Lock pulls his cloak tighter around himself. Though it’s oiled against the sea and weather, it fails to keep out the chill from the tavern’s drafts. He looks outside the window, watching as the storm’s roaring rain destroys the spider’s web that had been there just a few moments ago. He sighs.

  Turning around to get a full view of the room, Lock tilts his head back, ostensibly taking a draft from the ale in his mug. In reality, he keeps his lips tightly sealed against its rat piss taste, refusing to consume more. He sets the mug back on the table, wiping his lips to get the disgusting liquid off of them. He avoids the bored barmaiden’s eyes as she drifts closer, not interested in conversation or an attempt to sell him more of the horrid drink.

  He slumps forward with a small groan, letting the hood of his cloak obscure more of his face. He lets out a loud burp, groaning again and shifting his hand to his stomach as if to ward off the pain. Through slitted eyes, Lock watches as the barmaid spins on her heel and retreats away from his table. Seems like that worked, he notes with faint amusement. Clearly she had had enough of drunkards and vomit today.

  He turns his attention towards the two other patrons within the tavern; both men had passed out at their respective tables. He gives each of them a thorough inspection, his third time doing so within the last hour. He’s satisfied to note that they have not acquired any new weapons while unconscious.

  He casts a furtive glance over at the barmaid. She has her back to him and is bent over at the waist as she stretches to reach for something behind the counter. Her dress reveals the outline of her dagger’s scabbard and that it wasn’t even in a proper position to be drawn. Probably not much of a fighter, he deduces. The dagger was likely a gift, or perhaps a precaution she had bought in case she needed to ward off any drunken patrons with more than just words.

  He pauses to think. There was, he reasoned, the potential that she was a competent fighter. Maybe the dagger was just a ruse, meant to-

  There’s a loud creak of protest from the tavern’s front door as a booted foot forces it open. The wind outside howls in rage, unleashing its retribution in the form of violent gusts and lashing rain that follow the staggering figure inside the building. It’s only the man’s swaying gait, clearly that of a sailor, that keeps him from toppling over. He hunches down and moves to close the door, his curses partially ripped away by the screaming winds.

  The snap of cold he had allowed in rouses both of the patrons from their slumbers. One man starts shouting slurred curses at the cloaked man, while the other just scowls blearily at the open door before slumping over again onto his table.

  The invasive fingers of the storm’s squall rip the figure's hood from his head, allowing Lock to have a better look at him. His skin indicates that he is, indeed, a sailor. It’s darkened by a deep seaman’s tan and the rest of him is patterned with scars both old and new.

  Despite the kiss of the sun upon it, his skin was still very fair. It heralded his heritage as being from the Wolf Isles, though its pronounced pallidness hinted at a more Eastern origin within them.

  Lock frowns as he examines the older man’s face. Though he trusts the darkness of his hood and his ruse as a drunk to properly disguise his spying, he finds himself swiftly turning away. The features of the figure’s face had been unremarkable: reddish-orange hair, an uninteresting face and a wolfish ferocity lurking behind bay blue eyes.

  Despite his average outward appearance, Lock can’t help but feel that there’s something notable about the man. The intensity lurking in his eyes, while alarming, was not unique. It was a look that spoke of a beast with a scent; that anyone whom the gaze was directed at would be relentlessly hunted, should it be called for. Lock had often seen the look among other pirates, usually in the pursuit or promise of plunder. However, this man did not appear to be a pirate.

  Crow’s Beak, while a pirate haven, was not exclusive to pirates who took plunder by force. In fact, the majority of the island’s inhabitants were not the sailors like those within The Splinter’s crew who passed by to sell off their stolen goods, whore about and get drunk for a fortnight or so before leaving again. Most of the souls living at Crow’s Beak were there for months at a time, while others even stayed for years or their whole lives. Many of these inhabitants were the social pariahs of the Wolf Isles: these unfortunates were all manner of thieves; deserters; harlots; drunkards; and others that were cut from a similar cloth. Some, though, were simply born in Crow’s Beak and had never left. And yet, this man did not appear to fall under any of those guises.

  One of the clearest indicators of this was his hair: it was cut in the same style as that of a military man. While sailors tended to keep their hair short to avoid accidents within the rigging, it was not often kept cropped close to the head as his was. His cut was seen as something reserved for the Rí’s soldiers, a style that neither legitimate sailors or pirates would want to emulate in order to avoid confusion. There were some cases where a captain or mate would force their crew’s hair to be shorn- either for harsh discipline or to deal with lice and mites- but that was rare.

