Chapter 2: Chapter 2

Setting the oars in place she pushes off from the shallows with one solid shove. The boat rocks beneath us as she jumps inside, then steadies as she takes up a rhythm of smooth, practiced strokes that send us gliding out to open sea.

My gaze stays fixed on the shoreline, scanning the rocks, the crater, the water. I know Roberts said she searched, but I can’t shake the feeling that if I just look hard enough, I’ll see a sign that it didn’t just vanish.

She rows in silence for a while, but I can feel her eyes flicking toward me between strokes. Finally, she clears her throat to get my attention, “Are you planning to help, or are you just going to sit there brooding?”

I shift awkwardly. “I don’t—”

Roberts pulls one oar in, then shifts over just enough to leave space beside her. She jerks her chin at the open spot.

“It’s not complicated. You row, the boat moves."

As soon as I push onto my feet, the boat lurches beneath me, throwing my balance sideways. For a moment, gravity feels meaningless, and I’m sure I’m about to be flung into the sea.

Roberts moves fast. She shoves up to her feet, shifting her weight in the opposite direction to counterbalance.

She catches me with one arm clamped around my waist and for a moment, we’re pressed together, breathless, teetering.

I clutch her shoulders, fingers digging in. Her grip on me tightens instinctively.

I tense, but before I can even process the feeling of being held in place, she moves.

With a sharp pivot, she spins us both, dropping into her seat with me landing squarely in her lap. The motion is so smooth, so controlled.

I suck in a breath, heat crawling up my neck. My thighs are draped over hers, my back pressed to her chest.

She hums, low and amused. “Are you always this graceful, or am I just lucky?”

I push at her arm, trying to scramble off, but she doesn’t let me go. Instead, she shifts beneath me, sliding me off her lap and onto the bench beside her in one effortless motion.

“There,” she says, all mock patience. “See? No one’s overboard.”

I sit there, rigid, pulse pounding, skin burning.

“I didn’t know it would do that,” I mutter.

Roberts makes an exasperated noise and reaches for the oars. “Well, now you do. Try to keep still before you swoon into my arms again.”

I scowl, thoroughly humiliated.

Still burning from embarrassment, I grab the oar, trying to mirror her movements. The moment I pull, the blade dips too deep, the resistance yanking it sideways. The boat veers sharply.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake—” Roberts makes a noise that’s half laugh, half groan. “What the hell was that?”

“I don’t know,” I snap.

“That’s obvious.” She yanks the oar from my hands, corrects our course with a few swift, efficient strokes, then gestures again. “Try again. Less... whatever that was.”

I grit my teeth and grab the oar again, but now I’m hyper aware of her watching. I force my arms to move the way I think they should, but I’m off-rhythm, too shallow, then too deep, barely contributing.

“Mother of gods,” Roberts mutters. “You are useless.”

“I’ve never done this before.”

“You’ve never rowed a boat?”

I shoot her a glare. “I’ve never been on a boat, so no.”

She snorts. “You live on an island and you’ve never been on a boat?”

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I flush hot, but I refuse to give up. Even as my arms start to ache from the awkward, uneven motion, I grit my teeth and try to focus.

But my focus keeps dragging back to the shore, to the crater.

The oar dips too deep again, catching too much water. I yank too hard, and the boat jerks sharply to one side.

Roberts exhales, slow and long-suffering. Then she pulls in her own oar, letting the boat drift.

“Alright,” she says, far too patient to be kind. “Enough.”

I blink at her. “What?”

She gestures vaguely at my terrible excuse for rowing. “Whatever this is, it’s painful to watch. Go sit over there and let me take over.”

I scowl. “I can do it.”

“You can’t,” she says. “And I’m not wasting half the morning drifting in circles while you figure out which way is forward.”

I bristle, but I know she’s right.

I move to stand, almost forgetting what happened last time. Roberts doesn’t.

Her hand lands firmly on my thigh, stopping me before I can throw the boat off-balance again.

“Go slowly this time,” she says, low and amused. “And stay low. Or I’m going to start thinking you like it when I have to save you.”

Heat floods my face. I do not.

I carefully shuffle to the other side, hyper aware of her hand sliding away as I move. She picks up the oars like she never doubted she’d be doing this alone in the first place.

As soon as I sit, she starts rowing, still watching me out of the corner of her eye. I cross my arms, stubbornly facing the shore.

“What exactly do you think you’re going to see?”

“I don’t know,” I admit.

“You do realize it’s gone, right?”

I pretend not to hear her and she doesn’t press me for an answer. Instead she sits with her back toward the open sea, rowing steadily and staring a hole right through me. I sit on the bench facing her, refusing to look back.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

I was ready for one of two outcomes: either the dragon would hatch, transforming me too… or I would die. Instead, I’m here. Alive and empty-handed. And in a boat with a pirate, of all people.

I don’t know what’s worse, the possibility that I failed, or the creeping fear that nothing was ever going to happen in the first place.

I killed them. All of them. But not before they killed the person I trusted the most. And failure or not, whoever sent them will send more. I know they will.

And so here I am, in the longboat, too exhausted to fight her. I have nothing left and I’m too numb to care.

I let my gaze flick to hers just long enough to confirm she’s still watching me, then I look away again.

What does she want from me? Did she see the dragon? Did they send her?

And why does she feel so familiar? Like a song I half-remember.

It’s a strange feeling, and I don’t like strange feelings. I need something solid, anything that makes sense. I need to figure out her motives.

What I know of pirates comes from Trish—tavern gossip, the kind of stories she’d spin when I couldn’t sleep. Pirates are criminals, ruthless killers who somehow uphold a code of honor among themselves. The captain is sovereign in battle. Everything else is decided by vote.

They pick off easy targets, taking everything of value to consume or sell. They flaunt what they’ve got, but they’re never rich and are always looking for their final score.

The Fearsome Captain Roberts is famous for just that. Rumors say they have treasure buried or hidden in a hundred locations, none of which have ever been found. Convenient, if you ask me.

But the sweat-slicked woman in front of me flexing hard muscles with each row, watching me like she’s already inside my head is too young to be the real Roberts. She’s too young to have scored big enough to retire. Which means she sees me as a payday, or a gamble, or something she can break open and pick apart.

The water laps at the sides of the boat, bringing me back to the present. I take a breath, trying to force my thoughts back into a place that makes sense. We’re nearing the warship.

I’ve read about war ships, and I know it’s one because of the cannons and the battering ram. The vessels I remember seeing in the merchant ports as a child were small, with no cannons or ramming devices, and only a handful of sails. This one has… more.

I squint up at the towering masts, trying to count them, but the sails overlap, shifting as the wind fills them. There must be ten, at least, stretched across the multiple masts like massive wings. They block out slivers of the sky as the ship looms ahead, making it feel less like a vessel and more like a moving fortress.

Roberts brings the longboat parallel to the ship as ropes and a ladder come flying over the side. She fastens the longboat on each end with the ropes and then motions for me to climb up first.

It crosses my mind that this is my last chance to turn back. But I push the thought aside.

I reach up, gripping a rung with both hands, planting one foot, then another. Just as my second foot leaves the boat and I commit to the climb her hand closes around my ankle, stopping me mid-step.

"Oh, and Sarah—" Her grip is firm enough to remind me she’s right behind me, one wrong move away.

"If you want to last more than two minutes on my ship, you’ll keep quiet while I address my crew."

I grip the rung tighter, knuckles whitening.

"Matter of fact—don’t speak at all unless I say so." She lets go when I nod over my shoulder in acknowledgment.

As I pick up the climb, I replay our whole interaction on the beach and realize I never gave her my name. Shit.