editing split: 11A | The Faith of Uncertainty

Sweat glistened on Archer's forehead, running down the side of his face as he strained to keep a hold of the line he had in his hands.

"A little to the left," Nelson directed from behind them.

Archer grunted as he moved. "Better?"

"Maybe a little less."

"Are you kidding, mate?" Denver said as they moved back a step. "You just moved us from here."

Nelson didn't seem to mind the complaining. "That looks fine. Tie it off."

Archer tied his portion off and rolled his shoulders, stretching the kinks out of his back. He found out rather quickly that the deckhands of the Avourienne were a tireless cog in the workings of the ship, causing a different part of his body to ache after every day. Fortunately, the gruelling work was a welcome distraction.

The little ticks he kept under his nightstand added up to one month today. One month since Jeanne and the bullet, one month since he'd last seen Orphano. The weather held no consistency; sometimes he couldn't sleep from a raging storm rocking the ship, other days he felt his skin turn darker and darker from the constant sunlight. He got up, completed his heavy workload, took his meals in silence and stepped out of Silta's way. He spent his evenings with Denver and Nelson, drinking the only thing that could make him forget. Since the navy ship incident, he'd managed to avoid speaking with anyone who wasn't a deckhand—but sometimes, when he passed Silta on the deck or they ended up in the same room, she'd toss him that marble, and he'd toss it back, too proud to ask why.

Licking his dry lips, Archer headed to the water barrel, expertly keeping his head down as Britter came by, shuffling a few maps on his way to the strategy room. As the sun began its final leg towards the horizon, he felt that familiar nag in his heart, ready to begin the nightly prayer that no navy ship would be spotted in the coming darkness.

His water was halfway to his lips when Tanner's voice came from the crow's nest.

"Ship ahoy...I think!" he shouted.

All heads on deck swivelled to scan the water. Archer took a step to the side, glancing over the rail to where Tanner was looking.

"Huh," Denver said behind him.

Archer squinted, seeing the ship on the horizon to the east. "Who is it?" he asked Denver. "Do we know them?"

Starle popped out of the navigation room just as Archer voiced his questions. As the assistant navigator, it was odd to see him without Rusher smacking the back of his head or adjusting the pencil in his meaty fingers. "We know them," he declared, leaning against the rail to get a look.

Footfalls sounded from above as Bardarian took the steps of his balcony, parting the crowd that had gathered. He jogged up the steps to the topdeck, speaking to the old wheel scout, Jackson.

Archer followed Denver to the topdeck, where he asked again, "Who is it?"

Jackson handed Bardarian a spyglass, then glanced over at Archer. "The Forlorn," he said. There were no nerves to his tone, but there was definitely something unusual.

"Who are they?" Tanner said, pushing through the group, right until he knocked into Bardarian.

Bardarian made a noise in the back of his throat as he glanced behind him, causing Tanner to take a few careful steps back. The Captain said nothing, just brought the spyglass up again. As he tilted his head up, Archer saw the tattoo on the back of his neck, the Avourienne in script, a common practice for a pirate captain. There should be a symbol of the Avourienne on his ring finger, too—married to the ship, not to a woman—but Archer wasn't the least surprised to find the finger bare. He'd guessed Bardarian right, then.

"They've travelled a far way from Myria," the quartermaster, Courtley, commented, voice sly and unnerved.

"They're coming for the bounty."

Almost everyone startled at the sound of her voice. Appearing from nowhere was something Silta often did, but that didn't mean anyone was used to it.

Bardarian collapsed the spyglass with a snap as he glanced at her. He said nothing, but both his face and hers indicated they had embarked on some silent argument.

"Who are they?" Tanner asked again.

Starle squinted out at the approaching ship. "Captain Kernite and the Forlorn. They're pirates, same as us. We stay out of their way, they stay out of ours."

"But now they want the bounty?" Tanner concluded. The dud was displaying an unusual amount of fear himself.

Bardarian pushed his way to the back of the crowd, ignoring them. He spoke to Bates in a quiet tone for a moment.

"So what happens now?" Tanner asked.

"We play niceties until we know what they're up to," Starle said, shrugging. He glanced at Bardarian for word, who was looking at Silta again.

Once they'd finished their internal conversation, Bardarian snapped his fingers to draw their attention. "Listen up," he called.

Everyone turned, ready for whatever he had to say. Instead of talking himself, he gave Silta a nod, who cleared her throat.

"Kernite is after me," she started, voice echoing across the deck. "With that in mind, who votes for me to jump ship?"

All eyes settled on her, but no one spoke.

"Tell the truth," Bardarian told them. "We'll send her on a rowboat if that's the consensus."