  Another oddity was his garb. Though everything on him seemed to be soaked down to the skin, his cloak was still clearly of a fine and respectable make. It was outwardly coated with oil to help ward against the elements, as was the common practice among sailors, but the quality of his cloak was not akin to that of an ordinary seaman.

  Without the sheen of oil on it, it seemed like it would be better suited to a merchant of legitimate goods, or some well-to-do city man from a large province. The article sat poorly on such a militaristic man. It was especially odd that it happened to be entering into one of Crow’s Beak’s seediest taverns in the middle of a fierce storm. Perhaps it had been stolen, though that would not explain why he was wearing it, unless it was for the sake of vanity.

  Lock exhales, trying to process all of the information he’d gathered in the span of a few moments. Abruptly, there’s a cessation of the weather’s enraged howling. Daring to flick his eyes back upwards to the figure, he sees that the man has managed to close the door. After pulling his hood back up, his blue eyes begin to prowl their way across the room, seeming to thoroughly examine everything they find. Lock quickly moves his eyes back down, shutting them and feigning a drunken doze.

  The drunk that had initially protested the man’s entry has begun a yammering, profanity-laden tirade seemingly targeted at the entrant. The cloaked man ignores him and Lock hears him begin to walk further into the tavern. The wretch switches tactics, demanding that the fellow buy him drinks, aye, as his oafish entrance had disrupted his bloody well-earned sleep.

  Lock cautiously reopens his eyes, resuming his spying. He swears he sees the red haired man’s shoulders move with a silent sigh before he makes a half turn with his body towards the inebriated pest. In a slow and deliberate motion, a coin purse is removed from the shelter of his cloak. He gives it a single shake to showcase its lightness before deftly palming some of the coins from within onto his hand before throwing the coinage towards the drunkard. The scoundrel falls out of his chair in his haste to gather the fruits of labor, scrabbling along the dirty floor like a crab darting across a shoreline. Satisfied that his gambit had worked, the other man begins to walk towards the back of the tavern.

  “Oy! Did yeh really only toss me yer scraps? A few cut copper pieces?!”

  The victim of the knave’s harassment turns around to fully face him. Though the cloak obscures most of him, Lock could see that he subtly assumes the loose posture of a fighter’s stance. He also notes the tell-tale protrusion of a scabbard on the man’s right hip. Despite his posture, the peculiar sailor responds with, “I thought you asked for me to cover your drinks.” The man’s accent has the typical lilt of someone from the Eastern portion of the Wolf Isles and his words are clear and concise. His voice betrays none of the irritation that had been displayed in how he threw his coinage.

  Despite the calm words, Lock finds himself having to resist the urge to move away. Though he’s not the target of the Easterner’s subtle admonishment, Lock feels very unsettled. His actions do not at all match with his words.

  The fool is undeterred. “I did, aye. ‘Nd now yer tryna pass off yer loose change ta me!”

  “You would do well to take what I’ve given you and make your way to some place else. In fact, I’ll give you a silver piece if you leave right now. Find yourself a warm room and meal for the night, just as long as it’s not here.”

  The other man’s self-righteous scowl wavers for a moment. Lock, for a breath, allows himself to hope that the fool will accept the offer and allow everyone’s evenings to regain some semblance of peace. Then, in a frightening display of utter disregard for his own self-preservation, the man sneers at the Easterner. “Damn lily! Freshly booted from the Rí’s own fleets, bet ye are. Actin’ like you’re the boss of everyone else around ye. Why’d they toss ye out, eh? Realize you were jus’ another Eastern fop?” Lock feels his eyebrows raise in surprise. It seems that the Easterner’s military bearing was obvious to others too.

  The red haired man gives no visible indication as to whether or not the scoundrel’s goading words had struck true. At his lack of reaction, the knave flushes red, wobbling closer. He puffs out his chest before jabbing an accusatory finger at the other man. “Answer me, ye fool!”

  The cloaked man takes a step back. The drunkard pursues him. “I asked why- aygh!” He staggers backwards, spraying blood into the air before falling to his knees with a loud thunk. He clutches his newly bloodied hand to his chest and rocks himself back and forth, tears rolling down his cheeks.

