Both the sun and wind were absent as Archer came up from belowdecks, watching the water turn dark. The red sails over his head drifted aimlessly, hardly catching any speed. The ship coasted slowly through the glasslike water below, silent and deadly once the sky lost its colour.

For the few hours he'd had to himself, Archer had gone over Farley's meticulous plan of attack. In the two years since his friend had ditched this ship, a good number of people had come and...well, died, since you didn't retire from the Avourienne, which left Archer to apply the general wisdom to his current situation. His job was to be a so-called grey man, a near invisible soldier who did their work and nothing else. Someone who didn't obtain gazes, whose name was tossed around but never dwelled on. So his plan was to pick out a group of three people to surround himself with; two harmless ones to cling to, and one for protection.

Denver was one of the harmless ones, he'd decided. From the way Bardarian acted around him, Archer could tell his first connection here was nobody of note. The second person he wanted to find was that young scout, the fourteen-year-old. If he latched himself close to that boy and adopted the big-brother role, people might leave both of them alone.

And finally, the navigator. Farley called him an artist aboard a ship of killers, an essential cog in their machine who preferred to draw and quip the occasional joke rather than bloody his fists. He was the most popular of the middle ranks, adored and more importantly respected by everyone. If Archer got him on his side, he'd have protection, someone that might provide a wall between him and the bullies.

It was a great plan, but it was off to a terrible start. The moment Archer stepped out on the deck, he realized the young scout was still up in the crow's nest, and therefore impossible to speak to.

Archer stepped to the rail, leaning over to see the horizon on their nose. No land, yet—although Bardarian had mentioned port soon. What would it be like, to set foot in a place completely new to him?

Something brushed against his leg, and when he looked down, it was nothing but a cat, concerningly old and matted to hell and back. It curled around his leg, looking up at him expectantly.

Archer glanced around, but only the cabin boys were scurrying around the deck; the rest of the crew were lounging or in the common room, considering the shouts and loud conversation that was coming from there. He leaned down and ran his fingers over the cat's spine. It was well-fed, as most ship's cats were. They were said to be an investment, eating the rats and such.

The cat fell back on its haunches as Archer worked a few of the mats out near its neck. Animals couldn't be evil, could they? Even if they were around it all the time? Just when he thought the cat might've started purring, it was overtaken by some sort of chorus coming from the common rom.

Sighing, Archer got to his feet once more, abandoning the cat by the rail. It followed him for a moment but snuck away in favour of something quieter when he came up to the source of all the noise. He pushed open the swinging doors, getting a lay of the land.

He preferred the quiet deck to this room, with more of that thick smoke and sharp reek of liquor. It was loud and barbaric, with countless people strewn about the couches and tables, shouting about whatever gave them passion. Archer couldn't form a single thought with that song still being chanted from the far corner of the room.

"Good evening, Kingsley."

Archer startled again, slamming his shoulder back into the door he'd come through. Britter didn't acknowledge the jumpiness as he leaned against the wall next to a rum barrel. "Got yourself situated?" he asked, crossing his arms. Out of his uniform now, the tracks of muscle along his forearms bode like a subtle warning.

Archer collected himself and said, "I murdered most of what I came with."

Britter only grinned. "Most of us did."

Archer didn't want to spend another second near the strategist and his fake smile. He wasn't just absent from the three-man plan; he was an active threat to it with those clever eyes. If he wanted to stay quiet, Archer had to stay far from anyone who could poke holes in his act. He muttered an excuse to leave and searched the crowd for Denver, who he found lounging on a couch near the back of the room.

"Kingsley!" he shouted, cheeks already flushed with rum. "Come sit."

Archer maneuvered through the maze of small tables and scattered bottles. Thankfully, the navigator was across from Denver, telling a story everyone in the vicinity seemed utterly infatuated with. His long fingers moved as he spoke, pale eyes shining in the sparse lighting.

"Here." Denver handed him a half-full bottle of some dark liquid, which Archer quickly set on the table next to him. He leaned back into the couch, surveying the room. In the space to their right, the brawls were starting, knuckles and faces bloody as everyone bet on the pirate they favoured to win.

Rusher was still telling his story, and Archer found himself unable to listen. The room was packed to the brim with dozens of sailors, all undoubtedly enjoying their night. Through the haze, he could see a subset of the room in the far corner, raised up a few steps. The bridge crew was in there, the quartermaster pacing back and forth, cigar still billowing like it was stuck to his finger. The first mate shouted something across the space, and Bardarian leaned back on his couch, feet crossed at the ankles as he shook his head in amusement.

The hairs on the back of Archer's neck started to prickle like he was being watched, but Rusher was still telling his story, and Denver was still leaned forward on his thighs listening. He tried to get comfortable, tried to observe everyone's dynamic, but he kept getting distracted by that feeling.

