CHAPTER 74: [74] WHAT VICTORY TASTES LIKE

The Crimson Sparrow cut through the waves like a blade through silk, her red sails full of wind that carried them steadily northeast toward the open waters of the Dawn Sea. But despite the ship’s eager progress, the deck felt heavy—weighted down by more than just the salt spray and morning mist.

Pierre gripped the wheel, his knuckles white against the polished wood. Every breath sent lightning through his ribs, and the amber dust still clung to his clothes like a reminder of what they’d left behind in those caves. Hardy’s stolen darkness moved through his veins in slow, uncomfortable pulses, while the memory of the Ancient Weapon’s location burned bright and terrible in his mind.

Six million Cori in the hold. A ship beneath our feet. Charts of the Elysian Sea spread across the navigation table. By any reasonable measure, we won.

So why did victory taste like copper pennies and regret?

Behind him, Alyssa sat cross-legged on a coil of rope, methodically cleaning blood from her riding crop with a torn piece of her blouse. Her platinum blonde hair hung in tangles around her face, and dark circles shadowed her pale green eyes. She’d been sitting there for the better part of an hour, polishing the same spot over and over.

The pampered Navy princess who’d boarded this ship three days ago might as well have been a different person. That girl wouldn’t have known which end of a weapon to hold, let alone how to use one to defend someone else’s life. This Alyssa—the one who’d stood between him and Saxe’s twin sabers—moved like someone who’d discovered muscles she never knew existed.

"You’re going to wear a hole through the leather," Pierre called over his shoulder.

Alyssa’s hands stilled. She looked down at the crop as if seeing it for the first time, then set it aside. "Right. Of course."

Her voice carried that particular brand of exhaustion that came after adrenaline had burned away, leaving only the echoes of what you’d done to survive. Pierre knew the feeling well—he’d been carrying it since Hardy’s darkness first seeped into his bones.

Near the bow, Raven hunched over the navigation table like a scholar protecting precious texts. Her red and white hair fell forward, creating a curtain between her and the rest of the world. The bandage on her shoulder was already showing spots of fresh blood, but she ignored it with the same stubborn focus she applied to everything else.

She’d barely spoken since they’d left Orellia’s harbor. When she did, it was purely functional—wind direction, heading adjustments, estimated time to their next destination. Nothing about the caves. Nothing about what had happened when Saxe’s blade found her shoulder. Nothing about the way she’d fought beside Alyssa like they’d been partners for years instead of reluctant allies.

Pierre shifted his weight, and his ribs reminded him why standing watch in his condition was a spectacularly stupid idea. But someone had to hold the wheel, and neither of the women looked ready to take on the responsibility of keeping them on course. They were all walking wounded, physically and otherwise.

The worst part was the quiet.

Not the peaceful quiet of a ship running smoothly through calm seas—this was the awkward, heavy quiet of three people who’d shared something intense and had no idea what to do with it now. They’d seen each other bleed. They’d fought together. They’d nearly died together.

And now they had to figure out how to exist in the same space without that life-or-death urgency holding them together.

Pierre’s thoughts drifted back to the amber heart, to the moment when infinite power had pulsed beneath his palms. The knowledge of the Ancient Weapon’s location sat in his mind like a loaded gun—dangerous, tempting, and completely at odds with everything he’d told Moreau about not needing power.

You could find it, the darkness whispered in Hardy’s voice. You could claim it. Reshape this world into something better.

Pierre pushed the thought away, but it lingered like smoke. Hardy’s essence had been a cruel, petty thing when he’d first absorbed it. But time and use had refined it into something more insidious—a voice that sounded almost reasonable when it suggested that maybe, just maybe, the world would be better if someone like Pierre held ultimate power.

Someone who understood the cost. Someone who wouldn’t use it carelessly.

Someone who’d already proven he could make the hard choices.

"Bullshit," he muttered under his breath.

"Captain?" Alyssa had moved closer, her pale green eyes fixed on his face with uncomfortable intensity.

"Nothing. Just thinking out loud."

She studied him for a moment longer, then nodded. "Your ribs are bothering you."

It wasn’t a question. Pierre straightened instinctively, which sent another spike of pain through his chest. "I’m fine."

"You’re not." She stepped closer, close enough that he could smell the salt spray in her hair and see the way her hands trembled slightly at her sides. "You’re favoring your left side, and you’ve been gripping the wheel like it’s the only thing keeping you upright."

"The wheel is the only thing keeping me upright. That’s how steering works."

Alyssa’s lips twitched—almost a smile, but not quite. "You know what I mean."

She was right, of course. He was in no condition to be standing watch, let alone making decisions that could affect their course. But admitting weakness felt dangerous right now, when everything between the three of them was so fragile and uncertain.

"Someone has to—"

"I can take the wheel," Raven said from the navigation table. She didn’t look up from her charts, but her voice carried clearly across the deck. "I know these waters."

Pierre glanced back at her. "Your shoulder—"

"My shoulder is fine." She finally raised her head, and Pierre saw something hard and defensive in her blue eyes. "I’ve sailed with worse injuries."

The way she said it—flat, matter-of-fact—suggested she wasn’t just talking about physical wounds. Pierre had absorbed enough of Hardy’s memories to recognize the look of someone who’d learned to function despite pain, who’d made survival an art form.

"Raven—"

"Don’t." She stood, moving carefully to avoid jarring her injured shoulder. "We had a business arrangement. We completed it. Now we’re moving on to whatever comes next. That’s all."

She turned her back on him then, a final, clear dismissal. The words hung in the air, colder than the ocean spray. Pierre watched her, a sudden, chilling thought cutting through the pain in his ribs.

He had fought beside them, bled with them, and for a fleeting moment, believed he had forged a crew. But as he looked from Raven’s rigid back to Alyssa’s silent, obsessive polishing, he realized the bonds he thought were forged in fire might just be smoke, ready to vanish on the next wind.

What the hell have I actually built here?