A Legacy of Salt and Steel
Chapter 2 - The Whispers of the Half-Sunk
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A.N : Long chapter - 9K
The peace of Shellmere cracked in the early morning.
She had just returned from the Coral Gardens, hems of her pants damp and stinging with salt. A woven basket of foraged redroot bulbs rested against her hip, heavy and earthy—a gift for Merria, whose pantry had been running low. Maybe also an offering. A quiet bribe to smooth the conversation she knew she’d soon have to start.
The day started to warm the sky, pale pink bleeding into blue. The sun hovered low over the water’s edge, its first rays catching on the ocean like gold split across glass. The world was soft in that hour. Birds skimmed the tide pools. Tiny colorful fishes played in the low tide. The coral reefs glowed beneath the surface like buried lanterns.
Then she heard the children shouting.
At first, it was distant—laughter, urgency, the stampede of bare feet.
Then, a scream of her name, distinctive, playful. They came tumbling around a bend in the road, outpacing one another, shouting over each other to be heard.
“There’s a ship!”
“Docking right now—come see!”
“A pirate ship!”
The basket slipped a little against her hip.
She didn’t move right away. Her body obeyed older instincts—training carved into muscle and breath. Restraint. Poise. Breathe first. She set the basket down. Wiped her hands on the hem of her pants. Smoothed the seaweed band at her wrist.
Then she walked. Not fast. Not slow. Her stride was measured, but her mind was already racing—questions colliding, branching off, pruning themselves down to one central fear: what kind of pirates?
Her teeth caught her bottom lip.
If it came to violence, she had options. Knowledge of the terrain. A means to fight. But the people here were soft. Kind. They would never survive, not unscathed at least. It would scar them, leave deep wounds into their trust that would fester into fear. Like it did for Moelani.
She’d rather not bleed that kindness out over the sand.
The children met her halfway, breathless and bright-eyed.
“It’s huge!” one boy gasped, eyes shining. “It’s got a dragon on the front!”
“They waved at us!” another beamed, clutching a tiny spyglass in both hands. “The red-haired one smiled!”
Her breath caught.
Red-haired. An information she stored in her mind.
That narrowed the field. She could think of a few pirates with red hair. Only one with that moniker. Only one she would rather not meet.
Still, her expression stayed steady. Attentive. Empty of fear. Her throat tightened, but she gave nothing away. She followed them down the winding slope toward the Spiral Pier, feet landing lightly, as if the ground beneath her could turn traitor at any moment.
Shellmere was waking up too.
Doors creaked open. Curtains stirred like breath. Islanders emerged like tide-creatures drawn to a current—curious, cautious, blinking into the pink-gold morning. Merria stood among them, one hand raised to shield her eyes.
Someone rang the soft copper bell used to mark passing traders. A dog began barking, then fell quiet.
Merria stood among them, shading her eyes with one hand, the other still holding a spatula from the breakfast she’d been preparing. She casted a pointed glance when the children pushed and weaved through the crowd to get closer, a soft sigh escaping her lips.
The older woman nodded when she reached her side, acknowledging her. Her eyes landed on the basket against her hips, a brow arched. She remained silent, turning to the arrival of the ship.
The ship cut across the water of the inner bay. A monster of wood and sails, the hull lacquered deep crimson—like dried blood sealed under sunlight. Far bigger than everything she’d sailed on. The port looked tiny in comparison.
The bow gleamed with golden scrollwork and dragon-scale carvings that caught the morning light like embers.
One of the islanders—a boy in his teens, tall and sunburnt—whistled under his breath. “That’s no trader.”
“No flags of any kingdom,” someone else muttered.
“It’s beautiful,” whispered an older woman, more awed than afraid. Her hands were still dusted with flour.
The ship’s rigging creaked as it neared, taut and orderly despite the chaos of noise above. Its four masts carried thick sails rimmed in pale thread, all full with wind and perfectly trimmed. The Jolly Roger caught the breeze and unfurled above them—a grinning skull marked with two slashing red lines and crossed sabers behind it.
Red Hair Pirates. The thought seared itself in her mind. Her fingers curled tighter around the edge of the basket.
Even those who didn’t know what it meant felt something shift in the air.
A fisherman slowly lowered his net. A child clutched their mother’s leg, peeking around her skirt. One man spat and backed away toward his home. Another just stood there, slack-jawed, mouthing something like a prayer.
And yet…
Others smiled. Nervous, but curious. Shellmere had few visitors. Even fewer who arrived laughing.
The sound rolled across the water, booming and bright, as if the ship carried its own festival inside it. A tall figure leaned over the rail, waving at the crowd like royalty at a parade.
She stood still among the motion.
To the islanders, this was novelty. Excitement. A change from routine. A pirate ship with no drawn cannons, no fire. No threat. They saw spectacle. Color. Maybe even charm.
But she saw the teeth beneath the smile.
She saw houses burned, earth drunk on blood, glints of silver in the hands. She saw chaos, expressions frozen in grimaces, tears and snots running down faces. She heard cries and pleads for help, screams of horror and grief.
Devastation.
The Red Force was no ordinary pirate ship. It was a floating stronghold, a myth made of wood. A declaration.
An Emperor’s vessel.
Her lungs filled sharply, like she was about to dive beneath a wave.
Fuck.
Their sails swelled with pride. Their laughter carried violence in its echo. The kindness they offered was real. No civilian was armed under his protection. But their danger made them unpredictable.