  The frightening sailor shakes his head at his harasser-turned-victim. When the man says nothing more, the drunkard demands: “Wha’ in Cric’s fathomless Depths was tha’ for?!” Lock finds himself struggling to interpret his words due to the sobs that punctuated every other word of the sentence. The young pirate’s wide eyes unwillingly see that the drunk’s hand seems to have been brutalized by a knife that had appeared in the other man’s hand. It doesn’t appear that it had struck anywhere else, though it has yet to be sheathed.

  The Easterner just scoffs and doesn’t deign to respond. Lock feels terror’s cold claws feverishly grip his heart, ruthlessly spreading its numbness. The menacing sailor again raises his knife, which elicits a terrified keen from the man on the ground before him. However, this time the knife does not find purchase in flesh. Instead, the sailor wipes it on the leg of his trousers, removing the drunkard’s blood from the blade. The knife is exchanged for a coin purse and a silver piece is thrown into the wounded man’s lap.

  “Leave.”

  The whimpering man lets go of his bloody hand, picking up the silver piece. The injured appendage has a long slash bisecting it, though it doesn’t seem to be spouting blood. The knave levels a look filled with hatred and pain at the Easterner, but something in the other man’s face causes the hatred to crumple and give way to terror. The fool flees, seeking safety elsewhere upon the stormy isle.

  Lock does his best to not make a sound as he expels his held breath. He feels a deep weariness settle into his bones. His attempt at constant vigilance and the terror of the situation have burned through the dwindling reserves that Lock had left within him. He shuts his eyes, allowing his guard down for a few moments so that he may steal a few seconds of rest.

  ***

  Lock jolts awake as the howling wind once again screams through the tavern’s open doors. Despite his disorientation, habit keeps his head down and forces his eyes open. He watches as two heavily cloaked men hurry inside, finding partial shelter from the raging storm. One of them is of a shorter and stockier build, with the other appearing to be of average height and size. The taller of the two shoulders the door shut as the stocky fellow strides purposefully towards the back of the tavern and Lock.

  The young pirate feels an acute sense of unease upon realizing that he has no idea of how long he had been asleep for. Even worse, he realizes that he had never even intended to fall asleep. As he tries to regain his bearings, a fleeting thought makes him go cold: he has no idea where the knife-wielding Easterner is.

  He feels the sailor’s phantom begin a circling prowl around him, waiting to strike. Lock twitches, his body bracing itself for knife strikes that threaten to plunge into his flesh. His hand drifts towards his own plundered knife. The rational part of his mind warns him of the dangers of reaching for his knife when he knows so little about his surroundings or those populating them, but paranoia’s insistent cries are winning out.

  Lock hears someone move behind him. He begins to grasp for his weapon’s hilt, but Litu, Lady of Truth, stays his hand. A few more terrible seconds pass by, during which Lock’s phantasmal assassin draws closer. The young man prepares to accept his death.

  Then the Easterner walks out of the shadows before him and greets the pair of men that had just entered the tavern. The three men sit down at a table half shrouded by the night’s darkness, no further than a few strides from Lock. None lower their hoods or light the oil lamp that’s in front of them. “Kenn..” The Easterner begins. He exhales. “Thank you for meeting with me.”

  The stout man dips his head. “Of course. You’ve done the same for me, Derec. When..” The rest of his response is lost to the conversation’s low tones and the screaming howls of the wind outside. Lock frowns. The voice of the man named Kenn seems familiar.

  Their conversation continues on, making Lock listen in tense impatience for a few more minutes until the weather finally calms enough to allow for him to hear any more of the conversation. The Easterner named Derec lets out a heavy sigh. “You know that this isn’t something I ask of you lightly. It’s not even something I want to be asking in the first place.”

  “Yet you still ask it of me.” Kenn’s response is grave. Derec dips his cloaked head in acknowledgement, not responding. The other man leans in and whispers something to Kenn.

  When his companion leans away, the stout fellow nods and then turns back to the Easterner. “What would you have us do?” Lock’s frown deepens. There was something naggingly familiar about his voice.

  To Lock’s exasperation, a powerful squall steals the first part of the Easterner’s reply. “..Time in our waters. You would be free to plunder the invaders as you please.”

