Chapter 10: Chapter 10, Sarah

Sonya seems nice enough, and anyone is better company than Roberts right now.

"She’ll put you to work," Roberts had said. But Sonya took one look at me and decided I needed a minute to breathe. I was glad for that.

I must have looked pathetic, trying to peel the orange with my busted index finger, swollen and stiff. She noticed that too and came to my rescue, pulling the rind away in thick curls, misting the air with the scent of bright citrus.

For a moment I just stared at it. I haven’t had an orange in twelve years. But then, so as not to be rude, I popped one segment into my mouth. It burst sweet on my tongue, and for just a second, I felt human again.

I guess the snack did me some good because now I barely notice the pain in my finger, and I’m passionately smashing coconut meat with a mortar and pestle.

This kind of mindless task is welcome. Just like the repetitive work I used to lose myself in when I picked up odd jobs at the bakery. Keeping my hands busy seems to slow my thoughts down, make them less sticky, less likely to latch onto me with thick hooks.

I almost feel safe enough to remember that, because of me, the only person who ever felt like a mother is gone. That I’ll never again run into Andreya’s arms for comfort. But if I open those floodgates, I’m afraid I’ll drown. So instead, I screw the lid tighter on my emotions and survive, minute by minute.

I finish the job and, under Sonya’s instructions, make a coconut broth, straining out the fibrous parts into cheesecloth bags and wringing them dry to be saved for later. Maybe she’ll bake it into biscuits, ferment it into alcohol, or make it into soap. Simple thoughts to keep me grounded.

Sonya adds brown rice and chopped potatoes to the simmering broth, then we both get to work chopping carrots and some kind of radish I’ve never seen before. They go into the pot along with salted fish.

"That’s going to simmer for a while. Go on and get some fresh air—you’ll hear the dinner bell when it’s ready." Sonya disappears through the galley doors as I dry my hands on a towel.

Almost immediately, I register the urgent need to piss. I make my way up the steps, legs stiff with the effort of holding it without realizing it, scanning the deck for anything that looks remotely like a latrine. A small door, maybe. A tucked-away alcove. Nothing.

I venture up another level to get a better view of the ship’s layout and climb a set of stairs I think will take me closer to the bow. It’s one of the only structural parts of a ship I remember from the Prophet’s “academy,” or so they called it. They showed us paintings of King Gerod’s fleets, gilded saints carved onto bows, charging toward divine conquest like it was holy work. I used to want that. I swallowed it whole.

Until they stuffed me past the point of bursting. Blamed my night terrors on demon possession. Ran me through relentless rituals and exorcisms. Starved me, though they called it fasting. They pushed me too far and thank the gods they did. Otherwise, I might never have seen what it really was: grooming. Indoctrination.

A well-oiled machine polishing prophets into puppets, spreading rot beneath golden banners. And now that I’ve lived among the Shapers, now that I’ve seen the consequences of conquest and consumption, I know better. King Gerod’s agenda is no different from piracy. Stealing from the hardworking and feeding the bloated few.

My thoughts cut short as I reach the top step. Sails and rigging crowd the edges of my vision, but the view ahead is vast, open sea stretching farther than I can see. The warm wind threads its fingers through my hair and muffles the sounds of sailor voices and the creaking of the ship’s bones.

From up here, everything feels quieter. Slower. Maybe it’s the time of day. The horizon is razor-sharp, the last sliver of sun melting into the sea like molten gold. Pink and purple clouds swirl into sapphire, the final hush of sunset.

The air up here feels almost unreal. Clean in a way I can taste, warm but not heavy. I take an unhurried breath and savor it as it fills my lungs, letting it melt the tension from my shoulders and neck.

The humidity in the air is welcome now that the sun has stopped beating down. It wraps around me like the best kind of embrace. Like climbing back into slept-in sheets in the early morning, like the warmth of Trish’s skin just as sleep takes her, when peace washes over her body and carries her under.

If I stand near the edge, facing the direction we’re sailing, the ship itself fades into the periphery and ceases to exist. For a moment, it’s like I’m flying.

Until a shifting gust of wind carries the scent of leather and sweat. I’m not alone. Roberts is already there, leaning against the rail with her back to me, watching the same sunset.

She doesn’t turn or acknowledge me and for a moment, I consider leaving. Instead, I step up beside her. The sun's golden rays painted her in light and shadow, accentuating every defiant line.

I open my mouth to speak. Without looking, she raises one finger, silencing me before I get the words out. I snap my mouth shut. Not out of obedience… out of sheer curiosity.

She nods toward the horizon. "Green flash."

I shift my gaze to the water, baffled by the sudden display of sentimentality. In the blink of an eye the turquoise water and rose colored sky vanish revealing a pasture of green light infinitely more captivating than the green flashes I’ve seen before. A ‘once-in-a-lifetime’ affection for the spectacle washes over me; it’s worth dropping my defenses to embrace it.

For about ten seconds we both quietly observe the display, and then it is dark, too dark. I feel my senses heightened in the close proximity to someone who out arms me. The camaraderie between us evaporates.

