The Sea Siren

Chapter Forty-Five

Antony

Crosslin has changed much since I last ventured to these parts of the countryside. For most of my youth, I spent my days within the kingdom, often sneaking into the streets to watch the blacksmith strike iron or steal cakes from the baker's hand-woven baskets.

The daughter of the blacksmith never left his side.

I learned a good deal of knife-fighting from her, a skill her father had passed onto his child with incessant training.

From an early age, she begged, pleaded, followed me street from street, with the sole intent of pursuing a spot in the royal guard. I always reminded her of my place—the bastard that would never be granted a place in power—let alone a commander of naval fleets.

I convinced her, as I convinced myself, that I would always exist one pace behind my brother.

A place I have always been comfortable—glad, even—in staying.

What happened on the voyage to capture the Orion will not happen again. There are too many who are eager to see me fail. I must have those I can trust.

Jude left Vale to do what she does best—fight.

There isn't much to admire at as we dismount from our horses, peering at the unkempt buildings through the heavy downfall of rain. The overgrown patches of land. This inland, far from the colorful seatowns, there is a lack of warmth, especially with a storm beating down onto us.

There aren't many places to search for her.

Other than homes, there's a pub and a chapel. Gibson returns after checking both, gesturing toward the saloon. I chuckle to myself. Same as ever, Jude.

I walk in first, hood covering my eyes, gaze shifting over the darkened room. The rooms are mostly uninhabited... it isn't hard to locate her, even if her cheek is molded to the table, her mouth open as she sleeps. She doesn't even stir when I sit, holding up my hand to keep the other men back.

It's impressive actually, how deeply one can sleep.

A drink is set down in front of me after a few moments, one I hadn't ordered. Gibson and Callum slump into creaky seats, worn from a hard, wet ride into the countryside. Her hair is clipped short, her eyes tight with stress even when dreaming.

She wakes with a start, hopping up, her first thought being to find the handle of her drink.

Until she sees me.

Her eyes widen in disbelief at first before coming to her senses, remembering that before I am the crown prince, I am that bastard child more at ease amongst the villager's than the court. Her back hits the booth with a thump as she scoffs, looking me over thoroughly.

"You look terrible."

I point to the drink she has a hard grip on and then to the darkness around her eyes. "As if you look any better."

She grins, responding by chugging back whatever remains in her cup, setting it down hard with a call for another to the owner. My knuckles push my own goblet to her and taking what I offer, her brows soar upwards taking in the blackness of my fingers.

"Christ, are they dead?"

"Who?"

"Whoever you bludgeoned with those knuckles. They're black and blue."

"I intend to see it done, believe me," I grumble, infuriated to imagine that piece of filth breathes air within the castle walls at this very moment.

"Sounds very unlike you. You've never been one for bloodshed... Although I'm sure escaping pirate capture would make anyone murderous."