The Sika pulled up alongside them, Fen gripped the railing, her knuckles turning bone-white.
"Uhhh," Fen stammered, her voice thin against the creaking of the hulls. "Eliot, are you... are you sure about this?."
Eliot didn't even look up from his glass. He just adjusted his cufflink, his posture radiating a terrifying level of nonchalance. "Oh, yes, darling. A hundred percent. Trust the process, the aesthetic is entirely intentional."
Penny rolled his eyes so hard it looked painful, "The 'process' seems to involve us getting boarded by human tetanus shots. I'm starting to think your 'vision' is just code for 'I want to see if I can win a fight while drunk.'"
Before the debate could escalate, grapnel hooks bit into the mahogany railings with a sickening crunch, and within seconds, a swarm of sun-bleached, scarred pirates swung across the gap, their blades flashing in the midday sun like hungry teeth.
Kady watched them land, unimpressed, "Could they be any more dramatic? That's an incredibly exaggerated approach for a Tuesday afternoon."
"Tell me about it," Penny muttered, crossing his arms and watching the boarding party with the weary look of a man who had seen too many B-movies. "I'm sure they have a synchronized dance routine next."
The lead pirate, leveled a heavy, rusted crossbow directly at Penny's chest. "Surrender your vessel and your lives!" he bellowed, "Or face the wrath of the Pirate King!"
Penny didn't even blink. He just stared at the tip of the bolt, his voice dropping into a flat, dangerous monotone. "If you don't get that shit out of my face in the next three seconds, I'm going to make that crossbow a permanent part of your anatomy. And I don't mean you'll be holding it."
The pirate narrowed his eyes, his finger tightening on the trigger, but he was interrupted by a low, languid chuckle.
Elliot, who had been leaning against the mainmast finally moved, only to take a slow, deliberate sip of his wine. He swirled the vintage in his glass, letting it breathe, before looking at the pirate with an arched eyebrow that could have cut glass.
"The 'Pirate King'?" Eliot asked, "Really? Is that a self-appointed title, or was there an election involving tiny, damp little ballots? Because, honestly, the branding feels a bit... derivative. I've seen better costume designs at a third-rate village fair."
"Silence, fancy-boy! You stand before the might of the Sika! We do not care for your insults!"
"Obviously," Eliot sighed, stepping away from the mast and smoothing his coat. "You clearly don't care for fashion, hygiene, or basic tactical intelligence, either. It's a very consistent character choice. I almost admire it."
Eliot took a languid step forward and he tilted his head, feigning a look of genuine curiosity as he approached the lead pirate.
"And who exactly would this King be?" Eliot asked as he peered at the man's weathered face, "Does he have a name, or is it just an accumulation of scars and a very impressive collection of eye patches?"
The pirate crew didn't answer. Instead, they parted like a living curtain.
Stepping through the breach wasn't a hulking monster, but a woman, a very beautiful caramel skinned woman. She carried herself with the terrifying confidence of someone who had forgotten what the word "no" meant. She took in the Muntjac with a hunger that felt less like greed and more like a visceral, carnal craving.
Eliot blinked, genuinely caught off guard at the fact that she wasn't an ugly man but a pretty lady, "Well. That is... unexpected. I was prepared for a man with a wooden leg and a parrot, but a Pirate Queen? I'm almost impressed."
The woman ignored his jab. Her eyes locked onto the wood of the mast and then she spoke up. Her voice came out as a low, raspy tune, "To the crew of this fine vessel—"
"It's the Muntjac," Eliot interrupted, offering his wine glass toward her as a genuine gesture. "Drink?"
The pirate crew immediately bristled, a dozen blades snapping toward Eliot's throat. He sighed, impressed by the quick response to his simple gesture "Oh, kay then. No to the drink. Very well, proceed."
The woman stepped closer, her gaze dragging over the sentient wood of the ship as if she were undressing it. "To the crew of the Muntjac: I am confiscating all your property. Your gold, your cargo, and, of course, this ship."
"And in return?" Eliot asked, his brow arched.
"In return," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper, "you all get to keep drawing breath."
"How incredibly generous," Eliot remarked dryly, "But tell me, in this vast, endless ocean, how exactly did you find us? We aren't exactly flying a beacon."
The Pirate King smirked, walking a slow, deliberate circle around the deck. "I am the King. It's been a dry voyage, little King. It's no coincidence we met like this. The Sika sought out the Muntjac after he scented her. They want to... commune." She trailed a finger along the railing, "And the Sika would very much like to commune. Whether the Muntjac likes it or not."
Kady's face scrunched up, her skin crawling at the implications of that, "Wait, wait, wait. Hold on. That sounded a whole lot more like—"
"Rape," Penny finished with a flat voice, surprised and devoid of any humor, "She's talking about boat-rape. There is always something new and profoundly fucked up in this forsaken place."