  Kenn scoffs, leaning back in his chair with crossed arms. “Derec, we’re not fools and neither are you. I’m not going to ask my men to risk their lives in waters infested with the Rí’s galleons, nor his aimiréal-led fleets. You can promise me your protection and that they won’t attack us, aye, but we both know that they won’t take kindly to seeing another pirate ship in their waters. It won’t matter what flag we’re flying.”

  For a few moments, the only sound that can be heard is the weak crackling of the tavern’s hearth and the rain lashing against the window in a futile effort to get inside. Finally, Derec responds. “We’re desperate, Kenn.”

  Kenn remains silent.

  The Easterner stoically continues on. “You’ll have our birds, our flag, my seal and the promise of my wrath brought down upon any of our own who don’t respect your right to help patrol out our waters.”

  Kenn finally breaks his silence. “That's generous, but it does not do much to assuage my fears. Besides, Derec, for what reason are you asking me to help you? You’re asking a pirate ship to assist the Rí’s galleons in his own waters. You must understand how bloody foolish it sounds.” Lock feels his eyes widen. The Rí’s galleons. Derec had some sort of association with the Rí, the king of the Wolf Isles. Lock feels his mind race with possibilities. Did this have something to do with the invaders from the Dark Sea? He didn’t know much about them, but there were rumors bouncing around The Splinter that the denizens of the Dark Sea were pushing into Wolf waters and attacking some of their ships. Despite these rumors, there was nothing substantial that Lock knew of yet. These particular rumors were collected months ago when The Splinter last docked at some no-name port. Despite the seriousness of the news, word traveled incredibly slowly at sea, meaning that no further updates had reached the ears of their crew.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Lock wracks his brain, coming up short as to why the invaders might be encroaching upon Wolf waters. Precious little was known about the Dark Seas, with the average sailor only knowing a few scattered facts. Supposedly the realm was constantly shrouded with a heavy fog and the environment was just about as welcoming as it was visible. An older hand aboard The Splinter had once claimed to have visited an island within the realm. He said that the sea was littered with active volcanoes, which heated up the surrounding waters and generated the kingdom’s infamous, choking layer of fog. The hand had told a chilling tale of how the ocean floor was as black as spilled ink, with the strange pollution of dark sands, strange, midnight black stones and ash coalescing to form an abyssal beast that sheltered all of the sea’s hazards and yearned to bring down ships to satiate its avaricious nature.

  By the time the crew had arrived at their destination, the nerves of all aboard were frayed to near complete ruin. The captain had been adamant about not allowing them ashore, the storyteller told the growing circle of The Splinter’s listening crew. Their captain went inland, bearing with him only a single crate of something that many had not even known existed. He commanded that the crew remain aboard the ship and to not leave under any circumstance, unless at least a week had passed. The ship’s sole mate was also left behind, but before the first day had even ended he was struggling to prevent a mutiny due to the terror felt among the crew.

  Their captain returned after two days, bearing with him a cart and team laden with chests and crates. The hand had shrugged, saying that the crew was never shown what was inside the storage, but that each of them had been paid extra and in gold for the harrowing journey. Those that survived journeys to the Dark Sea bore with them strange stones and incredible works of art woven from glass. There were also rumors that the Rí’s alchemists had found ways to enchant some of the most elusive and strange stones, though no one that Lock had encountered substantiated that tall-tale. Lock feels thoroughly confused. The items that were traded by those from within the Dark Sea were often extremely valuable. For what reason would they be attacking Wolf Isles ships? If they could sail here to attack and pillage, could they not instead sail here to trade and barter?

  Derec answers in a slow and measured tone. “It’s the Dark Sea invaders; they’ve been attacking merchant and military ships alike. We’ve sent out fleets to help occupy and patrol our busiest travel and trading routes, but-”

  “You’ve already told me this. I asked specifically why you want our help.”

  “Why I’m asking for the help of a pirate,” he fills in flatly.

  Kenn nods.

  “Because it’s you. We sailed under the same flag for years, Kenn. We’ve spilled blood together, shared command of a ship..” Derec trails off. “And these pirates are not normal. The way they fight, the design of their ships, the weapons they bear: it’s just all unnatural. We’re drowning and I’m afraid that the longer they remain here the further down we’re going to sink.” The table falls into silence and Lock feels as if the two men are both waiting for the other to end it. The taller fellow sitting beside Kenn maintains his quiet, watchful vigil over the conversation.

