I moved closer to the window and pulled the curtain aside. Pale sunlight spilled into the room, stretching across the floorboards and climbing the legs of the table. The sight of it struck something inside me.
Relief. Hope. Maybe fear.
After months of gray skies and bitter cold, it was hard to tell the difference anymore.
Outside, patches of ice had finally surrendered to the thaw. Water pooled in shallow depressions where snowdrifts had stood all winter. The season was changing. Slowly, stubbornly, but changing all the same.
I reached into my breast pocket and unfolded Pearl's letter. It had been there for nearly a week, long enough that I could no longer justify putting off a reply.
The crew had already arranged a supply run to the Clam now that the ice was turning to slush. If I wanted my letter to leave with them, I needed to write it soon.
Behind me, a chair creaked.
"My dear mother tried to teach me how to write when I was a child." Broc rocked lazily on the sturdy wooden chair as though he hadn't a care in the world.
I glanced over my shoulder. "And what happened?"
"The blade felt better in my hand than the pen."
There wasn't a hint of uncertainty in his voice.
Turik snorted and stepped closer to the table. "How many times did you try stabbing the page before your mother realized there were only stones in that brain of yours?"
Broc shot him a look.
Turik ignored it and nodded toward the letter in my hand. "What are you going to tell Pearl?"
"At least I keep myself honest." Broc folded his arms across his chest. "You pretend to read and write. From what others have said, it's all an act."
Turik's brow furrowed. "Who told you that?"
Broc's grin widened. "West."
I lifted one shoulder. He wasn't lying.
During our time in Minht, I'd spent enough hours reading Turik's documents and rewriting his messages to know the truth. Most of the crew saw a confident officer who always seemed to know exactly what he was doing. In private, it was different. The confidence was real, but so was the doubt underneath it.
Turik looked down at me. His expression asked the question before his mouth ever could.
I raised both hands. "We all have our strengths and weaknesses."
"Yeah, sure." Turik pointed at himself. "But I can read."
The conviction in his voice almost made me believe him.
Almost.
Broc pushed himself out of the chair and strode over before either of us could stop him. He plucked Pearl's letter from my hands and thrust it toward Turik. "Read this then."
Turik accepted the page with far more confidence than caution. His eyes swept across the first line. Then slowed. Then slowed some more. A suspicious amount.
"To West." He jabbed a finger at the words. "You see that, you big oaf? It reads, 'To West.'" His finger continued tracing the line as though proving a point.
I decided to take Broc's side. "Keep reading.”
Turik straightened immediately. “What? No! Did you two forget who the commanding officer is here, or do you need a reminder?"
The familiar pink began creeping into his cheeks.
"Maybe you can remind us with a written statement." The moment the words left my mouth, I knew I probably should have said them more sarcasticlly.
Broc exploded with laughter. His hand came crashing down between my shoulders. The force nearly drove me into the table and sent my ink bottle rattling against the wood.
Turik snatched the letter from his own hands and tossed it back at me. "Write the damn thing already! We need to get to work soon…" He turned sharply and returned to his chair. By the time he dropped into it, he was slouched low enough to avoid looking at either of us.
That only made Broc laugh harder.
“Do not be mad, Turik.” Broc sounded half serious before a sheepish grin spread across his face. “Think about all that you have accomplished as an illiterate turd.” The grin only widened.
That was enough to break me. Laughter escaped before I could stop it.
Turik stared at both of us for a long moment, his expression hardening as Broc continued to enjoy himself far too much. Then he sprang from his chair. “Alright, you want to do this then?”
The challenge had barely left his mouth before Broc accepted it.
Broc lunged forward with surprising speed for a man his size. The impact sent both of them crashing to the floor. Turik clearly hadn't expected the charge, but he recovered quickly, twisting his body and catching hold of Broc before the larger man could gain complete control. They rolled across the floorboards in a tangle of limbs, each fighting for leverage while trying to force the other into a vulnerable position.
It was hardly an uncommon sight.