The Pirate King looked back at Eliot, "Call it what you will. Your ship is ours. Lay down your arms, and perhaps I'll let you watch the beautiful process."
Kady's muscles coiled at that, her hands beginning to crackle with the energy she'd been siphoning from her core. But before she could act, Eliot's expression shifted. The playful, drunken boredom vanished, replaced by a chilling gaze that actually surprised Fen and the crew, "You see, that's the problem with people like you," Eliot said, his quiet voice carrying across the entire deck, "You think because the Wellspring is dry, the world is empty. You think the King is just a man in a fancy coat, posing for portraits."
He set his wine glass down on a nearby edge with a soft clink. Slowly, he raised both hands and to the shock of the pirates they saw his eyes glow a little with a piercing, crystalline blue that flared from his very core.
"I am the High King of Fillory," Eliot whispered.
"And this ship... she's a lady. And she doesn't like being touched without permission."
He snapped his fingers.
The Muntjac let out a low, vibrating hum that went straight to the bone, shaking the very planks beneath the pirates' feet. The ship felt angry, the wood groaned, shifting and twisting as Elliot used a spell. Suddenly, the rigging came alive.
Thick, tarred ropes uncoiled like striking vipers, whipping through the air with impossible, predatory speeds.
The deck of the Muntjac became a landscape of terror. To the pirates of the Sika, it was a scene straight out of a fever dream, a pirates nightmare: the very architecture of the ship had turned against them, transforming from a simple wooden vessel into a weapon.
The rigging struck with thick, tarred ropes uncoiled like vipers, whipping through the air with a terrifying, rhythmic precision. They snared the pirates' ankles, yanking them off their feet with such force that several men were sent sprawling into the scuppers. The ropes surged upward, coiling around wrists, throats, and waists, tightening with the methodical efficiency of a master hangman.
"What the hell is this?!" the Pirate King shrieked. She lunged, her cutlass whistling through the air, but before the steel could meet Elliot, a heavy mooring line lashed out from the deck like a whip. It wrapped around her sword arm with a thud, yanked the blade from her grip, and pinned her firmly against the mainmast.
She struggled with her face reddening from the effort but the hemp only tightened, "This is impossible! There is no magic in these world! The Wellspring is dead!"
Penny leaned against the railing, his arms crossed over his chest as he watched the crew of the Sika being hoisted into the air like discarded laundry. He looked surprised at the spell Elliot used, it was actually fun to watch when you aren't on the receiving end of the animated snaring machine "Yeah well, true there isn't plenty of magic out there anymore," he remarked, his voice cutting through her frantic screaming. "The thing is that you just happened to pick a fight with the only group of people in the multiverse who have a personal, high-speed connection to the supplier."
With a flick of his wrist, Eliot gestured, and the ropes binding the Pirate King shifted, drawing her forward until her face was mere inches from his own.
The transformation in her eyes was instantaneous. The hunger that had driven her to board the Muntjac was gone, incinerated by a sudden, freezing bolt of terror. She wasn't looking at a "luxury king" anymore, that flamboyant, wine-sipping ornament she had underestimated. She was staring into the face of a sorcerer-monarch who had just transmuted his entire ship into a giant, wooden, man-eating trap.
Eliot's smile was small and devious, reaching out and lightly flicking a piece of stray rope away from the Pirate King's cheek.
"So," Eliot murmured, his voice a silk-wrapped threat. "You wanted to commune with my ship so you?"
The Pirate King's breath hitched, her throat constricted by the coils around her neck.
"Well," Eliot continued, his eyes glowing with that same crystalline, icy blue light. "She's decided she'd rather have you as a permanent fixture. How do you feel about being a figurehead? I hear the view of the horizon is absolutely lovely from the prow...
Within minutes, the entire Sika boarding party was entangled, bound, and dangling from the yardarms like ornaments on a gruesome tree. Their bravado had been replaced by frantic whimpering, the sound of iron and wood creaking under their weight.
Kady wiped a smudge of soot from her cheek and gestured to the dangling pirates. "Nice work, Blackbeard. That was actually pretty good."
Eliot smoothed his lapels, "Well, I've always felt that if one must apprehend criminals, one should do it with a certain... theatrical flair. It's the only way to ensure the message sticks."
————-
Margo was currently standing in front of Tick. Her expression was one of pure, unadulterated frustration.
"What do you mean you can't get in anymore?" Margo demanded, her voice echoing against the stone walls. "It's my fucking castle, Tick! I don't care if the wards are 'unstable' or 'psychically resistant', fix it!"
Before Tick could stammer out an apology, the air shimmered with the sickly, iridescent distortion of fairy glamours. The Fairy Queen materialized abruptly without alarming the two to her presence.