There was one certainty, though: Merria’s cave was about to empty. Hide the rums and the daughters. The Red-Haired Pirates are docking.
The innkeeper’s voice pulled her from the brink. “You alright, dear?”
She blinked once. “Just surprised.”
“They seem friendly enough,” Merria offered. “One of them was playing a fiddle as they approached. Haven’t seen a flag like that before, though…”
“I have.”
Merria tilted her head. “You recognize them?”
Yes, she thought. They’re the top of the food chain. The ones even other pirates fear. The ones who can level an island before breakfast and laugh through lunch.
But she only said, “No. Just the kind. Pirates.”
The ship was close now. A voice rose from the ship—singing, or maybe shouting in rhythm. The fiddle joined in, wild and reedy, barely staying in tune as someone stomped in time on the deck. Ropes were cast. Anchors groaned. The crew came into view—bright as coins, loud as gulls. Shirtless men shouting jokes. A tall one on the prow pointing toward town. Someone calling out for rum and mangoes—an allegory for boobs, she thought grimly.
One girl giggled. “They’re not scary at all.”
She didn’t answer. Her jaw was tight.
Instead, she stepped back from the crowd, slowly. Carefully. She didn’t run. Running would attract attention. And she needed none of that. She needed time. Space. She needed to think. Because her mind had already begun weaving threads into something sharp and stupid—something she had in spades.
A plan. An idea barely worth calling that. But it might work.
If they were docking, she could get aboard. Just for a ride.
They would never take her as she is but they wouldn’t recognize her either. The bounties all contradicted themselves. No picture. No description. Just a name—one easily shed—and a reputation easily buried under a smile and a lie. Maybe she could convince them—play lost, pretty, desperate.
Civilian.
It would play in her favor. They liked them weak—just look at their allies. Pirates who shouldn’t have survived the New World if it weren’t for them. Him.
And she’d seen the women who clung to pirates like these—the soft-spoken, the starry-eyed. She could be that for a day. Long enough to climb a gangplank. Long enough to follow the vivre card east.
Just to reach Glass Vale Island. That was all she needed.
She would need to change. Hide her calluses. Her scars. Maybe wear the dress Alua gave her, the pretty white one to soften her edges.
She swallowed. The taste of salt and nerves coated her tongue.
An Emperor. In the flesh.
He was going to be a challenge.
But he had a ship. And she had a reason.
Whatever cracked open in her chest—dread, awe, doubt—it bent beneath something older. Sharper. A storm that had been waiting far too long.
She wasn’t going to let the trail go cold.
…
By mid-morning, the tavern had lost its hush. Word had spread quickly that pirates had docked, and the islanders, ever polite and ever curious, had poured in with cautious smiles and nervous glances. They watched as the Red-Haired Pirates settled into the space like they owned it—boots on benches, laughter shaking the wooden beams, and rum already flowing like spring water.
Merria was hard at work behind the counter, already filling drinks. They’d yet to eat lunch.
She kept her distance, standing by the open-air bar window, hands wrapped around a mug of kelp tea that had waited for her since her departure at dawn. The wrap Alua gave her felt tight—like it knew she wasn’t made to wear it.
A clatter of shells broke her thoughts. One of the pirates—cheeks round with youth, sunburned nose and wild hair tied into a short, spiky ponytail—cursed softly as he bent to gather them. His shirt was too big, sleeves rolled to the elbows, and his expression hovered between overwhelmed and thrilled.
Definitely new.
The woman bent to help. She handed him a handful of the scattered shells that were used for some kind of dice game. He grinned sheepishly.
“Thanks. Uh—sorry. This island’s too pretty. Makes me drop things.”
His tone was unfamiliar, different in many tones and shades. His rhythm was chaotic, words pronounced with an ever changing accent. A cosmopolitan island. His was the accent of a city where nobility and peasants mixed, of traditions clashing together to create a whole new culture.
She raised a brow. “That’s a new excuse.”
“I’m not great under pressure,” he admitted, scratching the back of his head. She nodded her understanding and perhaps, sensing someone willing to listen, he continued. “Still getting used to the crew. Kinda hoping if I don’t mess up this supply run, they’ll let me keep sailing with them. I’m Kaito, by the way.”
“I’m—” she paused for a second, thinking, then her lips curled into a smile. “‘Amy’. You can call me ‘Amy’.”
They shook hands. His was sweaty and soft, eager in his grip but not enough to hurt her. Barely there calluses. When he released it, she leant back against the edge of the table, cocking her hips.
Behind him, someone wolf-whistled his name. The boy turned scarlet to his ears.
“Supply run, you said?” ‘Amy’ asked, as casually as she could manage.
He nodded, still shy, still nervous but leant with the eagerness of someone still desperate to prove themselves. “Aye, we’re just stopping here to refill—fresh food, booze, maybe some medical salve. Nothing major.”
“Then?”
“Then we’re heading to Glass Vale Island. Captain wants to check on someone. Said he made a promise.”
‘Amy’ froze for half a second—just long enough for the silence to crack open something sharp inside her. Her heart hit her ribs like a war drum. She blinked once. Twice. Then turned her head, just enough to mask the flicker of fire in her gaze and the smugness of her smile.
A ship and a destination in common.
“How long will you stay docked?”
The boy shrugged. “A day, maybe less. I heard Captain doesn’t like lingering when he’s needed. Especially not somewhere this quiet.”