He said the words smoothly, but Archer guessed there was very little truth to them; Bardarian knew what his crew's choice would be, he just wanted to remind them of it before it became reality.

Finally, Lyra spoke, "Nonsense. They want her, they want us."

The crew nodded in agreement, no signs of dishonesty on their faces. They really would lay down their lives for her, right here. If it were up to Archer, he'd push her off the ship himself.

Silta raised her brows at Bardarian, gesturing for Britter to come assist with the strategy. Archer turned his gaze to Jackson, who was looking for a flag.

The Forlorn drew closer, trimming as they slowed. A flag began to unfurl above the skysail, black as night—the peace flag. Or at least cause for a nice talk before the war broke out.

Archer got to work with Denver as the Avourienne slowed as well, the ships coming into a broadside position. The Forlorn was the bigger ship, which was clear from its long, sweeping movements. As they came around the side, Archer got a good view of the old captain at the helm, steering her in with old, tired eyes.

Lyra and the other scouts got out the ropes, tossing them over for the crew of the Forlorn to grasp. The ships came together, slow and steady. Archer took up a spot with the other deckhands at the rail.

On the Forlorn, two crew members brought out their gangplank, carefully positioning it over the gap and helping Captain Kernite board the Avourienne. He was old, but he didn't quite look frail. Aside from the crew helping him, the rest of the deck of the Forlorn was nearly blank.

Archer looked over at Silta, knowing an empty deck meant the rest of the crew could be belowdecks, loading weapons. The strategists had long ago noticed this, tossing glances at each other. Britter gave Denver a nod. Archer stayed put as his friend and a few others snuck belowdecks for their own scheming.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen." Captain Kernite nodded to Bardarian, who leaned against the rail beside him, offering the older man a hand as he boarded.

"Kernite," Bardarian replied, smooth as ever. "What can we do for you?"

Captain Kernite gazed around at the crew of the Avourienne. His eyes glassed over Archer, then kept going. "You know what you can do for me, Vallin," he said slowly, eyes settling on Silta.

She rolled onto the balls of her feet. It was almost unnoticeable, but to her left, Britter's shoulders tensed and Rusher dropped his hand closer to his pistol.

"What would you want a bounty for, Kernite?" Silta asked, standing still and nonchalant. "From the King, at that.

"It's a fantastic bounty, lass," Captain Kernite said.

"You're a pirate," she replied. "You don't take handouts."

"We used to refuse handouts," Kernite corrected. "A time comes when they're no longer a weakness."

Silta rolled onto her heels, and Britter took a step forward.

Bardarian held out a hand to stop anyone from moving. He spoke slowly and enunciated, "Caper, I'm confused. You thought you'd come aboard to simply ask for a crew member you know very well I won't hand over? I mean, Bates—take him. Not my champion."

There were laughs scattered across the deck. Perhaps it was an attempt to break the tension, but Archer guessed Bardarian didn't care for such niceties; it was simply the truth.

"I know just how much you value your strategist," Kernite said, an amused expression crossing his withered face. "I've been around far longer than you, lad, and I remember a time when you were nothing more than a boy in an ocean full of men."

"You must have an incredible memory," Bardarian replied slyly.

Kernite lifted a light brow. "You came upon this success because you put your life and feelings behind that of your crew. Why go back on it now?"

Bardarian didn't seem fazed. "Feelings aside, she's a very valuable strategist. Good with her hands, too." He smiled. "Combat, of course."

"That's hardly the reason—"

"Yes, yes." Bardarian waved his hand. "It's not a secret anymore, Kernite. The fact that you know it makes this whole situation all the more absurd. Like I said, you should've asked for Bates. Perhaps you still can. I even have a few deckhands I might give up in the name of peace."

Archer glanced over at Bates and Jackson, who were giggling at Bardarian's replies. He was infamous for his undying protection of every member of his crew—including his deckhands. This wasn't a negotiation in hopes of avoiding a fight; it was the prose to bloodshed.

Kernite took a step forward, a previously unseen aggression unveiling. "I'll blow this beautiful ship to pieces, Bardarian," he said through gritted teeth. "I swear it."

Bardarian leaned in a little closer, and said, "I'm a boy in an ocean of men, Kernite. Go easy on me, yes?"

Once Kernite realized the Captain wasn't budging, he turned to Silta. He took a step towards her, now three or four steps from the gangplank. "You," he snapped. "You're the ringleader, are you not? Spare his ship. Show the sensibility you stole from him."

Bardarian rolled his eyes, but Silta smiled. "Use that incredible memory of yours to deduce what happens if I go with you," she said. "History is known to be repetitive."

Britter took a sharp breath in, and Bardarian glanced at her, no amusement to be found. Archer didn't understand this dynamic at all—what history? What would repeat?