Another primal instinct kicks in much stronger than my distrust for the pirate. “May I speak?”

“Captain.” She instructs

“May I speak, Captain.” Barely suppressing my sense of urgency.

“Speak.”

“I really need to take a piss, Captain.” I savor the small victory of saying piss and Captain in the same breath.

Roberts lets out a genuine laugh. “Latrine’s here on the forecastle.”

Forecastle, right.

She leads me to the other side of the deck and gestures toward a fully exposed latrine. Nothing more than a simple wooden bench with a hole. No walls, no privacy.

“This,” she says, nodding toward a bucket hanging from a hook, “is the shit-water bucket. You take a shit, you scoop water from the cistern, and you pour it down the hole after. Make sure you use the saltwater cistern, not the freshwater—”

I shift my weight, exhaling sharply. “I just have to—” piss, gods dammit.

“I know,” she drawls. “But when you do take a shit up here, you better make use of the shit-water bucket. Anyone caught skipping that step scrubs the latrine for a month.”

“Right. Got it.” I say, already unfastening my trousers.

She turns around but she doesn’t leave. I take note of it immediately even as relief washes over me. She’s just standing there, arms relaxed at her sides, weight shifted into her right hip, head tilted slightly, watching the dark sea like she has nowhere better to be. Like she’s waiting for me to finish so we can keep talking.

As my eyes adjust to the moonlight I make a few more notes on her posture. Her stance gives her away. Left foot turned out, imbalance in her shoulders and hips. Dual-wielder, I’d guess. Not ambidextrous, though. I, however, am both.

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

She's still standing there. Maybe she’s waiting to make sure I don’t break some kind of latrine rule. Or maybe the sunset put her in a better mood, and now is my chance to get her talking again. Maybe this time I’ll get a version of her that isn’t playing games or dodging questions with sarcasm. I stand and fasten my trousers, and she's already turning around as I step towards her.

I roll the dice. “Where are we headed?”

“Thelos. Why? You want off this ship already?”

“No, I don’t.” This time I'm going to try being candid with her, see where it gets me. “I–don’t exactly have a plan,” I admit. “I guess you could say my life is at one of those “back to the drawing board’ moments”

“Right. I know the feeling.” Her tone is—genuine?

I blink hard. That was… almost kind, almost human. I don’t trust it.

She leans back against the railing again, arms crossed. “Well, earn your keep and you can stay as long as you like.”

She’s giving me an option? I watch her carefully, trying to decipher what game she’s playing now. But the darkness makes her features that much more unreadable so I settle for another question. “What’s in Thelos?”

"Business."

Before I can push further, the dinner bell clangs through the ship, loud and insistent. I expect the moment to end, for Roberts to turn and walk away, shutting me out like always. But instead she moves closer.

The deck is only half-lit, lanterns swaying in the distance, but her silhouette is crisp. The darkness swallows the space between us, making her presence feel even closer.

I shift my weight, pulse ticking up. “Thought they hung pirates in Thelos.”

She steps away from the railing, closer to me. “Only if they catch them.”

“I see.”

“They hang all kinds of people in Thelos.” She tilts her head, studying me through the shadows. “Might there be a reason you don’t want to get off this ship, Sarah?”

“Are you asking if I’m wanted?” I shoot back.

Roberts lets the silence stretch before answering. “Are you?”

I hesitate. “Yes. I mean—I don’t know. Maybe?”

She exhales a sharp, disbelieving laugh. “What kind of person doesn’t know if they’re wanted? Gods help you, how have you survived this long?”

“What’s it to you?”

She hums, low in her throat, stepping just a little closer. So close that if I turned, I might brush against her. Might feel her.

“I know it is love,” she murmurs. “There’s a lot going on in that pretty head of yours. Can almost see the smoke coming out of your ears.”

My hands tighten into fists but I force myself to stay focused. “And I know there’s something you’re not telling me.”

Roberts lifts a brow, barely visible in the flickering light. “There’s a lot of things I’m not telling you. My business is none of yours. Gotta be more specific.”

I set my jaw. “There’s something you’re not telling me—about what you saw.”

She leans a little more into my space, like she knows she can get away with it. Like she knows I’ll let her.

“I think you already know what I saw,” she says, her voice quieter now, almost thoughtful.

A test. She wants me to say it.

“So you did see it?”

Roberts doesn’t blink. “See what?”

I exhale sharply. “Please, no more games.”

She grins, the distant lantern light glinting off the edge of her jeweled tooth.

“Then say it.” Her voice is smooth, taunting. “What did I see, Sarah?”

I swallow. The words feel too big, too real, but I force them out anyway.

“Was it a dragon?”

Roberts clicks her tongue, mock disappointment in her voice. “A dragon? I must have underestimated how hard you hit your head. I might have seen… something, a pelican maybe, fly off about the same time you were careening to your near death.”

The air punches out of my lungs. Fuck. That wasn’t a pelican, and this changes everything. I had felt it in my heart before, but something about Roberts’ tone confirms it.

“I have to go back.” The words spill out without thought, without hesitation.