She nodded and passed him the last shell. “Then you’d better make yourself useful.” A pause. “And thank you.”
“For what?” Kaito called, but she was already walking away.
She rounded the corner of the tavern, heart pounding, and nearly collided with Merria, who stood in the shade with two pints filled with beer and a look that said she’d heard everything.
The silence between them stretched.
‘Amy’ folded her arms. “Sneaking up on people is your new hobby?”
“I was bringing two gentlemen their pints,” Merria said coolly. “Didn’t mean to overhear.”
But she did and she was judging her decision.
She sighed softly. “It’s just a ship. A way off this island.”
“With pirates,” Merria said, not asking. “You’re going to ask them?”
“Ask him—the captain. I only need his approval.”
“Is that why you’re suddenly dressed like that?”
‘Amy’ frowned, pursing her lips and furrowing her nose. A sweet breeze ruffled the wind chime. “Like what?”
The innkeeper raised her brows as she made a show of staring at her cleavage and all the places the fabric was snuggled against her silhouette. “Like you’re going to seduce a problem.”
The corners of her eyes creased in spite of herself. Amused. “Or maybe I’ll seduce the solution.”
A pause. Merria shifted her weight, her voice gentler now. “You think he’ll say yes?”
Somewhere behind her, someone shouted a bet-something about bagging a beauty at the next island, then: “I think I need him to.”
“And if he says no?”
She hesitated. Then—too sharp, too fast—“Then I’ll try something else.”
Merria studied her. “I knew you didn’t abandon the idea of leaving before the trader’s ship. But pirates?”
‘Amy’ looked away. Two men toasted their drinks, spilling half on them. They guffawed a laugh. By the time they leave, she thought, the tavern will smell like a tavern. Like rum and bad decisions.
“You’ve been helpful,” Merria went on. “Respectful. Good with the children. You didn’t owe us that.”
“I can’t stay,” She said softly. “But I didn’t want to leave like a ghost. You’ve been good to me first.”
It’s only natural.
Merria exhaled, shoulders sagging just a little. “Do you trust him?”
“I don’t know him.”
“Then don’t gamble your life on a man.”
She didn’t answer. She didn’t tell her that she would always fold for a good gamble, that she had spent hours in a casino to get her money back. It’s the rush of adrenaline, the uncertainty, the frustration of a loss so close to a win and then the euphoria of the win.
It wasn’t an addiction. But it could be.
Merria stepped closer, placed a hand lightly on her arm. “If you change your mind, you can stay here. The bed’s still yours. For as long as you need it.”
‘Amy’ nodded, but her jaw was set. “Thank you.”
Merria let her go.
But as she walked toward the dock, the innkeeper’s voice followed her, low and sad. “Don’t become someone you need to lie to.”
She raised her hand over her shoulder in a lazy wave.
She didn’t head straight to the captain.
Instead, she walked along the outer edge of the dock, fingers grazing the coral-stone walls of the houses bordering it, eyes flicking toward the coast. She watched the crew bring life back into Shellmere Island. Searched for him in the crowd. Searched for his signature red hair and found a shimmer of it near the ship. Alone, for now.
Good.
Turning to a window, she squinted at her reflection, wet her lips, straightened her spine, and adjusted her hair, just wild enough. Smile, soft but fraying. And with that, she walked to the pier.
She saw him before he saw her, and that was an advantage.
Shanks. The Red-Haired Pirate. An Emperor. A name spoken in half-whispers, in taverns thick with smoke and rumors—wary awe and spiteful respect. She’d heard the stories—everyone had. The man who allied with weak crews, laughed like a drunk, and fought like a god.
But stories didn’t do justice to the figure leaning back against a coil of thick mooring rope, half-shadowed by the late morning sun. The light poured golden over the harbor, setting the waves aglow like rippling coins. He held a bottle loosely in his hand, legs crossed at the ankle, his entire posture speaking of someone who feared nothing, not boredom.
He looked like the sea had shaped him itself—broad-shouldered, sun-browned, his red hair burning like embers against a sculpted jaw. Less drunk than the stories made him sound like. The kind of man who laughed with his crew and still made every room he left feel quieter.
But the sea certainly did not dress him. His pants were a murder attempt on her eyes. A clear lack of taste. Of modesty. Of respect. More than his flag, it screamed of danger—that he wasn’t above doing crimes. Fashion crimes.
And she had to seduce that?
Her steps barely faltered as she adjusted the neckline of her dress with a subtle flick of her fingers—just enough cleavage to be noticed, not enough to scream for it. The white fabric caught the light, soft and delicate in all the ways she never let herself be. Her hair, freed from its usual binds, curled in the wind, with a few braids strung with nacres shimmering faintly. Windswept and fizzy like it wasn’t by design.
She didn’t play this game often—not for pleasure, but for necessity.
Like now.
So she smiled like she wasn’t thinking about how many zeros there were in his bounty, and walked with the slight stumble of someone lost, tired, grateful for a savior. A pretty thing in the wrong place at the wrong time.
He caught her in the corner of his gaze. She felt it land on her skin, warm and assessing. Not lewd. Not shy either. Just curious. Unbothered in a way that bothered her. Like he’d already decided that she wasn’t a threat, just a puzzle in white—and that stung more than she liked to admit.