There was a small, almost unnoticeable glint in Kernite's gaze. He took another step forward. "Aye," he said, glancing over at Bardarian, whose gaze was suddenly stony. "Captain," Kernite said, mocking tone evident, "don't tell me that's why you won't give her up."

It was bait. Kernite's admittedly clever plan was to drive a wedge between Bardarian and Silta; he knew strategy and firepower could not function properly if they were out of sync. Archer knew that was the plan, but he didn't understand what secretive threat was allowing it to work.

Silta, of course, caught the scheme a beat earlier than anyone else. Before Bardarian could fall for it, she jumped in, as lighthearted as ever, "I suppose coming with you would be noble, but it's a shame I'm no such thing."

Bardarian glanced at her again, realizing the trap she'd saved him from.

Silta was still going, "Don't get me wrong, I'm a lot of things, but noble just isn't really one of them. Ambitious, yes. Merciless? Sure. Brilliant, obviously. Highly skilled—"

"Highly skilled," Bardarian interrupted, joining in again. "She's broken a spine before. Saw it with my own eyes. I believe he was about your size, actually."

Silta nodded, glancing at Bardarian, solidifying their united front. "Down to the pound," she said. "Odd coincidence."

Kernite wasn't entertaining their games, and now he was flustered his plan hadn't worked. "The bounty is alive. We won't kill you," he insisted.

It wasn't. It was dead, and the crew of the Avourienne knew it.

"Come to the surface here, for I fear there's a liar near," Bardarian sang, ending with a grin.

It was a common phrase they used to say on Orphano, referencing the legend of the Korower, the deadliest animal in the sea. It was said to despise the dishonesty of humans and should one speak the words of the poem, the Korower would break the surface and take care of whichever party was the liar in the bloodiest way possible.

No giant sea creature was to be seen. It was a legend, after all, made up to scare children out of fibbing.

Kernite ignored the little poem. "You want a fight, Bardarian? You'd put your ship and your crew in true danger? Over her?"

Bardarian shrugged. "History is known to be repetitive," he said. He was still leaning against the rail, nonchalant, but behind his back, he closed his fist—a signal.

Below his feet, Archer felt the click of the cannon window. One more, then a third.

Captain Kernite paused. "A good run we had," he said. He took a few steps back, onto the gangplank, and tapped his boot twice in his own signal.

Silta abruptly stepped closer to Bardarian. A mere millisecond later, a bullet pierced the wood where she'd been standing. The sniper was in the folds of the Forlorn's mainsail, the smoke from their pistol swirling.

Bardarian shook his head, patting Silta's shoulder a few times as if praising her for seeing the sniper. "That's that," he said simply.

Jackson was at the helm in an instant, ordering to trim and pull the Avourienne out of broadside the moment it was needed. Britter and a few others were able to dive after Kernite before the members of the Forlorn kicked away the gangplank and the ships began to separate. Bardarian ordered them to be hooked, and soon the ships were caught together, forced to face each other at the most dangerous of angles. The Forlorn was bigger, but the Avourienne was quicker; it all depended on who got the first round of cannons, and who was controlling the hooks.

The sound of blades slicing against their sheathes came; the crew of the Forlorn flooded from their hiding places the moment the pistol sounded, pouring onto the Avourienne from above, using previously cut lines to fly over the open space.

Realizing that he was a part of this fight, Archer drew his longknife, but his fingers shook. Below his feet, the crack of a cannon sounded, and the Avourienne fired into the hull of the Forlorn, one after the other.

The ground shuddered under them, making Archer stumble. Before the Forlorn could fire back, the aft hooks were slashed and the Avourienne jumped forward in one sharp movement. Archer tripped backwards, right into a stocky, tattoo-covered member of the Forlorn. The man immediately reached out to slash at him, but Archer kicked him back into the mast, still trying to get his balance.

As another member of the Forlorn chose Archer as his opponent, the Avourienne pulled out of broadside just a second too late. The cannon was aimed near the stern—a near-harmless hit—but it still sent shards of obsidian wood flying enough to piss everyone off.

Archer took a heaving breath as the new man swung a blade within an inch of his neck. He leaned back quickly, catching his balance. He thought he'd recovered, but then he bumped into Bates, who offered him a slew of curses for getting in the way.

As he fought another bought of stumbling from the ship's sudden movements, he flicked his blade, sending both his and his opponent's longknives across the deck in what had seemingly become his signature trick. They clanked away harmlessly, allowing Archer to knee the man in the gut. The pirate recoiled, falling right into another member of the Avourienne, who administered the death their new deckhand clearly couldn't.

