"Solna, you treacherous bitch!"
Branth slammed the door with enough force to rattle the walls, to send dust drifting from the rafters, to make the bottles on the table behind him clink against each other. His voice was a wreckage of fury.
"How much longer must I wait?" His breath came in angry gusts, his chest heaving, his hands rising, falling, rising again. "Answer me!"
Dunstan slipped in behind him, his expression carefully neutral. But his eyes flickered with something else. Anxiety. Calculation.
This old fool. Why now? Of all times, why now?
Solna did not rise. Did not flinch. Her lips curved—just slightly, just enough. "What do you want, old man?"
"Join me." Branth's voice dropped, became something between plea and demand. "Together we kill Toric. End this farce. I've run out of patience. Answer now."
Kill Toric? Anger that child? Solna's smile widened. "No. You're on your own." She waved a dismissive hand—a gesture of absolute finality.
Branth's face cycled through colors. Red. Purple. Almost blue. "You bitch. I thought you had sense. Intelligence." He stepped forward, his fists clenched. "But I was wrong." Another step, closer now. "Did that little product of yours make you so arrogant? So blind? You think I'm nothing now?"
So you do understand. Good.
Solna did not answer. Just watched. Waited. "The exit is behind you." Her voice was calm, almost kind. "And a word of advice—settle your differences quickly. Otherwise..." She let the sentence hang.
Dunstan's head dipped lower.
She knows too. Storms above. The old man's days are numbered. Numbered and crossed out.
Branth laughed—a harsh, broken sound. "Fine! First that bastard, then you! I'll hang both your corpses from my ship! Let the gulls feast! Let the sun rot your flesh! Let—"
He stopped. Breathed. Cast one last venomous glare. Then he left. Dunstan followed.
"Mistress." The guard's voice was hesitant. "Should we—"
Solna shook her head. "Not yet. Soon. But not yet."
That old fool. Walking to his death and doesn't even know it.
.....
"That bitch! That fucking bitch!"
Branth's curses drew glances from passersby—glances, not fear. No one bowed. No one stepped aside. No one even seemed to notice he existed.
Where did the respect go? The fear?
"Kill them. Drain them. Hang them."
He stopped before a tavern. Familiar. The one where— "Let's go, Dunstan. These old bones still have some fight left."
"Yes, Master."
Branth kicked the door open. Prana surged through his body—the old gift, the old power. Still there. Still his. "TORIC! SHOW YOURSELF!"
Heads turned. Curious glances. Nothing more.
Toric stood at the counter, wooden cup in hand, his expression shifting from surprise to amusement. "Oh! Cheers! Decided to join us after all?"
"Join you?" Branth's voice dripped contempt. "I've come to kill—"
Sluprt.
Blood sprayed.
Branth's hands flew to his chest. Came away red. Deep crimson. His. He turned—slow, impossible, dying—to see who had struck. "Dunstan..." The voice was feeble. Shocked. Betrayed.
Dunstan did not answer. He stabbed again. Once. Twice. Three times. Then kicked the body to the ground.
Clap. Clap.
Toric approached, applauding. A grin split his face. "Good work! Here—" He tossed a cup. "To our new brother!"
"CHEERS!" Laughter filled the tavern. Whistles. Raucous celebration. A corpse lay in spreading blood at their feet.
Dunstan drank.
You asked, old man. But you already knew the answer. We're pirates. Everything is transactional. Love? Transaction. Friendship? Transaction. Loyalty? The biggest transaction of all. And survival? That's the only currency that matters.
"You three!" Toric's voice cut through the celebration. "Take the old fucker's corpse. Hang it from the roof. High. Let everyone see."
"Yes, Captain!" "And mop this floor! Ruining the furniture!" "Yes, Captain!" "Wait—damn, this corpse is heavy!" "Someone help us!"
.....
Outside, a crowd gathered. Solna's guards pushed through, clearing a path. The murmurs reached her before the sight did. "No way..." "The old Master!" "Toric really did it!" "Shh! It was Dunstan! His own man!"
What are they staring at?
Solna looked up. Branth hung from the tavern roof—arms limp, head lolling, eyes still wide with shock and betrayal. His mouth gaped, frozen mid-sentence, mid-curse, mid-life. His hands, clenched even in death, seemed to grasp at air that would never come.
If I had joined him...
She looked away. Entered the tavern.
"Oh! Mistress!" Toric's voice was thick with drink. "You're here! Expected you! Room five! First floor! Go on up!" He raised his cup. Beside him, Dunstan drank in silence. "Hey, cheer up, man! That old bastard was one foot in the grave anyway! You just... delivered him early!"
Dunstan nodded. Said nothing.
Solna moved toward the stairs. "Mistress—" Her guards stepped forward. She waved them off. "Wait here. Both of you." "But—" "If they wanted me dead, you couldn't stop them." Guards exchanged glances. Shrugged. Stayed. "You two! Join us! Free drinks!" "...Sure." "If it's free."
.....
Knock. Knock. Knock.
"Come in."
Solna entered. The boy stood at the window—back turned, silhouette outlined by fading light. He did not turn. Did not acknowledge her presence. She could only see his back. Her body trembled. Mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. Words wouldn't come.
The silence stretched. "Solna." The voice was flat. Empty. "Do you know why you're still alive?"
She found her voice. Barely. "Because I didn't offend you."
"Hmm. But I still sense hostility. A small amount. Faint." He turned. Grey-white whirlpools spun in his eyes—slow, hypnotic, terrible. "I'm quite sensitive, you know."
Solna stepped back. "I... I didn't..." Words failed. Then—he vanished. Not moved. Not stepped aside. Gone. As if he had never existed.
Ghost. Spirit. Demon. What IS he?
Eyes darted across the room. Breath quickened. Hands clenched. "You didn't die because you're smart." The voice came from behind her—close, intimate, nowhere. "I like smart people." She couldn't move. Couldn't turn. Couldn't breathe. "Do you know what I like about smart people?" Silence. "They make smart choices, predictable choices." A pause. The weight of presence behind her. "So hurry up. Make the smart choice, the one you were going to make anyway."
Solna's body lowered itself. Knees touched the floor. Head bowed. "I, Solna—Mistress of Ogefil Island—pledge allegiance to Captain Ash."
Ashan watched her kneel. The grey-white whirlpools in his eyes spun once—a final acknowledgment—then stilled.
Reclamation complete. Home. Finally.