She tilted her head, dropped her eyes, softened the lines of her mouth. Made herself vulnerable, pliable, something he could ignore or help. But inside, she was blade-sharp and watching. Every twitch of his hand. Every breath.
“If you're looking to make a few belies, you’ve picked the wrong pirate,” Shanks called, raising his hand lazily. The bottle caught the light, and so did the smirk on his lips. “I only do it for pleasure.”
Something jumped inside her chest. Something old and fanged. It snarled at the insult, at the casual dismissal. She imagined wrapping her hands around his neck and it made her smile—small, soft, amused, civilized.
It wavered when he turned.
Up close, his presence hit harder. He was all the things the stories hadn’t said—alive in the way only truly dangerous men are. Her eyes traced the curve of his neck, the slope of his exposed chest—
Hmm. Maybe she was no better than a man.
Her gaze drifted up and collided with his. His grin split his face in two—wide, careless, knowing. His eyes were half-lidded and amused. Cocky. She’d been caught.
She cleared her throat, angling her shoulders, trying to claw back control. Her cheeks burned. “No. Only a bit of passage. If you're heading east.”
He blinked, tilting his head, as if tasting the shape of her words. “And what’s east that can’t wait a few weeks?”
She inhaled slowly, kept her voice light, her pace natural. “My home. My people. I missed the civilian ship.”
“Unlucky.”
“Maybe not. I’ve heard your ship is safer than most. And kinder.” She leaned in slightly, gaze earnest. Wind tugged at her robe. “I’m ‘Amy’.”
He studied her for a beat too long. The silence pressed in, broken only by the creaking of ropes and the low gulls' cries. Then he chuckled, shaking his head.
“Someone’s been talking,” he said. The way his tone lifted at the end—sweet and dangerous—made it hard to tell whether the weight beneath his words was made of lead or salvation. “You already know me but—the name’s Shanks. Lovely to meet you.”
She took a careful step closer. Not too bold, not too timid. Her robe swayed with the sea breeze, revealing just enough leg to suggest, never confirm.
A smile, soft as foam. “You have a reputation.”
“That’s the problem with reputations—half’s earned, the rest is good storytelling.” He stretched, rising to his full height, bottle dangling between two fingers. He was taller than she expected. Taller than her by a good head. Broader. The kind of presence that filled every empty space around him. Lazier, too—until he looked her directly in the eyes. “And what are you, Amy? Another story?”
“Just someone trying to get home.”
He began pacing in a slow, loose arc around her. Not circling like a predator—more like a man measuring something he hadn’t decided whether to buy or break. His gaze flicked past her—never lingering, yet seeing too much. She kept still. Let him move but kept him in her line of vision even if she knew he could lunge at her faster than she could react.
The thought made her cling harder to her facade, put the smile back on like armor, softened the mouth and tucked her fluster back under her tongue.
The sea sighed behind them, the tide pulling against barnacled piers. A distant gull cawed. The red-haired pirate stopped just short of her, closer than before. Close enough that the scent of salt, sweat, and worn leather met her nose. His cape whipped faintly at his heels. His hair glowed where the sunlight caught it—like fire dancing on water.
Above them, the flag of the Red-Hair Pirates flapped in the wind. A warning or a promise.
Shanks tilted his head again, watching her with an idle kind of focus that made her skin itch. “You don’t carry a bag. No tools. No sunburn. No dirt under your nails.”
Her lashes fluttered. Coy. Harmless. “Should I?”
“If you’ve been waiting here more than ten minutes? Absolutely.”
A beat. A pause. A tell. She didn’t flinch, but her breath stuttered. He caught it.
“I left my bag at the inn,” she said, voice soft but sure. “I’m sure you’ve seen how few ships are docked here—and even fewer headed toward Glass Vale Island.”
He grinned, taking a step back. Taking back his suffocating heat. “My crew’s full of big hearts and bad ideas. They love taking in strays. Me? I like knowing who I’m feeding.”
“I’m no one dangerous,” ‘Amy’ answered. And she said it like she believed it. Like a lie whispered enough times could become a prayer.
To him? Without a doubt. But she knew even the mightiest could suffer terrible wounds when the blows came from within.
To his rookies, though—that was another story.
Shanks studied her with quiet amusement—or perhaps, it was boredom? Hard to tell with a man hard to read. “Oh, I believe that.” He took a long pull from the bottle, throat moving slow.
A single bead escaped the corner of his lips, curved his cheek, dripped off his jaw and crashed on his collarbone. It continued his path down his ch-
Dangerous zone.
She casted her eyes up as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. There was no visible reaction. Inwardly, she sighed. She wasn’t caught again.
“But the answer’s still no.”
The heat coiling in her guts turned to ice. Her jaw tensed. “Why not?”
There it was—just a flicker. Frustration, like smoke beneath silk. Tension that pulled at her features, hardening them.
“Because you walked up to a pirate in a pretty dress and asked for a favor. Either you’re very brave… or very good at lying.”
His tone was too casual. No shift in stance. No dilation in the pupils. He wasn’t biting her bait—just amused. Too amused.
She tilted her chin like an invitation. Like a challenge. But her nails were digging in her palm. “Can’t I be both?”
“My favorite kind.” He grinned. “Keeps things interesting.”
Her voice, her poise—excellent. But he saw the gleam of something forged beneath the surface. Not performance. Training.
“You’re good,” he said, tone like a toast raised in her honor. “If I didn’t know better, I’d almost be tempted.”