He gasped for breath. From his point of view, the Avourienne was going to win, without a doubt. The ship was faster and more powerful, and the crew had better skills. The only thing the Forlorn had over them was numbers, and all that would cause was more deaths on their part.

He stumbled back as someone pushed him into the rail. Spinning to avoid a punch, he kicked a lanky man in the guts, sending him sprawling yet again to another crew member's blade. This needed to stop. He couldn't avoid the navy slaughter, but this, he might have a chance at stopping.

Across the deck was Bardarian's laugh, out of place. Glancing up, Archer spotted him cracking the head of a man against the rail, grinning at Silta, who stood alone by the balcony steps. When she took a step forward, the crew of the Forlorn bent to avoid her.

"It's ironic," Bardarian mused, tossing up a knife and throwing it. "A Champion with no one to fight."

Silta looked over at him. "You want to make a deal?"

"What kind of deal?" Bardarian asked, kicking at a smaller man until he fell back over the rail.

"If I double your kills today, you let me wear your hat for the whole day tomorrow."

Bardarian was laughing again, but Archer didn't listen in for his answer. They weren't the kind of jokes he found funny.

He looked up, trying to solve the problem from the root. If he could just figure out how to get close to Captain Kernite, he might be able to barter the other crew into submission. He could save the countless lives the Avourienne wouldn't even think to end. It would be his good to balance the bad, and with the crew of the Forlorn dropping to the deck like raindrops, he felt the plan begin to form.

In between slashes and hits, he glanced up at the mizzenmast. The Avourienne was still attached to the Forlorn over the hooks, but only by the bow. There was no getting onto the Forlorn by any conventional route anymore, but perhaps there was an unconventional one.

Blinking away his daze, Archer stepped out of the way of a longknife and slammed right into Silta, who had finally found someone to go after.

She spun around to face him. "Catch," she told him, throwing a knife.

Archer just managed to catch it by the hilt. He threw it back, annoyed that the marbles had suddenly turned to sharp objects.

She caught it, then spun around, back to her victim.

Archer tried to think faster. "Get the captain, get the crew," he said to himself. He elbowed a meaty pirate in the throat, buying time.

Silta glanced back at him. "You mumbled, love?" she said, elegant even with the jarring movements of the ship.

"Get the captain, get the crew," Archer told her, speaking as quietly as possible.

She let out a whistle as she ducked under a hit and caught Archer's eye. She had an aura to her, so thrilling and uncertain. It called to him, begged him to forget about the navy ship, about her murder game with Bardarian. Tune into your skills, it whispered. Join the fun.

"We need Kernite," Archer insisted. "To stop this."

She grinned. "You want to fly, love?" She spun around him, avoiding a longknife that came her way. Before he could turn around to face her again, she slung an arm around his shoulder and over his chest from behind, pulling him closer. "I say do it," she whispered, so animated he could hear the grin in the shape of her words. "Halleviere monere," she told him, letting go.

Archer whirled around, those Siren words still skimming the back of his neck. He slashed at another member of the Forlorn, head dizzy. He could feel the ghost of her forearm on the skin of his neck, could feel that inner voice of hers calling again. Who cares if it'll kill you? At least you lived.

He slammed his forehead into the member of the Forlorn's. As soon as the pirate was dazed, he turned and sprinted towards the mainmast. He reached out to the shroud, using it to haul himself over to the crow's nest ladder. He brought with him the free end of the rigging, tying it around his wrist as he climbed. Finally, he was unaffected by the jerking of the ship. Finally, his body did exactly what it was told. The rough spine of the rope dug into his wrist, but he was too focused to care.

He reached the crow's nest, higher than he'd ever been. He wasn't afraid of heights—or so he hoped. He hadn't ever had a chance to decide, and now was not the time.

He maneuvered around to the far end of the crow's nest bucket, furthest from the Forlorn. He looked down briefly, the deck of the Avourienne covered in moving bodies. He took a mighty breath of air. He could do this. This was a good plan. He just had to jump. Into the air, with nothing more than a lock of rope.

Easy.

Archer heard that phrase again, the Siren one, drifting out over the wind. He wasn't sure if Silta had said the words, or if his mind had tossed them out. He didn't know what they meant, but there was a feeling attached to him, something that reached right into his soul. It made him feel like he had all the courage in the world, that if he jumped and fell into the water below, he would live to tell the tale—but no, that wasn't exactly it. It wasn't quite that he felt invincible or unkillable, or that he felt jumping would be fun. It was that not doing it suddenly became an obnoxiously boring and uneventful alternative. There was something about not knowing what might happen, something about the uncertainty of it.

He jumped, as far away from the Forlorn as he could manage.

