Chapter 385:

Marina

I see the ships through the spyglass.

Five of them. Dark sails, dark hulls, dark intent. They’re still distant specks on the horizon but growing larger with every passing minute.

I have to be honest. I didn’t believe it when the messenger from The Bunny told us. A pirate warning another pirate about pirates? It made no sense.

But now I see them.

I have to believe.

Can we even survive?

I glance at the crew. They’re preparing—loading cannons, sharpening cutlasses, checking pistols. Their hands are steady, but their faces are pale. They’re scared.

Unlike our obviously panicked crew, the pirates under the Devil are calm. I watch them through the glass—moving with practiced efficiency, no shouting, no panic, just work.

I have more to learn, it seems.

My father too—he would be staring death in the face, and his expression still wouldn’t crack from its signature scowl.

Guess he was right.

I’m still just a child. 𝒇𝒓𝙚𝒆𝔀𝓮𝓫𝒏𝓸𝙫𝓮𝓵.𝓬𝙤𝙢

But that’s why I followed the spoiled little dreamer of a prince on this journey. I wanted to prove I’m more. I’m a pirate. The daughter of John O’Malley, the Pirate King.

So I ran away from the minor noble’s son Father wanted me to marry. Normally, a noble would never marry a commoner—let alone a pirate—but they needed the money.

"Little one," he would always say, "I want more for your life than this."

But I don’t hate being a pirate.

I’m not ashamed of it.

I look at the ships again. Closer now. I can see their flags—skulls and bones and blood-red symbols.

If I die a pirate, so be it.

Bring it on, you bastards.

***

Caspian

I clench my fists.

I forgot,I don’t have to worry only about the monster in these waters. There are also pirates.

I’m glad I went to the Devil. I shudder to think what would have happened if I had been alone on this journey. My crew and I would have died before even seeing the monster.

How embarrassing.

At least my brother found the monster before he was killed by it.

I distribute bullets to the men. Hide extra guns in barrels, in crates, in the folds of my coat. The cannons are being loaded. The deck smells of gunpowder and sweat and fear.

A sniper climbs up to the crow’s nest.

I watch him go.

"Your Highness..." Smith begins.

I cut him off. "Don’t start. We knew the dangers when we set sail."

Smith exhales. A long, slow breath, like he’s been holding it for days.

I feel a hand on my shoulder. Warm. Heavy. Familiar.

"What I was going to say," he says quietly, "is that I’m proud of you."

I don’t look at him. I keep my eyes on the gun in my hands, running my thumb along the barrel, checking the flint, the powder, the everything.

"I don’t like those words," I say.

"Why not?"

"They sound like farewell."

He’s quiet for a moment.

"Who knows?" He shrugs. "I just don’t want to die with regrets."

I look up.

"You’re not going to die, Smith."

"I’m fifty-five this year." He smiles—small, tired, real. "It wouldn’t be a surprise if I just dropped dead. My time is up."

"No." I shake my head. "I’m sure you have another ten years."

He laughs a little.

"Do you remember when I found you in the tree? Crying?"

I groan. "Don’t."

"You were running away from the maids. Climbed up a tree. Couldn’t get back down." His eyes crinkle. "Started crying."

"Let’s not speak of my dark past."

"You were in that tree for three hours." He ignores me. "No one could climb up to get you because the tree wouldn’t hold the extra weight. It would have broken."

I snort despite myself.

I remember. It was terrifying—looking down, seeing the ground so far below, feeling the branches sway beneath me. I was certain I was going to fall.

"Xavier brought you," Smith says. "You two convinced me to jump."

I remember that too. My brother’s voice, calm and steady. "I’ll catch you. I promise."

"Honestly, we were scared too." Smith shakes his head. "One wrong move, and you would have broken bones. Or worse."

"Yeah, but Xavier caught me."

He did. His arms were thin,he was only fourteen—but they were strong. He held me tight, refused to let go, even when my weight knocked him to the ground.

"What you couldn’t see from up there," Smith says, "was His Highness’s trembling arms. His trembling legs. But his face..." He pauses. "His face had a smile. To reassure you."

I stop moving the gun in my hands.

"What’s the point of this, Smith?"

"It’s just that..." He hesitates. "You remind me of him. Back then."

I go still.

"The way I’m pretending to be okay?"

"Yes." His voice is soft.

"And like him, you’ll do it. You’ll succeed." He squeezes my shoulder. "You’re his brother, after all."

"Xavier’s shoes are a bit tough to fill."

He shakes his head.

"You’re not filling any shoes." His hand on my shoulder squeezes again—firm, reassuring.

"Just as he was his own person, you are too."

I scoff.

"I’m serious," Smith says.

I look at him. Really look. The creases around his eyes, the gray in his beard, the way his shoulders slump just slightly when he thinks no one is watching.

"I know you and everyone else idolizes Prince Xavier," he continues. "But it’s because of those expectations that he was so miserable. Sometimes."

Miserable?

I set down the gun. Turn to face him fully.

"Right." My voice comes out sharper than I intended. "How was his life as the perfect golden crown prince miserable?"

Smith holds my gaze and doesn’t flinch.

"It’s precisely because of that that he hated his life." His voice is quiet.

"Why do you think he jumped at the opportunity to hunt the monster?" He pauses. "He knew he might not be coming back."

I stare at him.

Impossible.

"What you’re saying is—" The words stick in my throat. "—he wanted to die?"

"Your Highness—"

"What do you know about him?" I snap, cutting him off. "To say that?"

Smith doesn’t answer immediately.

"The way I know you," he says finally, "is the way I knew him."

I shove his hand off my shoulder.

"I didn’t plan to tell you." He doesn’t move. Doesn’t retreat. Just stands there, solid and steady, like he’s been standing my whole life.

"But I thought you should know. What kind of person he really was. How he wasn’t as perfect as he portrayed."

I don’t know what to say.

The ships are closer now. I can hear the crew shouting, the cannons creaking, the waves slapping against the hull. But all I can hear is Smith’s voice.

He wanted to die.

"He didn’t show it," I say eventually.

"It’s why the crown was so heavy."

I look at my hands. At the gun. At the powder burns on my fingers.

"I don’t understand." My voice is quiet. Barely a whisper.

"You’ve felt it too, haven’t you?" Smith steps closer. "The weight of expectations. Of holding people’s lives in your hands."

I have.

Even on this ship. I took these men away from their homes. I led them into danger. I think of the farmer who made a deal with the Devil—his gaunt face, his trembling hands, his missing finger. There are thousands like him. Waiting for me to save them.

"I’m not like him," I say firmly. "I will go back home."

Smith nods slowly.

"In that way, you’re stronger than he was."

I look at him.

"You are not filling his shoes, Your Highness." His eyes are wet, but his voice is steady. "The shoes might have been too big for him." He pauses. "And they might just be your perfect fit."