  Kenn is silent for a while longer, as if waiting for the roaring storm to provide him with an answer. When it ceases its squalling cries, Kenn finally answers. “If we’re to do this, then we’ll need more than just words as support and a shared history. I’ll need you to outfit The Splinter, first and foremost.”

  Lock stops hearing everything else but those words that the man had just said. The familiar, nagging voice was that of Captain Morrow. He was the only captain of The Splinter and certainly the only man who would be able to dictate that the ship was to be refitted on a whim. But who was the man that was accompanying him? Who was Derec and what was he asking Captain Morrow to do? Whatever he was asking would involve The Splinter’s crew. Lock’s mind begins a frantic race through a labyrinth of twisted thoughts and possibilities, trying to decipher what this would mean for him and the rest of the crew. He wonders if being closer to civilized society would provide an opportunity for him to escape, or if his being enlisted to fight against some mysterious foreign force of pirates would lead to an untimely death. Lock forces himself to focus again on the two men’s conversation. He needs to find out as much as he can.

  The conversation had continued on without him, irreverent as to whether or not he was listening. “Do you know where Sedge is? It’s a few days westward from here.” When Captain Morrow gives a grave nod, Derec continues. “I’ll have some shipwrights ready for you there within a week. I’ll do my best to outfit you with what I can. You can expect weaponry for your men and ship, as well as rations, tools, tar, the like.

  “By the time all of that has been taken care of, our fleets will have gotten the missive that you’re to be left unharmed.” Derec’s voice grows colder. “They’ll also be told that you and yours are to not attack, plunder or harm anyone but the Dark Sea scoundrels. I deeply appreciate you aiding me, Kenn, but you’re not one of our own anymore. I can’t and won’t be able to offer you the same protection that I could in the past. However, I hope that you know that I will still and have been trying my utmost to keep that protection in place.”

  A slight tremor of tension underlies Morrow’s reply, barging past the declaration of continued support. “I told you that my men and I had no interest in risking our lives.”

  Derec doesn’t reply.

  Morrow lets out a frustrated exhale before saying, “we won’t loot or attack his ships, Derec, and neither will we attack any Wolf ships. I thought that would go without saying.”

  “You know that I have to do my due diligence.”

  The rain’s assault on the tavern’s windows picks up again, drowning out most of Captain Morrow’s reply, but Lock thinks he hears him tell Derec where he can shove his due diligence. There’s a small movement from the man sitting next to Morrow that Lock interprets as a sigh, likely a result of the other man’s insolence.

  “But as I said, I’ll require more than just a refitting of The Splinter if I’m to do this.”

  “I expected you would.” The Easterner doesn’t sound particularly enthused.

  Captain Morrow continues, undeterred. “It wouldn’t be right to ask my crew to do this without proper recompense. I expect to spill raider blood, aye, but I know how these things go: it won’t just be their blood being spilled.”

  Lock feels an icy finger of trepidation run itself down the notches of his spine. Captain Morrow’s words begin to prowl their way through his mind, their portentous nature casting shadows that only grow larger and more monstrous when Lock’s mind tries to shine light upon their true meaning. It won’t just be their blood being spilled.

  “It sounds as if some of what we’ll be encountering will be ships outfitted for battle and that much of it will be foreign to us. It should also be considered that, though they may have Wolf plunder aboard, it’s not a guarantee. I expect for proper coin to be given no matter the outcome, Derec.”

  “I can guarantee you and your crew adequate compensation, but I can’t let you claim plunder that’s been stolen from our own merchants. Especially so when you would be plundering it from the very waters that it was initially taken from… And in the same waters that you’re being hired to patrol and protect.” Lock can’t decipher if the strain in the Easterner’s voice is from apology or frustration.

  “Now you’ve gone from foolish to outright asinine. My crew aren’t the half-beasts that some other captains employ, but they’re still men: they deserve the loot that they’ve fought, bled and died for.”

  “They should still be capable of obeying an order to refrain from looting.” Derec’s voice brooks no argument.

  Captain Morrow seems to pay no heed to the unspoken warning. “Not all of us are blessed with the ability to live and serve under our Rí’s rule for our entire lives. Either due to poor circumstances, poor choices, or a mix of both, there are those like me who find ourselves aboard the decks of a pirate ship. When you’re aboard these decks, Derec, you’re given a chance to start over with a new set of circumstances and choices before you. You’ve finally been released from the crushing grip of a ruler who doesn’t give a damn if you live or die. It feels like coming up for air after you’ve been drowning.