He flew through the air, the rope pulling out behind him. Right before it pulled taunt, he curled his legs up, pushing the rope around his arms into the ground, giving the swing more momentum. The action sent him racing back over the deck of the Avourienne, then soaring through the space between the two ships, approaching the mainmast of the Forlorn with fantastic speed. The wind roared in his ears, almost as loud as the blood in his head.

He had to let go of the rope on the Avourienne to reach the other ship and as soon as he did, there was one, awful second of nothing where he whirled through free space with nothing to secure him. And at that moment, he did truly feel like he was alive, more so than he ever had on Orphano.

He caught the basket of the Forlorn's crow's nest, swinging down the spar. Few had seen his maneuver, and all who did were members of the Avourienne, as observant as ever. He fell back down into the folds of the skysail, staying hidden.

Against the port rail of the Forlorn was Captain Kernite, with a semicircle of his crew protecting him. Each one of the Avourienne that had managed to get over fought against two of the Forlorn. But no one was watching the Captain's back, because who would ever come from the ocean side?

Archer found another hanging rope in the rigging. The Avourienne was repositioning, angling their bow cannon and firing into the Forlorn. The mast shook hard, loosening his grip and startling him. He could not lose his nerve, not now. He knew those Siren words gave him the guts to jump, so he whispered them to himself once more.

Halleveire monere. He leaped into the air for the second time. He swung out towards the deck, around the back of Kernite. He flew over the ocean again, turning black in the evening. The waves thrashed below, but Archer didn't allow himself to notice. He landed on the rail, almost slipping back into the dark water before he redirected his momentum and barrelled right into the back of Captain Kernite.

He drew the dagger in his belt and brought it to the neck of the previously unsuspecting man. The old man threw up his hands in shock, but Archer didn't push hard enough to draw blood, just hard enough to make every pirate on the Avourienne and the Forlorn stop.

The ocean silenced, and one by one the crew members of the Forlorn glanced towards the unfolding situation, pausing on their slashes, leading the Avourienne to do the same.

He hoped it was the end of this.

editing split: 11B |The Loyalty of Uncertainty (Pt. 1)

Archer stayed very still, his back pressed against the rail of the Forlorn.

The semicircle naturally parted, but Britter spoke before he could move, "Don't move an inch, Kingsley." He knew that moving forward would expose Archer's sides, allowing him to be shot without injury to Kernite.

Archer nodded, fingers doing their best to stay still.

"Say it, Kernite," Britter said, sheathing his knife like it was all over and done.

"We do not forfeit," Kernite said.

"That's so not what I meant," Britter replied, tilting his head with a smile. "You've got a knife to your throat, mate."

But Kernite was an old, wise, experienced man, and he knew a killer from a fake. "This boy?" he scoffed. "He's bluffing."

Archer wished he weren't right. He wished he could kill Kernite right here, right now, or at least put enough pressure on the knife to make it believable, but he really didn't think he could.

"Always so good at calling a bluff." Silta's voice. How she'd followed Archer onto the Forlorn without the ropes was a complete mystery. What mattered was the pistol in her hands, the barrel trained on Kernite and therefore Archer, too.

"Call mine, then," she offered, taking a few steps closer.

"You're aiming at your own sailor," Kernite noted, but there was a certain hesitance to his tone. Silta, he wasn't so sure about.

"I don't really have a problem with that." She gave Kernite a cunning smile, but Archer felt like it was for him. Why tell him to make the swing, only to end up here?

Kernite stayed still in Archer's grasp. His head thundered. She was bluffing. She had to be.

"You're bluffing," Kernite said to her.

"You think so?" she replied. "Call it."

Archer examined her carefully, and he concluded she wasn't bluffing in the least. For the first time in his life, he found himself wishing he wasn't a good judge of expression, that he couldn't see all those telltale signs of confidence. She was prepared to shoot him dead to win a fight they'd been winning anyway.

The ocean went silent again, Kernite's breathing loud in Archer's senses.

"Forfeit," Kernite finally whispered.

The crew of the Forlorn dropped their weapons, metal falling to the decks as they began backing away. The Avourienne crew let them go, disappointed that their fight was cut short.

The Avourienne pulled back over to the Forlorn's starboard side, allowing the crews to redisperse on their respective ships. Archer began to step forward, watching Silta and that trigger finger. He stepped forward until he was a foot from her, her barrel almost touching Kernite's forehead, dagger still across his neck.

Finally, he let go of the knife, not meeting Silta's gaze, and stepped back over to the Avourienne. She'd known Kernite would call Archer's bluff from the moment he suggested the swing to her. She'd known the whole situation would happen the way it did. She'd known, and she'd set him up.

His vision turned crimson red at the edges, and his skin felt boiling hot. The loyalty Silta had been shown earlier—that was what Archer should've experienced. It was what he was supposed to receive for killing Jeanne.

