The sun had barely touched the horizon when The Nightshade slipped from Port-de-Paix, her black sails stretched tight against the wind like a predator on the hunt.
Thalassa stood awkwardly near the stern, arms crossed, hair tied back against the breeze. She didn't speak, didn't move unless she had to. Her boots were too clean. Her hands too soft. Her silence too proud.
The crew noticed.
"She'll bring us no luck," one sailor spat, eyeing her like a plague rat.
"Ain't right, a woman on board," muttered another. "Bad omens. Rotten winds."
Sawyer said nothing, just watched them from the helm, jaw tight. He didn't bother defending her. Not yet. Let the sea sort the weak from the strong.
By midday, the mood was turning.
When she reached for a coil of rope to help tie off the sail, Bram — a hulking brute with a missing eye and less brain than beard — grabbed the line before she could.
"Not your place, Syrena," he sneered, loud enough for the others to hear. "Why don't you swab the deck like the rest of the pretty things?"
The others laughed — short, cruel bursts.
Syrena straightened, jaw tight. "If I wanted to swab a deck, I'd start with your mouth."
That shut them up.
But not Bram.
He stepped forward, puffed up and red-faced. "You talk like that again, I'll toss you over myself."
Sawyer's voice cut through the air like a blade. "Bram."
The big man froze.
"Don't."
A tense silence followed. Then Bram stepped back, muttering under his breath.
Syrena didn't thank the captain. She didn't look his way. She just turned and grabbed a scrub brush, getting on her knees and starting to clean, sweat and salt stinging her skin.
Sawyer watched her in silence.
She wasn't built for this life.
But maybe — just maybe — she'd survive it anyway.
By nightfall, the winds had settled, but tension still clung to the deck like mist.
Sawyer had retired to his quarters without a word, leaving Thalassa alone beneath the flickering lanterns and curious stares.
No one showed her where to sleep.
No one offered her a hammock.
Bram spat near her boots as he passed. "Ain't no room below for sea-witches."
The others didn't argue. Some laughed. One tossed her a moth-eaten blanket — thin, damp, and frayed at the edges.
She didn't argue either.
She took it, climbed the steps to the quarterdeck, and curled up beside the coiled rope and damp wood, the deck creaking softly beneath her as the ship rocked gently on the tide. The stars above were sharp and cold.
Salt crusted her lips. Her muscles ached. And the laughter below deck — loud and ugly — scraped at her nerves.
She didn't cry.
She didn't shiver.
But she didn't sleep much either.
She lay still, listening to the waves slap the hull and the wind hum through the rigging, her hand clenched tightly around a small pendant at her neck — a sliver of coral and silver, warm to the touch.
Somewhere below, a shanty rose in drunken unison.
"Give up." A voice said and she looked up to find Sawyer standing over her. His face grim.
"What?" she asked, slowly getting up.
"Give up. You're not meant for this." He urged, "I'll drop you off in a nearby town and you can go your own way. Lot of people lose their fathers. You can grieve yours and live your life."
"I am not leaving… and neither you nor those mongrels you call men can make me." She scowled almost hatefully and he smiled in return.
"Stubborn girl." He muttered before walking away.