The crew wrestled often. Sometimes for competition. Sometimes, to settle an argument. Other times, simply because there was little else to do during a winter that seemed determined to bury the world beneath snow and ice. It looked rough to outsiders, all grunts and collisions and bruised pride, but there was an understanding beneath it. They pushed each other hard without crossing the line. Even so, I had treated my share of injuries over the months. Scratches, sprains, dislocated joints, and more than a few fractured bones from men who got carried away.
A heavy thud rattled the table as one of them struck the floor again. I ignored it and lowered my gaze to the page.
Eight long months.
So much had happened in those eight months.
The pen hovered above the paper as I wrestled with an entirely different problem than the one unfolding beside me. What should I tell her first? What did Pearl need to know? More importantly, what did she not need to know?
Winter had shown no mercy.
Famine had swept through villages already struggling to survive. Disease followed close behind, taking advantage of weakened bodies and empty cupboards. We had watched entire communities suffer through the season. Yet somehow, despite everything the gods had thrown at us, we had not lost a single member of our crew.
My eyes drifted toward the small box Pearl had given me. The tiny lock glimmered in the sunlight. A pointless thing, honestly.
There was no chance my letter would travel untouched. Before it ever reached Pearl, it would almost certainly pass through several sets of hands. Odessa's among them. Pearl knew that. I knew that. Which meant every word I wrote carried two audiences.
I dipped the pen and began again.
‘Pearl.
It was a pleasure receiving your letter.
I am happy to hear from you, and that everyone in the Clam has fared well during the winter.
You can assure Lord Mozam that Jenny is doing just fine here.
We, all, are doing just fine considering the situation we have allowed ourselves to remain in.’
I paused.
The words looked harmless enough.
While I was still uneasy about Mozam's deception, I found myself thinking about him more often than I wanted to admit. Our time in the Deep felt strangely distant now. Pearl's letter made it clear that his concern for Jenny was genuine, and I could not fault him for that. The winter could not have been easy aboard the Clam, regardless of how carefully Pearl had described it. She was too intelligent not to understand who would be reading every line before it reached me.
A sharp grunt pulled my attention from the page. Both men were back on their feet. Neither rushed in.
They circled each other instead, bent slightly at the waist, watching for the smallest mistake. Turik shifted left. Broc mirrored him. Their boots scraped across the floorboards as each searched for an opening.
“You didn't expect that, did you, big boy?” Turik flashed a grin.
A moment later, they collided again.
Hands locked onto shoulders and arms. Muscles strained. They pushed and pulled for position until Broc suddenly surged forward, lifted Turik clean off the ground, and slammed him onto the floor. The impact shook dust from the rafters. Turik immediately wrapped himself around Broc's arm and shoulder before the larger man could capitalize on the throw. Within seconds, they were tangled together once more, struggling for control.
Broc was stronger.
Everyone knew that.
But when it came to wrestling, strength was only part of the equation. Turik possessed a frustrating talent for finding advantages where none seemed to exist.
I glanced back down at the page and continued writing.
‘Turik certainly was the right choice to lead after Smoli. Only the mind of Odessa could have seen the potential.’
I smirked as I wrote the line. That one was for Odessa. Women love being complimented.
‘He has shown a remarkable ability to keep the men disciplined and restrained despite what the Gods have put us through.
When the rations looked like they would not stretch another month, he found a way to make them last.’
I didn't think it necessary to tell Pearl about the raids.
Turik had orchestrated several attacks against nearby farms and villages over the course of the winter. The exact number had likely reached her by now through other channels, and that was all she needed to know. I could advise Turik. Argue with him. Remind him where the line should be. But ultimately, he was trying to save the souls of many, while I spent most of my time trying to save my own.
I dipped the pen again.
‘I cannot say the weight of everything has not taken its toll on everyone, including Turik.’
The words looked clean enough on the page, but the truth was considerably uglier.
There hadn't been a night since Pearl left that Turik hadn't ended drunk and defeated. Some nights, he stared into his cup as though answers might float to the surface. Other nights, he listened to the complaints of the men until the burden nearly crushed him beneath its weight. If not for Broc and the looming threat of Odessa's fury, I suspected Turik would have eventually folded to their demands. There were many among the crew who wanted to burn every village within reach and strip every storehouse bare in exchange for one more loaf of bread.