The atmosphere held strong for a little while longer until the crowd started to thin out. Rusher seemed to run out of stories, and most of the younger men opted for their rooms. Archer still hadn't said much, even though making connections was important in his current situation.

A commotion by the bridge crew drew his attention. The quartermaster and the first mate were still arguing, and Bardarian was still grinning. This time, though, Silta was behind him, looking senselessly bored with one arm slung over the back of the couch.

He squinted at her hand. From this angle, it looked like it was resting on the back of Bardarian's neck. Lowering his voice, Archer elbowed Denver and said, "Hey." He nodded to them. "Bardarian and Silta. Are they a thing?"

Following his focus, Denver let out a snort that cut him off. "Yeah. Like, a seven-year thing. You didn't know?"

Archer glanced back at them. He hadn't; Farley never disclosed anything of the sort, but then again, Farley tended to carefully tiptoe around anything champion-related that wasn't essential to his plan.

Silta's fingers disappeared once more, and Archer looked to Denver again. "She's like...half his age," he said.

The meaty man across from them scoffed as he but in, "Nah, not quite. He's younger than he looks. Early thirties or something."

Silta rolled her eyes as the first mate turned his shouting on her. She was still a good chunk younger than that.

"But you know what they say," the man went on, rolling back his shoulders. "Power gets you the prettiest things."

Rusher leaned in with a grin. "Are we talking about our favourite Siren?" he mused.

Denver blew a large breath out of his nose as he sloshed around whatever was in his bottle. "I think it's bullshit," he declared. "No lovers on the ship—that's Bardarian's rule, the one we're supposed to live by—and yet he's got his strategist in his room every other night." He shook his head and took a swig. "Bullshit."

"Careful, careful," Rusher said, his voice hushing. "One might think you're jealous, Tolva."

Denver rolled his eyes as he tossed a finger in Silta's direction. "Look at her," he said pointedly. "Who isn't?"

Rusher offered a lopsided smile. "Me," he said. His eyes were sly, and his implication was plenty clear, but Archer sensed something off.

"You and her?" he asked, frowning. It didn't make sense. Even if Bardarian and Silta were some nightly waste of time, it wouldn't match a king's reputation to share.

Rusher lifted a graceful finger to his lips and said, "Hush, Minnow."

It wasn't true. Archer had spent all his life on the same island, watching, observing, tallying. He knew people, knew their expressions and their fibs. The navigator was lying, utterly and completely about his relationship with Silta, and it was likely in order to—apparently successfully—gain popularity.

Denver flicked the cork from his bottle at the navigator, who smacked it away. "Nobody in this business is loyal," he told Archer. "Silta's just a hell of a convenient ship girl."

Rusher barked out a laugh. "She'd slit your throat if she heard you call her that."

Archer glanced over at that couch once more to view the two of them in the light of all this behind-the-scenes information, but Silta wasn't there anymore. He searched the room for her, but he came up short. He twisted to look over his shoulder and flinched yet again, hands reflexively snapping up, ready. She was just standing there, behind their couch.

"Novari," Rusher said, as if her haunting way of appearing like that was something he was used to.

"Alexander," she said back, stepping around the arm of the couch. The name felt flat and cold from her lips.

Beside him, Denver had gone still and quiet, terrified that she'd heard what he'd said about her, but she didn't seem to notice him.

"You know," Rusher was saying, making space for her on the couch that she didn't take advantage of, "I'd like to know the plan for tomorrow. You brainiacs are messing with my course every five seconds."

Instead, Silta sat slowly on the table just in front of him. "Liar," she said, catching Archer's eye. "You're behind because you got bored of planning and left."

Rusher huffed, but Archer was stuck on that look she'd tossed him. Liar, she'd said, as pointedly as possible. Was it somehow her way of confirming that Rusher was prone to that kind of thing, that Archer had been right when he'd concluded what he did about the navigator? It was virtually impossible; she'd have to have heard the entire conversation, deduced his thoughts, then directed the conversation so she could confirm them. Still, he kept the possibility open, just in case.

"At least tell me if we're making port tomorrow," Rusher pushed.

She shrugged, then tossed something at Archer. He caught it, that same twine ball. "They don't think we will," she said, gesturing for the ball back. "We're windless. They think it'll have to be the next day."

"You throw things at everyone?" Archer asked, examining the twine before tossing it back.

She caught it. "Just you." She smiled, no canines, no malice. On the deck this morning, he'd guessed her in her late twenties, but now that she was away from the older men, perched under the soft lighting, he realized she couldn't be more than a handful of years older than him, maybe twenty-four.

Denver groaned and said, "I'm tired of sea days."