“And if I were just a woman trying to get home?” ‘Amy’ pressed—insisted, really—keeping up the charade because they were still talking and it wasn’t over.
As long as they were on that island, she could still try.
“I’d still say no. Because then you’re a liability.” Then, as he turned to leave, he tossed over his shoulder, “Don’t get yourself drowned before you find a better crew, yeah?”
‘Amy’ stood still as he turned and walked away, the breeze tugging at her robe and hair like invisible hands trying to hold her here. Her jaw locked—not from rejection, but from recognition.
He saw her.
Saw through her.
And smiled anyway.
“Dammit.”
…
‘Amy’ didn’t return to the inn immediately.
She hummed under her breath, arms crossed and eyes cast forward without really seeing. Deep in thought. She let instinct carried her along the dock, slowly and quietly. A flock of seagulls observed her from the wooden posts. One cried like he was laughing. Or warning. She wasn’t sure which.
Her lips thinned. Her finger taped a fast rhythm against her arm. There was an ache in her chest, something heavy and constricting, like an anchor pulling at her lungs. But it wasn’t hot, not anymore. It wasn’t anger—not the full blaze, more like embers.
More like frustration.
Shanks had said no.
A soft breeze swirled through the dock, every wind chimes clinked together in soft whispers. It brushed past her cheek, caressing it with ghostlike fingers as strands of her hair were pushed from her face. The little seashells glittered in the light.
But—
The pirates hadn’t left. Not yet. And as long as they were still here—as long as that damn crew still sang and laughed somewhere in the glow of Shellmere’s lights—there was a window. Thin, maybe, but open.
And so she walked, and thought, and reformed her strategy. Again and again until the puzzle was whole again.
And the beginning of a solution appeared.
It was near the east dock that she found it.
It sat in the shallows, wobbly and crooked against the reeds like it had washed up and never left. The hull, once white perhaps, was now a bruised patchwork of peeling paint and soft, green algae. A thin trail of water leaked from one side like the boat had grown tired of keeping itself together.
She crouched beside it, reaching out a hand.
The wood gave slightly under her fingers—gone soft with time and mildew, swollen from shouldering too many waves and never enough care. The gunwales were splintered, frayed with old rope burns and sun-warped nails jutting just a little too boldly. A spider had claimed the inside of the bow. Colorful and—did it have shoes? Anyway. The thwart was cracked clean through, and rust stained the bolts like old blood. A single oar rested awkwardly inside, its handle warped and chipped.
It didn’t look like it was used by anyone—or, at least, not as a means to get food. With good reasons.
The mast sagged. The sail—if you could call it that—was a patchwork of old canvas, stitched together with what looked like bits of tarp and fishing net. One section was unmistakably part of a yellow raincoat. Another, she thought, might have been a curtain once. Everything about the dinghy whispered: not seaworthy.
And yet…
It floated.
Barely. Like a stubborn stray dog with too many scars and just enough pride to stand up when called.
She exhaled softly, brushing her fingers along the rim. Someone had tried to repair it before. Resin dried and flaked like old scars along the seams. Maybe it had saved someone once. Maybe it still could.
She sat back on her heels, quiet for a long moment. The air at the east dock had a different quality: warm and gentle with a touch of algae and neglect.
It wasn’t a good plan. It wasn’t even close to a plan. But it was a tool that could sway Shanks’ decision—at best—or take her to the sea—at worst.
She wasn’t stupid enough to believe she could sneak on his ship. She wouldn’t have been the first to try that trick and she had heard what happened to people imposing their presence on pirate ships.
She wasn’t interested in following their footsteps. Especially as a woman.
Her eyes narrowed faintly.
This could work. With a little sealant. Some rope. A few careful hours. She could make this wreck move. And if not—if it sank before it ever reached the open current—well, at least it would be her choice to go under.
She stood again and took one last look at the crooked vessel.
“I’ve had worse odds,” she murmured with a soft hum.
She turned back on her heels with a plan reshaping in her head.
…
What does it feel to be undeniable?
…
The Red-Hair Pirates were still at their table when she slipped back into the inn.
‘Amy’ felt their presence before she saw them: laughter rising and falling like the tide, chairs scraping against the driftwood floor, the familiar clink of tankards and cutlery striking in rhythm. They were eating well, loud and at ease, their voices rolling through the hush of Shellmere like thunder on calm waters.
One of the taller men—Bonk Punch, if memories served her right—let out a belly-laugh so deep it rattled the spoons on the table. Limejuice swatted at a fly with a roll of dried seaweed. Hongo leaned over a chart, arguing with someone about wind patterns, while Yasopp spun a fork through his greasy fingers like a flintlock. They were halfway through what looked like their second dinner, and the table was littered with crab shells, lemon rinds, and wet-glass rings.
Shanks was among them, not at the head of the table but woven into its center. His lone arm rested over the back of his chair, a faint grin on his lips. He wasn’t in the spotlight, not regaling the crowd with stories and quips. His gaze wandered now and then, absent-minded on the surface—but not truly. His eyes tracked the door before it opened.
She hesitated in the doorway.
Her spine straightened. Her chin lifted. The same neat appearance but her demeanor had changed, her steps no longer carried the softness they had this morning. She didn’t look their way—not directly. But she was aware of their presence. Felt the ripple of their attention brush her as she passed.