Kernite didn't move. Silta held her aim but backed her way over the new gangplank.

"Should I shoot you anyway?" she asked with a tilt of her head. "For trying to bring me to the King?"

Kernite's hands were raised. "I've surrendered to you," he said. "It's against every pirate code to shoot me now."

"Not really," Bardarian said, back against the rail as if all the bloodshed never happened. "It's against the code to kill you, not to shoot you."

Silta lowered her aim and pulled the trigger, shooting Kernite in the foot. The Avourienne was sails out a second later, leaving the injured captain and his crew to their losses.

The crew might've been yelling with victory, but Archer could only hear the blood whizzing by in his ears. This crew was supposed to protect each other, not offer to murder each other to win a fight that they'd been winning anyway. He was supposed to have earned that much, wasn't he?

He pushed through the crowd to find her. His mind was whirling, his fingers itching to do something about this injustice. He caught sight of her dark hair just as she turned around, so he reached out to throw a punch, no explanation or confrontation to precede it. He would no longer play the role of the victim, tiptoeing around not causing fights because of self-control or morals—the same things that hadn't made a difference to the hundreds of people she'd killed.

She leaned back, narrowly avoiding the hit. He felt nothing but air against his knuckles as the crew tried to come between them.

"You knew," he snarled, pushing towards her again, fighting with whoever was trying to calm him down. "You set me up."

She glanced over the shoulders of the crew that had come between them to meet his gaze. She took a step forward, motioning for the crew to back off.

Across the deck, Archer heard Bardarian yell out what sounded like Silta's name, but she only took another step forward.

His nerve almost collapsed. In his defence, she looked ready to fight, ready to kill. He thought she would try to calm him down, like the rest of the crew. He thought she'd insist she'd been bluffing, lie at the very least.

One more step from her, and they were nose-to-nose. She lifted her chin and whispered, "Hit me, Kingsley."

"Don't hit her, Kingsley," Britter said immediately from behind Archer. He pushed his way to the commotion. "She wasn't going to shoot you, Minnow. She was just bluffing. Let's relax."

"She doesn't bluff," Archer replied, holding Silta's gaze. He desperately wanted to take a step back, but his pride wouldn't let him. He convinced himself that he was not afraid of her. Not of her skill or her mind. He could beat her. He was trained to beat her.

"Would've murdered the Minnow without a second thought," Silta confirmed, never breaking their uncomfortably close eye contact. "Hit me, Kingsley."

Archer felt his jaw clench and his fingers curl again. He could beat her. If he didn't, at least he gave it a shot.

"Do it, lovd," she said. "Let's finally go at it."

Archer could smell the salt of her hair. He could see every golden fleck in her glittering eyes. She was a killer, down in her soul. If he didn't stop her soon, she'd kill him first.

Britter tugged on Archer's shoulder, pulling him back. "Cool down, mate."

Archer reluctantly stumbled back, so Silta took the opportunity to take a step forward after him. Nobody told her to relax, of course. They were all so afraid, but they didn't know just how good he was at hand-to-hand. He could beat her. He was trained to beat her.

"Hit me," she snarled, the points of her canines inches from his face.

"Don't touch her," Britter insisted, still wrenching at him. To her, "Come on, Novari, what is this?"

Archer lost his patience and threw his elbow back. It connected with Britter's throat, finally getting the strategist to take his hands off. It shocked almost everyone on the deck—the strength and speed of the hit, the gall to do it in the first place. See? he thought. He was better than they'd pegged him for.

Silta didn't flinch, so he held his ground. "What happened to loyalty?" he asked her. "What happened to becoming a part of this family I was promised in return for killing someone I loved?"

"Who trained you, Kingsley?" she said back.

Archer blinked. In his rage, he might've forgotten the bigger picture. He couldn't let her dig too deep into Farley, not more than she already had. He went to backtrack, but she took another step, and he finally had to take one back.

"Tell me who gave you your skills," she whispered. "Was it me, love?" A pause. Then, " I think it was me."

Archer's head wrenched sideways, his body following. He stumbled back into Rusher, who caught him right as his head slammed into the rail. He reached up to his temple, and his hand came away with a tinge of red.

"You've got a death wish, Kingsley?" Bardarian asked, peering over at Archer curiously, as if he hadn't just thrown the most violent punch Archer had ever received.

"You." Bardarian pointed to Silta. "You know your damn rules. You don't hit anybody on this ship unless it's training, and begging someone else to start it doesn't count, darling. One more incident and I'll put you on a leash. And you"—he pointed to Archer—"figure yourself out, Minnow. I'll let her kill you next time."