Roberts pulls back. Something in her shuts down.

“Too late for that, love.”

She turns, stepping toward the stairs. The conversation is over.

“Wait.” I reach for her. Not touching, just desperate to keep her here. “Please, listen to me. I have to go back.”

Roberts pauses only long enough for me to hope. Then, with a flick of her finger… “Dinner time.”

I trail closely behind her, my thoughts tumbling over each other. How long has she known? Since she saw the dragon? Before that? Did she bring me aboard because she knew the moment she saw me?

Is she planning to ransom me? Trade me in? Did I really think she hadn’t already put it all together? How did I not see it sooner… how did I not assume she was already a step ahead?

The sound of the crew gathered in the galley grows louder—a hundred voices packed into one space. We’re late. Roberts doesn’t just enter the mess hall. She makes an entrance. I realize the moment we step through the door that we aren’t just late. We’re fashionably late. Deliberately, unmistakably, on Roberts’ time.

She strides in like she owns the air itself, and I immediately feel the weight of too many eyes landing on us at once. On the fact that we walked in together.

A single thud breaks the silence. A fist against wood. Then another. Then another. Within seconds, the whole room is pounding their fists against the tables, the heavy, rhythmic beat rolling through the mess like the low thunder of an approaching storm. And then they start to sing:

"Hellcat sails and Hellcat fights,

Hellcat strikes in dead of night."

It’s a shanty, a chant, a prayer all at once. The words are rough, shouted more than sung, ringing out like something pulled straight from the belly of the sea.

"Captain Roberts, blood and bone,

Captain Roberts, steel and stone,

None escape and none deny,

Captain Roberts never dies."

It’s not so different from what I’ve seen before. Warriors beating their chests before battle. Soldiers slamming their shields together before a charge. Because war demands belief.

Belief in your cause. Belief in survival. Belief in your gods.

Piracy, it seems, is no different. Only here, Roberts isn’t just a leader. She’s the thing they believe in.

I don’t realize I’ve sidled away until I’m already near the back of the room, pressing into the shadows near the stove. I don’t know if it was instinct or self-preservation, but suddenly, standing beside her felt too exposed.

Sonya nudges me, pressing a steaming bowl into my hands. I slide onto the bench beside her, and she gives me the "I’m making assumptions about what you’ve been up to" look.

At the head of the table, Roberts reaches her seat. The chanting doesn’t fade. It cuts. Like a blade through air, like a door slamming shut.

Then she speaks. "Take what you need, leave nothing but bones."

The words roll off her tongue with the ease of repetition. Less a command, more a ritual. Like she’s just blessed the meal.

"Bones to the sea!" The crew roars the response, cups raised high before they slam them down against the table in a crashing wave of sound.

I swallow the bite in my mouth, only now realizing that no one had started eating until she spoke. I don’t know what I expected from a pirate captain. But it wasn’t this.

I take another bite, and then it registers… gods, it’s so good. Better than it has any right to be.

It’s not just the heat of the broth or the spice that lingers on my tongue. It’s the freshness, the depth, the sheer, careless abundance of it.

Pirates don’t always eat this well. I know that. They scrape by like anyone who lives off what they can take. But this one meal is better than everything I’ve eaten in the last twelve years combined. And that says something.

I spent twelve years in a place where hunger isn’t just a problem, it’s the only certainty. A place full of exiles, outcasts, people pushed to the edges and left to starve. A place where the land is failing, the rivers run thin, the crops don’t grow like they should. Not because the people are weak, but because the Prophet’s Guild bled the island dry, carved out everything of value, and left the rest of us to rot.

The food we do grow? It goes straight to Prophet’s Landing. Sold just to pay the taxes that keep us in poverty.

I was born on the other side of that wall. I could’ve stayed behind gilded gates, never knowing what it feels like to go to sleep with nothing in my stomach, to watch people fight over a bag of grain, to hold a dying child’s hand and know there’s nothing left to give them.

But I left. I ran. And I fought. As a soldier, as a mercenary… against my own people, in wars that meant nothing. Not battles for freedom, for rebellion, for change. Just people turning on their own, fighting over what little was left. I hated it. Not enough to run back to the safety and comfort of home, but I hated it. Every second of it.

And now, I sit in a room full of pirates, eating a meal so good, so rich, so thoughtless in its excess, that it’s almost unbearable. I almost can’t keep eating. Not because I failed, but because I failed so easily. There is a dragon. The plan wasn’t wrong. I was wrong.

I had one job. All I had to do was wait. If I had just held my ground on that beach, I wouldn’t be trapped on this ship, sailing in the opposite direction of everything that ever mattered.

I gave up. And now what? What am I, if not the one destined to end it? I force myself to chew and swallow, but it’s like my body rejects it. Because I can’t justify this meal while the people I left behind have nothing.

Unless I vow to go back. Promise myself, here and now, that dragon or not, I will find a way. If I have to hijack this vessel and turn it around, I will.

If I don’t… If I let myself sink into this comfort and let myself forget, then my life is unjustifiable. Then I may as well have died when I hit the water.