She made her way to the counter in silence, seashell charms at her back clinking faintly with each step. Merria was there, drying a glass with a towel patterned in sea-flower ink.
“You didn’t change your mind, did you?” the innkeeper said, not looking up. “You’ve got the look of someone who just swallowed a hook sideways.”
‘Amy’ slid onto the stool, fingers curling lightly around the edge. “You said there were no fishing boats that go far.”
Merria’s hands slowed. She glanced at her with a slight frown. Curious but cautious. “There aren’t. Not ones that are seaworthy. Why?”
‘Amy’ pressed her flat palm against the countertop and leaned in. She spoke loud enough to be heard through the lull between bursts of pirate laughter: “Then who owns the wreck at the east dock? Half-sunk near the tide reeds.”
Merria blinked, cocking a brow. “That thing? That’s not a boat. That’s a stubborn apology. Belonged to a man who tried trading clams during storm season. Nearly died twice.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly. “But it floats.”
“Only when it wants to.” Merria finally set the glass down, a new tension gathering in her shoulders. “Why?”
At the pirates’ table, the rhythm of cutlery slowed. No one spoke, but movement stalled—a bite half-lifted, a drink paused mid-tilt. The air tightened just enough for the attentive to notice. Or the gossips.
‘Amy’ kept her tone level but she jerked her chin in the crews’ direction. “Because no one’s going to take me. So I’ll take what’s left. Patch the hull. Rig a sail. I’ve handled worse.”
Benn Beckman leaned back in his chair, cigar ember glowing low, his gaze slipping briefly in her direction before settling on his captain, narrowing just slightly. Lucky Roux chewed a tad slower.
“You’re not serious.” Merria’s voice dropped, tension fraying her calm. Then sharper: “That thing can barely turn in calm water. You’d be lucky to drift a mile before it folds under you.” A pause. Then, gentler: “You’ve done enough. You’ve earned rest. Why chase danger again?”
‘Amy’s jaw tightened. She stared at the counter. It wasn’t enough, it was barely a try. And they needed more than enough—they needed her best.
“Because I care. And I might be the only one who still does.” Her voice grew softer, a murmur taut with everything she wasn’t saying. “I can’t comb coral gardens while they scream underwater.”
Across the room, the pirate table had quieted. No one turned, but forks hovered midair. The silence that followed wasn’t empty—it was listening.
Good. Let him listen, she thought, let him hear about what I’m willing to do to leave the island and what he could prevent.
Merria folded the towel slowly now, her eyes on her guest. “Then let me find someone. Ask around. You don’t have to do this alone.”
“There’s no time. I’ve wasted it enough.” ‘Amy’s voice cut in, quieter now. “I’ll fix it myself. I just need to borrow a patching kit. Resin. Rope.”
She reached forward when the older woman’s features tensed and gently caught her hand, the touch firm but steady. “I know what I’m doing.” There were no theatrics in her gaze. Just a calm conviction. A quiet vow that said ‘Trust me’.
“The moment you reach the reef, the currents will tear you apart.” Merria held her eyes. Seeing she wasn’t budging, she sighed and returned her grip. “No one sails out of Shellmere on a dinghy. Not without disappearing.”
A faint smile ghosted across ‘Amy’s lips. “Then I’ll be a ghost.”
She rose. Her fingers slipped free from Merria’s. The seashells behind her chimed once as she stepped away.
Across the room, Shanks looked up and just as she reached the door, their eyes met—deep purple to golden maroon. The corner of his mouth curled.
She didn’t smile back.
The door closed behind her with the hush of old wood.
…
She didn’t rush.
The winding path toward the east dock wound past tidal grass and still shadows. The breeze was low and teasing, tugging at loose strands of her hair, carrying the scent of seaweed and wood rot. Far from the hum of the market square, there were no flower beds here, no clang of metal or voices calling out for fresh coral dye. Just reeds shivering along the banks, the rhythmic lap of brackish water against aged pylons, and the hollow creak of an old tide leaning into itself.
Overhead, the gulls circled lazy and low, their wings catching the golden light. They didn’t cry out—not yet. Just shadows slicing across the clouds like they were bored with peace.
And there it was.
Tethered by a single fraying rope to a leaning post, the dinghy slumped half-submerged in the shallows like a drunk too proud to lie down. It had no dignity left—just defiance.
It looked like it shouldn’t survive a breeze. But maybe—just maybe—it remembered the wind.
‘Amy’ crouched beside it, fingers trailing the hull. The wood rasped beneath her touch: swollen, salt-rubbed, wearing the bruises of years and storms. But not broken. Beneath the grime and crust, something stubborn clung to shape.
“Wanna go on one last adventure, old dog?” she whispered.
And, as if to answer her, the sail swelled.
The corners of her eyes crinkled, not with joy, but the soft throb of recognition. They say kindred spirits could recognize each other in every shape and every form.
Yes, she could fix it.
Not well. Not safely. But enough. Enough to drift. Enough to slip the lip of Shellmere and follow whatever current hadn’t given up on her. Enough, perhaps, to make it to Glass Vale by stubborn will and salt-pickled luck. She had read the winds. The sea would carry her.
Probably.
She had done worse with less.
From the rise behind her—footsteps. Not running. Not sneaking. Just… present.
She didn’t turn.
“I thought you might need something like this,” said a voice behind her.
Not the one she’d hoped for. But not unwelcome. Merria stepped into view, a cloth bundle tucked beneath one arm, her other hand gripping it like she was afraid to let go.