Denver skidded onto the topdeck. "Sir!" he shouted. "The belowdecks are flooding a bit. Cannon caught the stern just below the top wave line."

Bardarian glanced at Archer, then at Silta. "Lucky kids," he said. He turned around. "Rusher, get me to the nearest island before this damn sun is gone."

Silta didn't break Archer's gaze as the tension began to cease, the crew going their separate ways, thinking it was over. It wasn't over to Archer; all he felt was frustration and vehement anger, humiliation from what had just played out. If Bardarian had been protecting Archer, why didn't he hit Silta? Why did she always get the exceptions?

She smiled, those canines sharp. "One of these times, Kingsley," she whispered as she moved away.

*

The Avourienne's anchor dropped into deep water just as the sun set against the horizon. Rusher directed them to an island a little east of their projection, a tiny sandbar with enough trees to make repairs. The slice of land had a deep beach, so the Avourienne pulled up close enough to make it worthwhile.

The crew didn't seem too bothered by their pitstop, causing Archer to realize that it happened often. Bardarian announced they'd sleep on solid ground tonight after offloading anything heavy, which didn't seem to faze them. Archer helped load the biggest things: the cannons, the barrels of rum—anything that might weigh her down. The supplies were rowed inland on one of the Avourienne's two large rowboats, then the crew followed.

Jackson built a roaring fire in no time, and Britter followed Silta into the trees to search for wood. The sky darkened and the stars popped into view one by one, the full moon bright and big.

Archer sat with his legs out next to the fire. The night was warm, but the fire provided extra light. The sailors swapped their stories from the day and when they ran out, they moved on to other things. Miller, the doctor, went around patching everyone up, but the crew wasn't injured too badly beyond a scratch and a bruise. Archer guessed the Forlorn's doctor wasn't having such a leisurely day.

Starle and Jackson began to yell about some sort of disagreement, so they moved to go throw punches out on the beach. The rest of the crew rolled their eyes, and Bardarian didn't step in. He didn't seem to mind when the crew went at each other, just when it was Silta and Archer, apparently.

When she and Britter returned, laughing, Archer's anger did too. He'd been staying out of her way, been keeping his distance since the last navy ship raid. He thought he'd be safe from her, but she'd told him to make the swing. She'd put her arm around him like that, forcing them back on good terms just to butcher their already unstable relationship.

She was quiet as she sat next to Bardarian. The rest of the crew continued with their discussion, but Archer couldn't take his eyes off her. There was something unnatural about her, without a doubt. Her inability to be beaten, her physical beauty regardless of her evil soul, her relationship with the Captain—the favouritism she was shown because of how he felt about her.

Silta caught his eye. She raised her brows, reading him. Archer hated that about her, too. Go ahead, read my thoughts. Read how awful I think you really are.

She smiled.

Nelson elbowed Archer, drawing his attention away from Silta. "Hell of a swing today, Kingsley," the scout praised. "Couldn't have done it better myself."

"I saw that too," Britter said, his blue eyes flickering with firelight. "You don't disappoint, Kingsley. Not with your swings or your elbows."

Now a good chunk of the group had turned their eyes to Archer, who did nothing but tap the sand a few times with his hand, unsure of how he should take this praise.

"Cheers to Kingsley," Britter said, his bottle raised to the sky. "Who knew we'd get such a ballsy lad out of him."

Bardarian's side of the group was having some other conversation, but still the Captain raised his hand, too, giving Archer a look. The firelight shone through his bottle; he was drinking water, not rum.

Silta kept her eyes focused, no drink in her hand, no participation in the toast. Because I think it was me. Maybe Archer couldn't shake his hate because in the end, he had her to thank for his skills.

"Cheers to Kingsley!" Denver shouted, already drunk.

Archer attempted—for just a moment—to revel in the praise. He tried to fake a modest smile and push his hatred over Silta's steady aim away. He tried; he failed. He blamed it on the liquor he was drinking now and had been nearly every night. It stirred his anger slowly, building his frustration until it slipped from his mouth after a long struggle to keep it in.

"What did you do to your father?" he asked loudly.

The conversation on the far side of the circle wasn't disrupted, but on their side, it came to a crashing halt, eyes turning to her for a response. There was a moment of silence, an opportunity for Archer to backtrack, having realized he'd overstepped. It was what he would've done before today, what his suppressed voice of reason was still trying to remind him to do.

Silta watched him carefully, seemingly unsure if he would cower under her gaze. He only shrugged, spilling rum out of his bottle. He didn't remember getting a new one.

"Well, he's got a bounty on your head," he summarized. "There must be a reason you're sitting with pirates instead of on some throne."

"Do I strike you as the type to wear a crown?" There were uneasy laughs from the crew, maybe because they wanted the real answer just as much as he did, but they were too afraid to ask.

