Chapter 369:

Caspian

Before we set sail, we spend hours at the dock, loading supplies. The crew works under Marina’s sharp commands—barrels of gunpowder, crates of shot, sacks of dried meat and hardtack. Fresh water. Rum. More bullets than I’ve ever seen in one place.

I watch them load the cannons. Round iron balls, stacked in wooden racks near the gunports. Shot, they call it. I make a note to remember.

When we’re finally ready—when the holds are full and the decks are clear and the men are at their stations,we raise anchor and set sail.

Our destination: the northwestern waters. Where the monster lurks.

*

I stand at the bow, my spyglass pressed to my eye. The brass is warm from the sun. The lens brings distant waves into sharp focus.

The wind is good. The sky is clear. Marina is at the helm, shouting orders I barely understand.

"Hands aloft! loose the fore sail!"

"Trim the yards!"

"Starboard! Starboard, you lazy bastards!"

When we first began this journey, I worried the men wouldn’t listen to her. She’s young. She’s a woman.

But they listen now.

They’ve learned.

We’ve been at sea for an hour when Smith appears at my side. His face is pale.

"Your Highness." He points.

I raise my spyglass.

The Bunny.

It’s sailing behind us. Black hull. Black sails. The flag I didn’t notice when I was on board—it’s not the usual skull and crossbones. It’s the skeleton of a feline.

Crouched, ready to spring.

It catches up in no time.

The Bunny is faster than my ship. Much faster. It stays behind us,not passing just following.

I lower the spyglass.

"Your Highness." Smith’s voice is tight. He’s been hovering at my elbow since we left the dock. "I do not support you making an unscrupulous deal with a pirate."

"Not this again, Smith."

"Pirates cannot be trusted." He steps closer, lowering his voice. "Let alone one called the Devil."

"What’s done is done." I turn back to the sea.

"Your Highness—"

"Smith." I cut him off. "Why did you set sail with me if you’re going to oppose every single decision I make?"

He exhales. Long. Heavy. His shoulders slump.

"My apologies, Your Grace." He looks at the deck. At his hands. At the horizon. Anywhere but my face. "I’m... I’m just worried."

"After losing His Highness, Prince Xavier..." His voice cracks. "You’re rushing toward what caused him to lose his life."

He looks at me now. His eyes are wet.

"I understand your noble intentions. I do. But I love you boys like my own sons. I watched you grow up. I taught you to ride, to shoot, to dance." He swallows.

"I don’t want to ...lose another son."

The words hit harder than I expect.

"I find it hard to be supportive," he finishes. "When every instinct tells me to tie you to the mast and sail home."

I look at this old man who has served my family my whole life. Who taught me history and swordsmanship and how to tie a proper cravat. Who stayed when my father dismissed him. Who followed me into danger when he should be retired, sitting by a fire, telling stories to grandchildren.

"Smith." I put a hand on his shoulder. "I’m not going to die."

"That remains to be seen, Your Highness."

"Thank you for the vote of confidence," I say dryly.

He almost smiles.

"Everything else aside..." He pauses. Looks at me. Really looks. "I’m proud of you." 𝓯𝓻𝓮𝙚𝙬𝓮𝙗𝒏𝙤𝒗𝙚𝙡.𝒄𝒐𝓶

Before I can respond, he taps my shoulder and walks away.

I watch him go. His back is straight. His steps are steady. But I notice the way he grips the railing as he passes. The way his knuckles go white.

I turn back to the sea.

***

Daphne

The water gets old.

The endless stretch of blue, the same waves, the same horizon, the same empty sky. Days blur together. Weeks. Months. Five years of searching, and I’ve found nothing.

I lie in bed, staring through the small circular window at the water outside. My room is dark. The curtains are drawn. The only light comes from the sea, filtering through the glass, casting blue shadows on the walls.

It’s noisy on the ship. I can hear them—the crew, laughing, dancing, singing. Someone is playing a fiddle. Someone else is stomping their feet. The music drifts through the walls, muffled but cheerful.

Sometimes I join them. Sit in the corner and watch.

But today is not one of those days.

I may be depressed.

I have these moments—days when I can’t get out of bed, when the weight of everything presses down on my chest and I can’t breathe. It comes and goes. The grief. The emptiness. The loss.

I guess losing Vivienne hit me harder than I expected.

It’s not just her.

It’s our child.

I didn’t realize how much I cared. How much I was looking forward to holding them, naming them, watching them grow.

I wonder sometimes. What would the child have been? Male or female? Would they have had Vivienne’s eyes? My stubbornness? Would they have been calm or wild, serious or laughing, alive?

For her autopsy, they tried to tell me the gender. The physician pulled me aside, his face soft with pity. "If you would like to know—"

I didn’t want to know.

I still don’t.

How could I know, when Viv didn’t?

I stare at the ceiling. The music plays on. The crew laughs.

This won’t do.

I throw off the blankets. Swing my legs over the side of the bed. The floor is cold beneath my bare feet.

I pull a stool to the window. Set up my canvas. The wood is scarred from years of use—paint stains in shades of blue and green and gold, colors I mix again and again, trying to capture something I can’t name.

I pick up my brush.

I continue adding the shading. The brush strokes. The figure on the canvas is still vague—a silhouette, a suggestion, a woman with her back turned, her tail trailing in the water.

But I know who she is.

I’m now about eighty percent sure she must be a mermaid. Or something like one. Something that belongs to the water.

The painting takes shape beneath my hands. The curve of her spine. The fall of her hair.

I’m coming, I think. I just need to find you.

The brush moves. The paint dries.

Outside, the sea stretches on forever.