“I brought the resin,” Merria said, voice quiet against the wind. “Some rope. A sealant for the hull, though you’ll have to pray it holds.”
‘Amy’ looked back, lips parting—but Merria raised a hand before she could speak.
“No thanks,” the innkeeper said. “I’m doing this with a stone in my gut. You go out there alone, and I’ll be the one explaining to children why the woman who played Tide Thieves never came back.”
‘Amy’ rose, brushing her hands on her dress. The planks groaned beneath her, as if weary from her weight. “I can’t ask you to understand.”
“Because I’m an innkeeper?”
“Because you were made to stay,” She said. Her face had turned gentle, soft. She took a step forward, enough to wrap her hands around her shoulders. She squeezed once. “And I wasn’t.”
It landed between them like a truth both had carried but never spoken. Merria didn’t flinch, tilting her head down. The shadows grew on her face, shrouding her smile. Small and sad.
‘Amy’ retreated to the boat, hands running the seams, eyes narrowing on weak points, already mapping repairs in her mind and timing it. “I’ll leave at dawn. Or before. I’ll go quiet. Unnoticed.”
“You won’t.”
The younger woman looked up. Strands of copper hair had fallen from her scarf, languidly fluttering around in the sweet breeze, creating a halo and the sun behind her crowned her in gold.
How fitting, she thought.
“You’ve been helpful, and you think people will forget?” Merria raised a brow. “That’s without even talking about the pirates. And… Well, I didn’t help much, causing a bit of a scene.”
“…Is it a scene when it’s for someone else’s sake?” ‘Amy’ murmured.
She didn’t answer, let the wind answer while Merria studied her, the sun catching in her lashes. “You talked loudly back there.”
She didn’t speak more but her eyes told her everything.
‘Amy’ paused. Her gaze dropped—then lifted again with a twist of her mouth. Wry. Almost bitter. “You notice too much,” she muttered. No deflection this time. No mask. Just a raw, unhidden truth.
Merria nodded, stepping back. “Then maybe you’ll get your wish.”
‘Amy’ hummed, watching the silver of the horizon.
“Concerning the owner of the boat-” She started, only to be shushed almost immediately.
“Don’t worry about that old fool. I’ll take care of him.”
And for some reason, she made it sound terrifying.
…
Her time on Shellmere was coming to an end, whether she would sail on her own or with a crew.
…
She had been expecting him. Just not this late.
She was knee-deep into the water—the length of her dress now knotted asymmetrically at her hips. Little halos of gray stained the white. A nail between her lips, a hammer in a hand and a battered length of sailcloth she was trying to stretch across a splintered frame like it might hold if she believed in it hard enough.
The wind had risen, tugging roughly at her hair and slapping strands that had slipped from her headband into her eyes and cheeks. The air tonight was cold, stinging the tip of her nose. She sniffed as she rubbed roughly her nose into her shoulder.
She wedged a plank into place and spit the nail. She didn’t curse when the rope slipped or when the hammer caught her finger. She hissed between her teeth and kept going.
By now, most of the stars were out—scattered like distant fires she couldn’t reach. The tide had turned. Shellmere behind her had stilled into hushes and occasional laughter, fading like echoes behind stone.
And no one had come.
She hammered a tad too roughly, missed and left an indent in an old plank. A curse slipped past her lips and she pinched the bridge of her nose. Her jaw was tight. Her shoulders tense from too long holding onto hope.
She needed a break. A moment to gather herself and lock it all under the fattest lock possible. She also needed a drink. Something strong and sweet, something easy to drink to make it hard to remember.
She hadn’t just spoken loudly in the tavern for drama. She’d done it to be heard. To spark something. To draw them out. Maybe one of them. Preferably him.
But now—
Now, the dinghy didn’t look so foolish. It looked like inevitability. Like the only choice left that still belonged to her.
Her fingertips ran across the hull, mapping soft rot and splinters like they were braille. “You and me,” she murmured. “We’ll make it work.”
Her knees creaked as she moved back to the pier. The air stung her thighs where the dress didn’t reach—but she didn’t loosen the knot. Her toes were numb and the only thing she could hear was the song of a sea frog—bigger and louder than his counterpart. No boots, no words, no sign of any listening ears.
No song answered the frog.
You and me, pal. She thought wryly. You and me.
It was her, the stars and a lone frog.
She swallowed hard. A strange heaviness settled on her shoulders. Her breath caught halfway. The thought came to her as an inevitability. He isn’t as you described.
She had held too long onto hope—onto the words of a man gone long ago. The disappointment was heavy, but not enough to make her beg.
“All right,” she said aloud to the sea. “I’ll go alone.”
She’d made her bed and now, she’d—
“I’ve seen prettier boats pulled from shipwrecks,” said a voice behind her.
She froze. Not startled. Just… breathless. The hush broke. Her heart thudded like a slap. Like something inside her had been wound too tight, and suddenly snapped loose.
She turned slowly toward the sound, shadows spilling off her shoulders. Her mouth opened just a bit.
The moon touched gold, streaking silver hue to her hair.
Shanks stood just a few steps back, hand on his hip, eyes pensive on the crooked boat. His voice rolled through the night like surf over sand—lazy, amused, maddeningly unbothered. But she heard it now for what it was: arrival.
“It floats,” she said stiffly, voice more breath than strength.
