𝑮𝑳𝑰𝑻𝑻𝑬𝑹 | 𝑘.𝑏.

15

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A N  E Y E  F O R  A N  E Y E  M A K E S  O O M E N  B L I N D
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FETA'S NOSE SCRUNCHED. "WHAT FOR?"

Kaz smirked, the familiar pinch of Feta's face signifying he'd struck the right chord. "Why, the journey, of course." He and Feta were piecing together a reliable crew for the job. Kaz had 'mistakenly' mentioned Squallers. "Nina could easily tap into her Grisha network and find a Squaller in the city interested in some extra coin."

Feta's lips pursed. Kaz flushed with victory. "You'd really prefer one of those airheads puffing in your sails over someone who could literally turn the tides in our favor?"

"Depends on who it is."

Feta narrowed her eyes but a smile played on her lips. "I can provide us cover and help nudge us along." She smoothly resumed twirling her trusty blade with its worn handle through her fingers. Shutting her eyes, lashes sweeping against cheeks, she let her lips curl proudly, contently, as though she could feel he was still watching her: "It's settled."

Kaz returned to scribbling a draft of the papers Specht would be forging for their cover. Which meant, for Feta, that she'd won her case; which meant, for Kaz, that he was done poking fun at her for now. Really, it had always been settled.

Kaz's sentiment to refrain from poking fun only lasted the few seconds it took Feta to spiral. According to Feta, Squallers weren't as necessary on sea-bound journeys as everyone believed, and the only innovation they would be mandatory on was—

"All the Saints and their ugly mothers," Kaz interrupted her. "Every time I hear you talk about those flying ships and that little pirate you idolize, I get slower."

"Awww, it's okay, Kaz, not everyone understands the genius behind it," Feta comforted. "Nothing to be ashamed of." Kaz threw her a glare and a laugh burst from her, making her rock on the armrest she was perched on. "I'm just saying, it doesn't make a load of sense, right? For Squallers to be more popular on boats than in the business of air crafts. Even if the business is still developing."

Of course, then they had to debate this, even if Kaz agreed. For as little as he cared about international pirates and their fantastical inventions.

It was a wonder they were able to slim down their crew and draft the papers they needed forged or accomplish anything, really. This was usually how it was with Feta: one distraction after another. Infuriating.

Now it hardly seemed to matter. Their plans were chipping like cheap paint.

They were down a member of their crew already, Dirix nowhere to be found in the chaos charging the deck of the schooner. They had announced their leave rather boisterously with that shoot out, and now had no precautionary cover to ease them into open sea; the mist curled tauntingly around the hull of the Ferolind anyway, as if to declare it answered to no one and resented the very notion.

And Feta — who'd scrunched up her nose and pursed her lips and reminded him she was not only perfectly capable of assisting the crew but she was willing to take on the extra work, willing to help however she could — was unmoving in his arms.

No cover, no favor from the waves, no distractions.

Just Feta's fist slipping from his shirt and Feta's blood, everywhere.

Just the deadweight of her body and the frigid, familiar presence of death looming over the ship.

Everyone seemed to pause when he limped aboard the schooner, the question of who brought the deathly chill with them evident on each of their faces.