  “For better or for worse, that chance and freedom are sustained by blood and gold. To maintain the ship and crew, we must have gold. To have gold, we must plunder. And if we are to plunder, then we must fight, kill and die. Why would I ask my men to not take loot from the very decks that they’ve fought and died upon? The origins of the plunder don’t matter, nor should they. If my men are to die in the pursuit of striking down these reavers, then it’s only fair that they claim what they are due.”

  Derec doesn’t answer for a few moments, clearly working through the other man’s words. When he does respond, it’s in a slow and measured tone. “I trust you and I know that you are keenly aware of what happens aboard your ship. You know your men well and have their trust.”

  Captain Morrow’s ire remains unabated. Though he hasn’t changed the volume of his voice, his pitch has lowered and his words come out fast and sharp. “A trust that has been carefully gained and even more carefully maintained. I treat them well and fair and they do the same to me. Telling them that they are to hand over rightfully claimed plunder to your ships is an abominable offense that I will not tolerate. Those unmanning orders alone could bloody well be grounds for a mutiny.”

  The moment Lock’s captain stops speaking, his companion leans in close to speak by his ear. The Easterner sits stiff and straight, with a bearing that Lock now places as distinctly military. His posture loses none of its poise over the several minutes that the men spent with their heads bent together. Lock breaths a silent sigh of relief when they break apart and everyone’s blades remain sheathed.

  “Give us a quarter of the Wolf plunder aboard any ships that we either capture or aid in capturing. Further, I expect that my crew will be paid the same wage that your sailors expect.” Lock’s eyes widen in surprise. The captain was asking, or more so telling, Derec to pay The Splinter’s crew very well. He was also surprised at the way the captain had acquiesced to the other man’s declaration over the ownership of the reclaimed Wolf plunder. Still, any cut of the loot was very beneficial to Captain Morrow and his crew.

  “Fine. You may take a quarter cut of what Wolf Isles merchandise you find aboard any ships that you capture or aid in capturing. Send a record of what you’ve taken along with your reports of sunken ships and any engagements between The Splinter and another ship.” Despite the lingering tension, it’s clear that Derec still trusts the other man’s honor. “I can give you the first three month’s worth of coin before you leave Crow’s Beak. I’ll need to see results from you before I can petition the Rí for further wages.”

  The distaste in Captain Morrow’s voice is clear. “Results? Reports?”

  “I want to see results of you doing what it is you’ve been paid to do,” Derec amends. “Reports will be a way for you to communicate with me about what you’ve seen and done amidst the waters that you’re in. I need evidence and records to show to my superiors when explaining why you should be allowed to be there.”

  Captain Morrow gives a single nod and the Easterner continues. “You’ll be expected to aid in our ongoing efforts against the Dark Sea raiders. In practical terms, you will be helping to ward off their ships and defend Wolf Isles ships if they are being chased or attacked. Otherwise, aid our fleets if they are in need, mark the location of and report any sunken vessels you see and follow the patrol route that you’re given.

  “You won’t be given many commands, Kenn. At the most, you will be directed towards a certain area to patrol or told to be somewhere at a particular time. You may also get occasional missives by bird to be somewhere that is outside of that typical route, but they will either be marked by my own seal and hand or by that of a different one of the Rí’s other aimiréals.” He sighs heavily. “Though I expected it will really only be from me. Either way, I will be traveling with you.

  “With that being said… You are still expected to comply with orders that are given to you or the entirety of the fleet. I knew that you would object to this. Please don’t get up, Kenn. Don’t leave.”

  Captain Morrow has already turned his back on Derec, shaking his head. “I was already tempting fate by even considering helping you. Now you’re asking me to chain myself to a boulder and to try and swim. I’m not willing to live or die at their beck and call ever again.” He resumes walking away, his companion following a few steps behind.

  The lilt in Derec’s accent tightens, falling from being a sound that brings to mind rolling hills and cresting waves before landing somewhere closer to an instrument with over-tightened strings. “Wait!” He calls out to Captain Morrow’s back. The captain spins around on his heel, some of the tavern’s lamplight revealing the rage and hurt on his handsome face.