Something swelled in her chest. It was light, wild and too warm. Completely out of place. Hope.
He had taken the bait. It wasn’t over yet.
“Most of the time?”
Her heart strummed against her ribcage, menacing to slip out. “When it matters, I’ve heard.”
Shanks walked closer, steps measured, shirt snuggled against his ch- Not quite circling her, but enough to get a good look at the dinghy. A whistle escaped him.
“She’s an ugly thing.”
She tsked, crouched beside the hull. “I’ve tried my best.”
Even to her ears, it sounded like a pout.
A beat of silence. Then a laugh—from the gut, genuine. It caught her off guard. When he glanced at her, his expression was open. Almost kind.
Too kind for a man who had reached the top.
“You’re here to mock me?” she asked flatly.
“Nah.” Shanks shook his head, his grin tugged sideways. “Just curious.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“You made a scene back at the tavern—telling Merria you’d rather drown than wait your turn.” A pause like he was appraising her. “That’s gutsy.”
“I didn’t think anyone would listen.” A lie to deflect. She had hoped he was.
Shanks shrugged lightly. “They weren’t. Not until you made them.”
So, he saw through that too.
A pause.
“Why?” he asked, and for once there was no smile behind it. Just the question.
Her fingers curled loosely over the rim of the boat. “Because waiting gets you nowhere. And asking nicely gets you left behind.”
That hung in the air for a moment—something sharp but true.
He tilted his head. “You always this dramatic, or just when you’re losing patience?”
Her lips curved faintly. “Only when I want something.”
He chuckled. “Fair.”
“I spoke with Merria,” he added after a beat. “Said you’ve been kind. Useful. Stubborn. She doesn’t trust easy, but she didn’t want you sailing out alone.”
That was why he was here—because she spoke on behalf of someone she barely knew. And it made him curious.
That caught her off guard more than she’d like.
Her shoulders tensed, squared as if braced for the impact of his words on her heart. She looked back out at the sea. The tide was shifting again, waves rippling sideways.
A sigh, at last.
“Shellmere’s soft. Its people too.” She said quietly. “They give too much.”
That hung between them a moment—salt-sweet and raw. An earnest truth.
Shanks tilted his head, studying her with something unreadable in his eyes. His tone softened at the edges. “Is that why you’re leaving?”
She wiped her hands on her thighs, streaking them with dark grit and dust, and continued with more strength. “This island gave me rest. But rest isn’t the same as peace. It doesn’t owe me more than that.”
Shanks hummed, soft, low, like a caress against her skin. “So you’re reaching.”
A guess or a taunt? Maybe a bait to have her slip and reveal more than necessary.
‘Amy’ shrugged. “Would you care either way?”
“Not really.” He said. “But I get it.”
Shanks had turned back to look at the boat, pushing at the hull with his foot. It creaked ominously.
Here goes nothing.
“I’m not asking for a place on your ship,” ‘Amy’ said plainly. “I’m not trying to join anything. But there are people waiting for me. I need to get to them.”
“And this is your plan?” He said, gesturing to the boat.
She crossed her arms. “This is my backup plan.”
“You always choose the worst option first?”
“Only when the best one laughs in my face.”
A pause. A longer silence than before, thick with the scent of brine and tar. He studied her—the set of her jaw, the defiance standing in place of fear.
“She was right, you are stubborn.” And prideful, she could almost hear in his silence. Then, softer: “You remind me of someone.”
She blinked, caught off guard. “Should I be flattered?”
“Not necessarily.” His smile was crooked. “He didn’t live long.”
She didn’t ask who he was talking about. He didn’t offer.
“You’re not here to stop me.”
“No.” His eyes flicked toward the patched dinghy. “I’m here to offer something better.”
She folded her arms slowly. Still braced. “And why would you?”
Why so suddenly? Why the change of heart?
“You’ve got grit,” he said. “And if someone’s waiting for you on the other side, they’ll want you in one piece.”
‘Amy’ didn’t reply. Her gaze dropped to the boat again. Her hands curled at her sides.
“And in return?”
“Nothing. Just get where you’re going alive.” he said. “Whatever happens after, that’s your business.”
She studied him for a long moment. The way he stood, patient but not passive. The way he didn’t press her, but didn’t retreat either. The sea whispered at their backs.
She should have said ‘yes’ before he changed his mind. Instead, she said: “You’re awfully generous—for a pirate.” Because she didn’t believe in favors with nothing in return. Not from people, even less from pirates.
She had made the mistake before and it continued to burn her to this day.
Shanks shrugged with a grin. “Only to the ones who’ve already taken the plunge.”
She glanced at the dinghy. Her patched-up maybe-plan. The sea, wide and watching. Her lips twisted thoughtfully.
The answer was obvious and he read it in her eyes. “We leave at dawn. Or sooner if Benn gets impatient.”
“I travel light.” She said with the meaning of I have nothing to give you.
“After being thrown overboard, I would expect you to.”
Inwardly, she cursed. Merria had said too much.
He turned, sandals echoing softly across the dock. Then paused, glanced back. “What should I call you?”
She hesitated. Then: “…Amy works.”
He chuckled, shaking his head. “Is that so?” And walked away.
As his footsteps faded, she let her fingers trail against the rotting boat once more.
“Not tonight, old dog,” she murmured. “Looks like I’ll ride something with teeth.”
Behind her, a second frog croaked, like an answer.