"You're not going to trick me into avoidance," Archer said.

"Even with that much rum in you?" Quick, but light. She was being careful of something.

"Does he scare you?" Archer asked instead, leaning forward. "Is that why you can't talk about him?"

"He terrifies me. About as much as you do," she quipped, but she shifted—not because the topic bothered her, but because Bardarian, who had previously been paying attention to a different conversation, trained his gaze on her for some reason Archer didn't care to learn.

His answer came sharp, "Did you kill somebody he loved? Steal a prized possession? It had to be something."

She shook her head, expression unreadable through the mirage of heat from the fire. She glanced at Bardarian, then back at Archer. Some part of her wanted to take his bait and argue, to explain exactly what had caused this bloody feud; he could tell that much. Something was causing her to back down.

"I'm illegitimate, Kingsley," she said, her voice full of concluding indifference. "He hates me because I exist."

Archer knew there was more to it. He knew, but the crew went back to their regular conversation before he could call her on it. A few feet away, Rusher mumbled something to Britter about it. So she had backed down, and it was confusing to more than just Archer.

Cold prickled on his skin. Was he too drunk to read anything properly? Was he missing something in his little haze of anger?

Fresh air. That's what he needed. Fresh air and a little walk away from this. He got up, away from the crew, down the beach. His head spun as he heard someone approach behind him. He silently prayed that it wasn't her; he had no more control left to deal with that tonight.

It wasn't her. "Kingsley, lad, walk with me," Bardarian said, guiding him away from the fire with a fatherly hand on his back.

Archer swallowed. Well, that was worse. The dead leaves from the trees crunched under their feet as they moved away from the group, not looking back.

"Don't mistake me for insecure, Kingsley," the Captain said once they were out of earshot, eyes firm to his front. "But I have to ask. Is this going to be a problem?"

Archer stopped walking, confused. He looked up at Bardarian, annoyed with the way it caused a nerve to pinch in his neck. Why would Bardarian care if Silta and Archer had issues with getting along?

"No, sir," he replied, taking the safest route—the one his tipsy mind could follow easiest. "I've expected loyalty far too fast from people I need to earn it from. The arguments won't happen anymore." He believed it, too. He just needed to walk off this anger and start fresh tomorrow.

"You're misunderstanding me, lad," Bardarian said firmly. "You and her. A problem for me."

Archer looked at him. He really looked, and he was surprised at what he found. When he'd first arrived, Bardarian was the tallest, most intimidating man alive. But now, standing in front of him, the famous captain had no more than a few inches on Archer, and he wasn't quite so godlike anymore.

"Sir—" Archer started.

"Don't call me that in a conversation like this."

"No. Absolutely not," Archer snapped, instantly sober. "That's my answer. I don't want her."

Bardarian gazed at him with those cool blue eyes. They looked much darker than the day they'd met, as if they matched the current shade of the ocean. He regarded Archer for a long moment, then lifted his chin. "You're a good liar, Kingsley," he said.

"I'm not lying." His reply was edged, annoyed at the accusation. This was why Silta had backed down. Had everyone assumed the same thing? Bardarian was nearly a decade and a half Archer's senior; fighting over the same woman was absurd.

Bardarian took a breath like he was resetting. "Look, lad. You're sharp, so I can make you into somebody, give you a good life." He gave Archer a knowing look, taking a moment to find his words, "It's a dreadful idea to toss yourself away for her. Take it from someone who did."

It was just another well-crafted scheme. Bardarian was attempting to make his power a better contender than whatever Silta could offer, but his argument was flawed; obviously he didn't regret risking whatever he did to get Silta all those years ago. This incident, that misplaced ring tattoo, his comments to Kernite today—the Captain clearly did believe she was worth it. He was trying to trick what he believed to be a threat into a bond with a friendly smile and a shower of charisma, and it nearly worked.

"I'm not tossing away anything for anyone," Archer said firmly.

Bardarian held his gaze for a long time, and Archer knew better than to play at pride. He broke the gaze, but the Captain still didn't move, only tilted his head, assessing his expression. Then, after a horribly long and tense moment, he placed a hand on Archer's shoulder. "You're a good kid, Kingsley," he said. He walked away, not looking back.

Archer looked out at the water. His plan had been to lay low, not cause attention. He never once thought he'd stir up this much in only a few weeks. He officially told himself that he wouldn't drink anymore. No need to lay out his plan to the entire crew in a drunken rage.

But even after a few long breaths, he wasn't sure if the anger was gone at all—if he was willing to let Silta push him around for the next few months. She was baiting a fight, and Archer had been conditioned for a long time to win. He wanted to win.

And far more importantly, she deserved to lose.