Rusher scrunched up his nose and took a drink. "You're a sailor," he pointed out.

Silta snapped her fingers, drawing their attention. "I don't want to talk about the weather," she said. "I want a word with Kingsley. The rest of you are dismissed."

Rusher rolled his eyes, but he got up to leave. "For the last time, Novari. Navigator and strategist are the same rank. You can't dismiss me."

"But I'm the Captain's ship girl. Surely I get points for that."

Everyone stilled, Denver first. The conversations around them went on, but their couch went silent. Archer pursed his lips, opting to pick back up the bottle Denver had given him. He'd probably need it.

Rusher cleared his throat and turned around. He and the meaty man had the sense to flee the moment Silta's voice dropped into that fake charming tone. Denver, for his part, didn't move. When Archer glanced over at him, his face was white.

Silta shifted her weight back on her hands, watching him carefully. "Little bold for a cabin boy," she noted.

"Deckhand," Denver corrected, but it was flimsy and weak.

Silta gave him a look that said well, what's the difference? "What do you say, Tolva?" she asked. "Should I tell my ship boy what you say behind his back?"

Denver kept his eyes just a little below hers, perhaps a form of respect, but more likely a gesture of fear. "I didn't..." he trailed off. "Well, I never insulted him."

Archer let out a long, deep breath through his nose. Wrong answer.

"But wouldn't that have been smarter?" Silta inquired, leaning forward, missing nothing. "Titles aside, I think we know who has the dirtier hands."

Denver's nose twitched, his face the colour of a whitecap. "Sorry," he whispered.

Silta made a little gesture with her fingers, and he immediately got to his feet and fled. On his way around the couch, he tipped over a bottle on the table, but he didn't turn around to right it.

Archer leaned forward and picked it up, setting it back on the surface. When he looked back, her amber eyes were tracking his movements like a predator. He said nothing.

She shifted her gaze from his hands to his face, then back again. "You look miserable, love," she said.

He hadn't seen this starting with prose. Every muscle in his body was tense and ready as he replied, "Murdering a lover will do that to you."

"Everyone on this ship has been there."

"Not you, it seems," he said.

She grinned, Siren canines the star of the show. "Ship girl perks."

Archer wondered if she ever accidentally cut her lips with those teeth. He examined her hair, the slope of her nose. She was the epitome of a distraction, of sharp, Siren beauty, but Farley had confirmed a thousand times over that she didn't have any of their abilities. Just a human woman, he'd said. Her mother was a Siren, but for whatever reason, she didn't get the tail.

She lowered her chin, amused. She was a classic narcissist, someone talented that knew they were talented, someone attractive that knew they were attractive. If he gave her what she wanted, maybe she'd lose interest in him.

"They don't call you a ship girl where I'm from," he said—which was true. Her name was notorious even on isolated places like Orphano, and he hadn't even known her and Bardarian were involved. "They call you the Champion."

Her eyes sparkled. "That's because you're Myrian," she said. "And Myrians like one of their own. Everyone else around you is from the Cobalts, and up there, Bardarian's is the only name they care about."

"But I'm not," Archer said. "Myrian. I found Orphano when I was three. That doesn't mean I was born there." Most people—most normal people—weren't from Myria. Weird, peculiar things came from that place. Sirens, for one.

She tapped the table like she was losing her interest. "Yes, love. I understand the concept of Orphano, but you're still Myrian." She lifted her finger, drawing a circle in the air around his face. "The eyes, the hair, the accent." She dropped her hand. "Myrian, through and through." When he just blinked, unconvinced, she sighed. "Look at your skin, Kingsley. Myrian."

Archer glanced around. Sure, he was a little more tan than most of the crew, but then again—"I'm a fisherman," he said. "I spend a lot of time in the sun." That didn't mean he was from the south. His missing parents were Kingsland workers—as north as north could be. He couldn't risk giving her that kind of information, though, so he generalized as best he could and said, "You're very interested in where I come from."

She raised her brows, recognizing the ploy instantly. "I'm more interested in why you left. Orphano is a safe place, or so I've heard. A very happy-go-lucky pastel-covered kind of island."

Archer forced his face to a blank slate. Those were Farley's words, and if she remembered them after two years, that meant she and him were well acquainted. This was testing, prodding, trying to discern if he and Archer knew each other.

"Never really been one for safety," he said casually.

"But you are one for morality."

She was talking too quickly, forcing him to make a mistake. She was revealing a trap, then setting another one as he tried to sidestep it. "I had to kill somebody I love. I'm hurting," he said. "It has nothing to do with morality."

"Are you?" she asked. "Hurting? Because it wasn't all that difficult to convince you to put a bullet through the blonde."

