By the next evening, the ship approached Port Mortain. Faline had recovered enough to move around, though her leg still ached. Argus had given her a clean set of clothes and helped her back topside in time for their arrival.

The port town was rougher than she’d imagined—ramshackle buildings leaning against each other, narrow alleys spilling into the main thoroughfares. The air hung with the smell of fish, tar, and human waste.

The ship maneuvered into its berth as the sun dipped below the horizon. Ropes were thrown, caught, and secured. The gangplank lowered, and merchants and scribes immediately swarmed aboard, haggling with Schmidt and Argus over the cargo.

Faline watched from the rail as the negotiations went on. After an hour of arguing and counting, Schmidt called the crew to assemble.

“Line up by rank,” Argus called out.

The crew shuffled with the most senior members moving to the front, including Duncan and Lukas. Faline hung back, uncertain where she fit in the hierarchy.

One by one, crew members approached the Captain and Argus. Small cloth bags exchanged hands. Each man signed his name—or made his mark if he couldn’t write—in the ledger, and Schmidt countersigned.

Faline watched Duncan sign his name with a barely legible scrawl, snatch his bag, and stalk toward the gangplank. He didn’t linger — but as he passed, his eyes cut toward her, cold and deliberate. She didn’t need to guess what was behind it. He hadn’t forgotten the barrel, or the note, or the third watch he now stood because of her.

As the line shortened, Faline’s nervousness grew. She had to sign her name in front of him, one more reminder of what he already knew.

“Next,” Argus called.

She stepped forward. Schmidt looked up from his ledger and studied her.

“Name and rank,” he said.

“Fallon. Cook’s mate.” Her voice came out higher than she meant it to.

Schmidt consulted his ledger, counted out her coin, and pushed the ledger and quill toward her. She signed, and he examined it. “Well written. Quite legible.” He signed below her name. “Impressive for someone so young.”

From the gangplank, Duncan’s jaw tightened. Faline caught it even from a distance — no surprise crossing his face, nothing to discover. Just old anger, given a fresh moment to land on.

He started back up the gangplank toward her anyway.

“Move along, Tripps,” Argus said, his hand on her shoulder, steering her away from Schmidt’s table.

Lukas stepped forward, placing himself between Duncan and Faline. “Duncan. Problem?”

“That little rat,” Duncan snarled, pointing at Faline. “He’s the one. He can write. He ratted me out to Schmidt.”

“You don’t know that,” Lukas said calmly.

“The hell I don’t. Look at that signature—neat as you please. How many on this crew can write like that?” Duncan’s hand moved to his knife. “I’m going to gut the little bastard.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” Schmidt said, cutting through the tension. The Captain stood, hand on his own sword. “Duncan, you’ve been demoted and punished for your plotting. If you have a problem with my judgment, take it up with me. Not with a child.”

Duncan’s jaw worked, but he said nothing. After a long moment, he spat on the deck and stalked down the gangplank into Port Mortain.

But Faline knew this wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

“Come on,” Argus said, still gripping her shoulder. “Let’s get you somewhere safe. Lukas, you coming?”

“Yes,” Lukas said firmly. “I told Tripps I’d look after him in port.”

They walked through Port Mortain’s darkening streets together, Faline between Argus and Lukas. The port town felt dangerous—men stumbled drunk from taverns, prostitutes called from doorways, and the narrow alleys seemed to hide threats in every shadow.

“Don’t make eye contact with anyone,” Lukas muttered. “And stay close.”

Argus led them down progressively narrower streets, into areas where the buildings looked older and more decrepit. Finally, they arrived at a heavy oak door in a dark alley. Argus knocked in a specific pattern.

A peephole opened, revealing a suspicious eye.

“Argus. I’ve got two with me—crew from the Reaver.”

The door opened, revealing a stooped old man holding a lamp. His weathered face broke into a gap-toothed smile when he saw Argus.

“Back again, are ye?”

“I am, Montague.” Argus handed him a pouch that clinked with coins. “Need rooms for myself and these two. The boy here is new, needs looking after.”

Montague held up his lamp to examine Faline more closely. His rheumy eyes narrowed.

“That ain’t no boy.”

Faline’s heart stopped.

“He’s young,” Argus said quickly. “Hasn’t grown into himself yet.”

“I know what young boys look like, and I know what girls look like.” Montague leaned closer, studying Faline’s face. “That’s a girl pretending to be a boy, or I’m the King of Tenoach.”

Lukas stiffened beside her. “What?”

“Oh, don’t tell me you didn’t know,” Montague cackled. “Look at her. The face, the way she moves, the voice. Clear as day.”

Argus sighed, disappointed his ruse hadn’t worked. “Fine. Yes, she’s a girl. And that needs to stay quiet. How much?”

Montague’s eyes gleamed. “Twenty guilders. Per week.”

“That’s extortion.”

“That’s the price of discretion.” The old man shrugged. “Otherwise, she can find lodging down in Bilge Row with the rest of the crew. I’m sure Duncan and his friends would be happy to have her.”

Lukas had gone very still beside Faline. She couldn’t look at him, couldn’t face whatever expression he wore.

Argus counted out twenty guilders. “One week. And if word gets out—”

“It won’t. I’ve been keeping secrets in this town for forty years.” Montague pocketed the coins and stepped aside. “Come on, then. Let’s get you settled.”

They followed him into a warren of passages carved into solid rock—the old smugglers’ caves that formed the foundation of Port Mortain. The lamp cast dancing shadows on the walls as they walked deeper into the complex.

Finally, Montague stopped at a small door. “This one’s yours, girl. Lock it from the inside. Don’t open it for anyone you don’t know.”

He handed her a key and moved on, leading Lukas and Argus further down the corridor.

Faline stood alone in the passage, key in hand, her secret exposed to three men who now held her fate in their hands.

She unlocked the door and stepped into a tiny room—barely large enough for a narrow bed and a small table. No window. No escape.

She sat on the bed and waited for the inevitable knock.