The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
A grunt drew my attention upward.
Broc had managed to gain the superior position.
He sat atop Turik's chest while Turik struggled beneath him. Broc's open palm repeatedly smacked against the side of Turik's face. It looked violent at first glance, but there was no malice behind it. If anything, it felt more like a lesson. A reminder not to allow yourself to end up underneath someone bigger than you.
Turik finally caught Broc's wrist. His fingers tightened. Then he began pulling.
I returned to the letter.
‘Broc has also reestablished himself as the war chief.
It did not take long for him to remind the rest of the crew why he was in that position to begin with.’
A small smile tugged at the corner of my mouth. That part, at least, wasn't difficult to write.
Broc had never been shy about breaking a few hands or cracking a few ribs when the situation called for it. The men complained afterward, of course, but they usually learned the lesson. Winter had a way of making people restless. Hungry and angry. Sometimes, force was the only language that frustration could understand, and so the men sometimes required a little force to make them understand. He makes us all exercise and train despite the day's conditions or yesterday's workload.
Behind me, something heavy struck the floor. Judging by the curse that followed, Turik had finally managed to reverse the position.
I didn't bother looking. The scratching of my pen continued across the page.
‘He’s really an excellent teacher.
He has taught me so much in such a short time.
I honestly think I could slap a bear and make it cry.’
I paused and reread the line. That might have been the most honest thing I'd written so far. My gaze drifted toward Pearl's letter before returning to my own unfinished page.
Vague.
Everything I wrote felt vague.
There was so much I wanted to tell her. So much I wanted to tell anyone. Broc and Turik had been invaluable these past months. Together, they had somehow kept the ship functioning while winter tried its hardest to break us. But they possessed a certainty I simply lacked. They could look at the people of Minht and see strangers. Obstacles. Numbers on a ledger.
I simply couldn't.
Or at least I hadn't figured out how.
While I did my best to steer them away from excessive force, they were often willing to sacrifice entire families if it meant calming a disgruntled platoon or preserving order for another week. The thought sat heavily in my chest. I pushed it aside and continued writing.
‘Your letter expressed concern with the amount of supplies.
While I'd like to tell you that we are as comfortable as we need to be, during the depths of winter, some of us had to voluntarily give up a few meals, but not so severely that anyone starved.’
At least…none of us.
The pen stopped.
For several seconds, I simply stared at the page. Then I lowered it back to the page.
‘At least none of us.’
Those four words felt heavier than everything else I had written combined.
The thought of Odessa reading over my shoulder lingered no matter how many times I tried to ignore it. Every sentence became a negotiation between truth and usefulness. There was only so much I could tell Pearl, and if I was being honest, I wasn't sure how much of this truth she needed to carry.
There was a reason Odessa had sent her back to the Clam.
The sunlight brightened again. Not by much, but enough for me to notice. A faint warmth brushed across my face, lingering there for a moment before fading. After months of relentless cold, even the smallest gift from the sun felt worth acknowledging.
I lowered the pen to the page.
‘The sun has been a welcome change.
I'm hopeful when the snow thaws we will be able to turn things around, maybe even leave Minht in a better condition than when we arrived.’
I paused.
Odessa had enough wealth hidden away to rebuild a hundred Minhts from what I'd seen. Whether she intended to do so was an entirely different matter.
The nib scratched softly against the paper.
‘As for your concerns with regards to Odessa.
Well, I have not gotten a chance to personally speak with her myself, but I have seen her.
Everyone has.
She walks the halls of the fort alone.’
Everyone had learned to stay clear of Odessa when she wandered the corridors. Men stepped aside without a word. Conversations died when she was spotted. The only person she seemed willing to tolerate for more than a few moments was Turik. Even Broc had been shunned.
Turik would have liked to tell me Broc had moved on. But the fact that he was still telling me eight months later suggested otherwise.
I continued writing.
‘Turik has tried to assure the men that all is well and Odessa is just grieving, but that she is always plotting and thinking forward.
I trust Turik, I have no reason not to.’
The words felt fair. Turik wasn't a liar. At least not intentionally.