  Hurt? Lock thinks in bewilderment.

  Wrath that can only be born from an old wound comes forth to overtake Captain Morrow's expression. He snarls out one word: “what?”

  “I need you to trust me-”

  “I do trust you! Meeting you here is a display of my trust, as is the fact that I’m even listening to the madness that you’re asking of me. But why are you asking me to put my life back into their hands?”

  “Kenn, I will do my utmost to remain with you while you’re out there. What happened to you in the past..” Derec trails off for a moment, looking at the half-rotted planks beneath their feet. After a moment he continues speaking, though he lowers his voice and continues addressing the wood below him. “It was an action befitting of the lowest scum among scoundrels, not an aimiréal. As such, I will do my best to not leave you under the sole jurisdiction of any of the other aimiréal besides myself. If I’m ordered away and am forced to leave you for a time, then I’ll be sure to bring over one of the ships from my own fleet. She’s named Bog’s Dragon and is helmed by Captain Voiles. I trust him with my life; you can do the same.”

  Captain Morrow just shakes his head. The man’s wrath has clearly left him, leaving behind a ghoulish shell of a man. He looks as if he might just as soon indulge in the tavern’s rat piss ale than continue on with this conversation. “I trust you and yours, but I do not trust the rest of the Rí’s aimiréals. I know that you understand why I feel the way I do, as you’ve clearly thought through much of this and put great care into not leaving me with the other aimiréals.

  “Still, Derec, I will let them rove the sea and dispense their justice as they see fit. I don’t wish to see harm befall you, but there are many among the aimiréals that I would gladly see dead and rotting in the Depths. I’m sure that you can think of a few of them, likely for more than just what they’ve done to me.” Captain Morrow makes a half turn towards the exit before again addressing the other man. “I’ve said my piece, so I’ll be leaving now. Be safe.”

  Before Lock’s captain can fully turn away, the Easterner lowers a hand beneath the neckline of his tunic. The man next to Captain Morrow freezes, but the Easterner’s old companion just watches with weary eyes. Despite what he had just said moments ago, the odd gesture is enough to make the captain pause. Captain Morrow’s eyes narrow in puzzlement when Derec lifts a simple, silver chain out from its hiding place against his chest. It looks as if it bears two separate rings, though the young man has no insight as to what they might signify.

  “Your signet ring,” Captain Morrow observes. There’s a weary curiosity in his voice, but after a moment the stout man just shakes his head. “You should’ve done this sooner. I no longer have any desire to work through whatever mystery it is you’re trying to create.”

  “I’m not trying to create any sort of mystery. I’m instead looking to show you something that I hope will change your view of our conversation.”

  “As I said, you should’ve done it sooner.” Captain Morrow fully turns around and begins to walk away.

  “Kenn, if you spend just a minute examining this, I promise I will leave you alone if you still choose to leave.”

  Captain Morrow pauses. An inane part of Lock finds amusement in seeing the Easterner in the position that had been held by the drunken knave earlier. The joy at that thought is swiftly silenced when his eyes flick over to the man’s blood stains that have yet to be scrubbed from the floor.

  With a world weary sigh, Lock’s captain turns around to look back at his old comrade’s proffered jewelry. After giving it less than a moment’s glance, he looks back up at the other man’s face. “Aimiréals always carry their signet rings on them. It’s mandated that you all do. Is wearing it from a necklace of silver a new trend?”

  The Easterner ignores the flippant remark. “Take a closer look.”

  Captain Morrow flicks his glance downwards again, but this time there’s a longer pause. “Why is there a second signet ring?” Another quick pause. “It’s not marked by your crest but it’s still the ring of an aimiréal.”

  Derec unclasps the necklace and slides the second ring off, holding it out for Captain Morrow to better see. Lock’s captain leans in close to examine the item, the weak fire held within one of the tavern’s lamps reflecting in his gaze. The flame spreads in tandem with the widening of his hazel eyes for a moment before he takes a step back from Derec, smothering some of the growing blaze.

  “How did you get that?” Captain Morrow whispers.

  “As I said: his actions were not befitting of his station. As such,” Derec places the ring back on the chain. “He was removed.”

  “You removed him.” Lock’s captain sounds utterly dumbstruck.

  “I may not be able to offer you the same protection as I could before,” Derec slides the chain and rings back under his tunic. “But that does not render me powerless.”