The traps were everywhere, the lures sprinkled over this mindscape battlefield. He knew he should take his time answering and slow down her whiplike replies, but he was too arrogant, too willing to believe he could beat her. "So am I moral, then?" he asked. "Or heartless?"

"Counterintuitive, isn't it?"

Trap, trap, trap. Don't fall for the pretty face or the guise of an athlete, Farley said. Her mind is your only problem.

"You know what I think?" she asked, leaning forward slowly. Her eyes narrowed in a way that implied she was done with the small talk, finished with the baiting. "You weren't easy to convince; you were doing damage control. You shot that woman before I could list all the things you didn't want her to hear."

She's intuitive, Kingsley. She's smart, she's calculated. She's a strategist. None of those words explained what this woman could do.

"So I didn't think she needed to hear those things before she died," he hissed. "I loved her—is that not the point of your sick little loyalty test?"

She grinned, and panic flared in Archer's chest as he realized. The trap had been set, the lure was dangled, and he'd just stepped right into it.

"Morality," she said. "That's quite a moral thing to do, isn't it?" She tilted her head slowly like she was deciphering a piece of art. "Someone who thinks like that does not pull the trigger as easily as you did." She leaned closer and whispered, "Counterintuitive."

Archer held his tongue. If he didn't speak, he couldn't make another mistake.

"You know what else unnerves me about you?" she asked, eyes flicking to his hands, barely inches from that bottle he'd righted. Her teeth bared, and he swore he saw the light shine off one of her canines as she said, "You know us. You have a list in your head of our strengths and weaknesses, our positions, our backstory. You know who to fear, who to stay close to and who to avoid. It's almost like..." She paused, as if she were searching for an explanation she didn't have. "It's almost like I trained you myself."

Because she trained Farley, and Farley trained him. Damage control. Damage control. "I'm observant," he said carefully, trying not to sweat or shift. "I make quick deductions. And yes, I've taught myself to throw a punch. Lots of people do."

"I might've come to the same conclusion," she said, "if you weren't so cautious." Catching and releasing with ease, a game she played as a pastime. "I like to play underdog, so an arrogant man is my favourite kind. But you—despite being arrogant enough to dig yourself the hole you're currently at the bottom of, although I will admit to giving you the shovel—are far too cautious around me to be simply confident." She nodded her head over to that room with the bridge crew, paying attention to nothing but themselves. "I saw you today around those men, love. You never once felt physically threatened, not around Britter, not around Bardarian. But the moment I stood up, the moment I got in your vicinity, you backed up. You took a tally of your weapons. You're think you can beat those men, right? Just aren't sure if you can take me? You're not trained, love. You're prepared."

Archer held his breath. He was struggling enough to simply keep up with her quick-moving monologue, much less try to decide how to combat it.

"You've played us for fools," she whispered, readying her final blow. "You intended to kill that girl this morning, and she intended to die. You, Archer Kingsley, are exactly where you want to be."

Traps, traps, traps. Was she so sure of all these things, or was she only playing that way to bait him into admitting it? Either or, he was not taking his chances. His self-preservation was in full force, kicking into gear. He shifted his weight onto his thighs, let his wrists hang over his knees like he was comfortable and unbreakable. He met her gaze.

"You're not so straightforward yourself," he said. "You've got the connections, the damn captain in your bed, and yet you still can't beat out that surely inept stubby man for first mate?" When her eyes sparked just the tiniest hint of anger—when he knew he had her as much as she could be had—he pressed on. "You want to talk about what I think? For all your self-importance and flashy bravado, you're nothing but a woman fighting tooth and nail to achieve a man's position in a man's world. You're desperately clawing to keep your head above water, and starting a fight with some unknown variable is the last thing you need. So how about this, love." He leaned over, speaking as firm as he could manage, "You stay out of my way, and I'll stay out of yours."

She was still and quiet for a long moment, just inches away, seemingly incapable of blinking. But then her lips curled. "You're irresistible," she murmured, the edges of a smile slurring her words. "I'll trade him in for you tonight, Kingsley."

His heart was beating so fast, and his mind was whirling at a speed he couldn't comprehend. He hissed, "Then put a bullet in my head and live the hell you've inflicted on the rest of us."

Her grin spread. "You're fun," she said.

He lifted his chin and leaned back. She was bored, this woman. She'd likely battered everyone around her into submission, left them so bloody and bruised that they didn't want to indulge her anymore. She liked fresh meat.

He broke her gaze and got to his feet. It took every ounce of his strength not to sprint from the room, to scream for Farley's help even though his best friend was getting farther and father by the minute. He might've saved himself tonight, might've avoided a showdown this time, but he couldn't shake the feeling that he was indeed the minnow of this ship, and behind him, returning to her pack of piranhas, was the shark.