His loyalty to Odessa simply allowed him to overlook certain truths. Beneath the Volta markings, beneath whatever plans the Gods had woven around her, Odessa was still flesh and blood. She was still capable of breaking.
‘That being said, I do worry about her.
Grief can often times make us all do irrational decisions.’
The sentence lingered in my thoughts.
The stakes were too high for irrational decisions. Too many lives rested in her hands now. Every choice she made echoed outward through the fort, through the crew, through Minht itself.
I finished the final thought.
‘I pray that when you return in the summer, you may be able to bring the light back into her eyes.’
For a moment, the room fell quiet.
Then Broc let out a strangled noise.
I looked up just in time to see Turik slip behind him and lock an arm around his neck. Turik planted his feet and tightened the hold while Broc clawed at his forearm, trying to break free. The larger man staggered backward, dragging both of them several feet across the floor before finally giving in.
His hand slapped repeatedly against Turik's shoulder. He’d had enough. Turik immediately released him.
"WOOO!" Turik jumped back and thrust both arms into the air. "That's why they call me the captain, come on!"
Broc remained bent over for a moment, sucking air back into his lungs while Turik celebrated a victory that would undoubtedly grow larger with every future retelling.
I shook my head and returned to the page. "Captain? You better not let Odessa hear you say that."
The excitement vanished from Turik's face. Immediately. His eyes widened.
"Was that loud?" He glanced toward the door. "You think someone heard?"
Broc finally straightened and gave him a firm pat on the back. "You still got it in you, old man."
Turik smoothed out his shirt and attempted to reclaim what remained of his dignity. A moment later, he wandered over to the table and leaned over my shoulder.
His eyes moved rapidly across the page. Far too rapidly. He wasn't fooling anyone. "What are you telling her?"
"Nothing she doesn't already know."
Turik nodded as though satisfied.
Then continued reading. "Alright, but no need to mention the raids and looting. She doesn't need to hear about any of that stuff."
"Of course."
"Good." He kept staring at the page.
Broc eventually joined him, looming over my other shoulder. Between the two of them, the sunlight disappeared entirely. "And don't mention I broke Ajio’s arm when he talked back to me." Broc scratched at his beard. "He's already using it again, so it's of no concern."
I looked down at the nearly finished letter. Then, at the two men attempting to edit it after the fact. Then back at the page. A smile crept across my face.
I dipped the pen one final time.
‘From West.’
"All done." I set the pen down and carefully pushed the letter away from me. "Let's let the ink dry."
The page had consumed enough of my morning. For now, at least.
"What does it say?" Turik immediately leaned toward the table.
I stepped away from the chair and gave him a nod. "Read it... Captain."
Broc's laugh escaped before he could stop it. Just one sharp chuckle. Then he reached over and patted Turik on the back.
Turik narrowed his eyes. "Get up."
I ignored him.
"Get up." The confidence from his victory over Broc was still radiating from him like heat from a forge.
"You don't want this. I cheat."
The warning earned a fake smile.
Turik grabbed the front of my coat anyway and hauled me upright before I could object further. The moment my boots touched the floor, I gave him a shove. He took two steps backward and grinned wider.
Apparently, this was happening.
"Alright," I muttered while shrugging out of my coat. "But I warned you."
The coat landed beside the wall. I rolled my shoulders and stretched my arms while Turik settled into a familiar stance.
"If you go low again, I swear to all my gods I will return with my blade and make you a eunuch."
"Promise."
Across the room, Broc looked entirely too pleased with himself. "Very good form, West."
I suspected hearing that from him should have made me feel more confident than it actually did. The moment I settled into position, Turik attacked.
He crossed the distance between us in a heartbeat.
We crashed to the floor hard enough to drive the air from my lungs. His arms immediately went searching for control, slipping between mine and around my shoulders with practiced efficiency. This wasn't the first time we'd wrestled. I'd learned enough from previous beatings to recognize some of his favorite setups.
Enough to survive them. Not enough to stop them.
I managed to block one attempt before his arm slipped beneath mine. Suddenly, my shoulder was being pulled backward at an angle it was never meant to travel. Pain shot down my arm. If this had been a real fight, I had no doubt he would have snapped it.
