There it is," Eiler said with a nod.

Silta's eyes were on the cook for a moment longer. She wanted her own legacy, but it was impossible for her to separate from Bardarian. This was his crew, tied to loyalty by him. She could never change that.

After a moment, she moved on. She asked Don Diver, the new crew member Archer met the other night. She asked Vikki Valour, the astrologist that had a thing for him. She asked Bates, too, and they all gave the same, truthful answer: they played for her.

She stood in front of Laurier for a moment, then flicked her finger and said, "Well, we know it wasn't you." She moved on to Pincho. "And you, love? Whose side are you on?"

Pincho bowed his head with a slight smile. "Captain Kingsley's, ma'am."

"Kingsley isn't an option, love. It's me or Him," Silta said.

"Apologies, ma'am," Pincho replied. "You're not my captain. I don't answer to you."

Silta snapped her fingers a few times, then skipped over the rest of the Myriad crew until she found Archer. "Whose side are you on, then?" Her gaze was sharp and unwavering, but deadly calm.

Archer paused, glancing to Britter. The first mate gave him a slight nod.

If you don't play for her, you play for Him.

But He could be someone that had a point. He could be someone that boasted better values than Silta.

"As of now, we're with you," Archer replied. "I subject that to change barring new information."

Silta smiled, showing no teeth. She spun away, then walked among the ranks for a silent moment. She walked all the way to the end of the second one, turning to face Courtley, who Archer realized had been skipped initially.

"Whose side are you on, love?" she asked.

Courtley held her sharp gaze steadily.

"Yours," he said.

Eiler cleared his throat, but Silta held up her hand; she didn't him Eiler for this. She kept her eyes on Courtley.

"Whose side are you on?" she asked him again.

"Your side, Captain."

She tilted her head. Took a step closer. Archer felt himself holding his breath.

"Liar," Silta snarled, giving Courtley a hard shove back. "He came to you, hoping to exploit your disloyalty, and He succeeded. You told Him that the map is not destroyed, and a girl named Alli Laurier has it memorized. You use a flare at night so He can find us, you allow Him on board, and He nearly kills both Laurier and my first mate."

The quartermaster merely grinned, his façade lifted.

"You think it should've been you in this hat, do you, Courtley?" Silta asked.

"It should be me," he hissed back.

"Perhaps it should be," she said. "But it's not." She tugged the pistol from her waist and brought the barrel to Courtley's forehead, taking a step closer to him and leaning in close.

"Tell me, Courtley. Whose side are you on?"

"His." The quartermaster showed no sign of backing down.

Silta gave him her signature grin, full of the canines and the malice and the violence as she whispered, "Then you're a dead man."

He said back, "Not for long—"

Silta pulled the trigger before he was done. The quartermaster's heavy body fell to the deck immediately, dead.

The world was silent. The deck was silent. Archer was silent.

After the ringing stopped and the kill sunk in, Silta whirled around.

"If He comes to you," she shouted, "promising you life after death—things you didn't know you could have, you stop and think before you tell Him yes."

She walked among the first rank, saying the words as sharp as possible, "Bardarian was no fool, and maybe only this crew knows that. He went out of his way to protect you in the event of his death. He gave you to me. I don't care if you don't like me, if you think I slept my way to this position, if you think I'm incapable or if you think I'm insane. You were given to me. By someone who you did trust."

There was a pause as she walked, the ocean air deadly silent. "There was a moment, that night, where I lay bloody and dying next to the dead body of a man I stood beside for a third of my lifetime. There was a moment where I thought, how nice would it be, to just lay here and die? Have it all be over?" She paused. "Go with him—it would've been poetic."

The crew listened carefully. The wind didn't dare to blow, the water didn't dare to move as she continued, "I could've left you to the traitor who gave you up the second it became of his personal interest, but I crawled, hand over hand, for you. I fought for life, for you. I did it for you." Each time she emphasized the word, she pointed the hilt of the pistol to a crew member. Each word she spoke, the crew loosened, nodding along with her, mumbling their agreements.

"I made this ship into what it was," she said. "I chose this ship over my success time after time. I killed a lot of people for you." She took a deep breath, as if these words truly meant the world to her. "But that doesn't mean as much as choosing to live for you." She paused one last time, spreading her arms. "So when He offers you salvation"—she narrowed her gaze, conspiracy shining in her eyes—"you tell Him to go fuck himself."

The crew of the Avourienne screamed their agreement, breaking from the ranks. Nothing like a good death to bond them once more.

Silta nodded, but she wasn't done. She took a step back and shouted, "If that's not enough for you—if loyalty isn't enough, I'll shoot you dead, and you won't ever come back."

The shouts quieted down, and there was silence again for a moment.

"Jackson!" sheyelled. "You've just been promoted. Welcome to the bridge crew." She turnedaway and called out the dismissal, leaving the chaos behind.