I twisted hard, rolled through the pressure, and finally broke free before scrambling back to my feet. My arm throbbed angrily as I shook feeling back into it.
Turik rose more slowly. The amusement never left his face. "You're learning fast, kid. I didn't think you'd get free from that last one."
I flexed my fingers. "I think you're just getting old."
That earned a snort from Broc.
Turik pointed at me. "I'm going to strangle you, then I want to hear you tell your little jokes."
We circled each other again. This time, I expected him to shoot low and drag me back to the floor. Instead, he sidestepped. One movement. One mistake. That was all it took. Suddenly, he was behind me. His arm wrapped around my neck while the other locked everything into place. The world narrowed immediately. I grabbed at his forearm and tried to create space, but the pressure only increased. My vision began to darken around the edges. The room tilted slightly.
Turik knew exactly what he was doing. Unfortunately for him, so did I. Using the last bit of leverage available to me, I staggered toward the table. One more step. Then another.
My boot found the edge. I kicked off as hard as I could. Both of us launched backward. For one glorious second, I was convinced it was a brilliant plan.
Then we crashed directly into Turik's chair. The wooden frame exploded beneath us. Pieces scattered across the room. The impact rattled my teeth. Turik absorbed most of the fall and somehow still refused to release the choke.
Only after I slapped at his arm did he finally let go. Air rushed back into my lungs. The ceiling slowly stopped spinning.
"My fucking back." Turik rolled onto his side and reached for his lower back. "What is wrong with you?"
I lay there for another moment, drawing in one breath after another while daylight gradually returned to the world.
Across the room, Broc was losing his battle with laughter. The sight of him bent over nearly hurt more than the choke. Eventually, he wandered over and offered a hand to each of us. With his help, we made it back to our feet.
Turik immediately fixed me with an irritated stare.
I couldn't help smiling. "Why are you mad? You won." I extended my hand. After a moment, he accepted it.
"Don't do that. It was not a serious situation." His free hand remained pressed against his back.
"Broc told me it's always a serious situation when your opponent gets your back."
"He’s not wrong." Broc folded his arms proudly, as though he'd just delivered profound wisdom instead of common sense.
Turik rolled his eyes. "Yeah, well, that was my chair." He pointed toward the pile of splintered wood littering the floor. "So I'm taking yours. You can stand for our meetings from now on."
I looked at the remains. To be fair, there wasn't much chair left to argue over. Turik jabbed a finger toward the mess. "Clean all this up."
"Yes, sir." The words had barely left my mouth when a knock echoed through the room.
Immediately, all three of us looked toward the door.
Turik made his way to the door first. "Everything is okay in here. We just broke a chair."
The reassurance sounded considerably less convincing when surrounded by splintered wood.
The guard remained standing in the doorway. "Sir, Captain Odessa would like a word with West." His gaze shifted past Turik and landed directly on me.
A knot immediately formed in my stomach. "Oh shit." The words escaped before I could stop them. I looked toward Turik, hoping he might somehow possess an explanation, a warning, or perhaps a miraculous excuse that would allow me to remain exactly where I was.
Instead, he shrugged. "I don't know.”
He bent down, retrieved my coat from where I had discarded it earlier, and handed it over. "You'll be fine. She's usually in a good mood this early in the morning."
That did little to reassure me.
Over the past eight months, I had learned that Odessa's version of a good mood often looked identical to everyone else's version of impending doom. I slipped my arms into the coat and adjusted it around my shoulders.
Behind us, Broc had already begun gathering pieces of the destroyed chair. "Don't worry about the mess here. I'll pick it up."
The promise sounded sincere enough, but having spent enough time with him I knew he’d forget as soon as I walked out.
"What, your going to sweep it into a corner and wait for me to do it later?." I snorted back.
Broc responded by throwing a splinter of wood in my direction.
I managed to avoid it.
The guard looked between the three of us and wisely chose not to ask any questions.
A moment later, I followed him into the corridor.
The door swung shut behind us with a heavy thud.
The loud laughter. The pale sunlight. The warmth of the room. All of it seemed to disappear with that single sound.