to catch the wind
“I've never been prey a day in my life.”
SYNOPSIS
United in purpose and burdoned with knowledge of a great evil, those of saba compete for the right to be both heard and accepted. However, is it too little too late?
across the sea, courik now treads upon the path of ruthless men. does he embrace his family name and lean into reputation? or is separation and obscurity the answer? he must decide what kind of man he wished to be.
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“Courik! Hey, Courik!”
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He briefly considered pretending like he hadn’t heard his name. But the voice was youthful and pure, and he had an idea of who it belonged to. He skidded to a halt and turned on his heels.
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There he was. Twelve years old, with unruly black hair and a set of light grey eyes that matched his own. “Asher?” Courik raised a brow. “Is that you under all that hair?”
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The youth ran over to him and embraced him in the street. Courik chuckled as he hugged his brother while simultaneously moving the pair of them off the road.
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“It’s good to see you, Courik. I’ve missed your stories.”
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He tousled the boy’s hair. “Well then. We shall have to remedy that.”
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“You must come in for a drink,” Asher said. “You have to! It has become tradition.”
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Courik was about to point out that he had missed the last five Conclaves and therefore had no tradition, but in the end, decided merely to go and have a drink with his little brother. He let Asher lead him by the hand into the tavern.
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By the Second Son! He had forgotten how smoky it was in here. And loud. Slaves ran about carrying drinks. Gamblers sat at tables off to the right of the room, rolling dice and playing cards. Passing by Nine-Slice Godfrey and Gunner, who sat next to one another at a table of cards, Courik gave a nonchalant wave with his free hand. They raised their chins to him as they considered their cards.
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That was when he saw a flash of red hair. He grinned when he recognized his older brother Emerik. The latter noticed Asher dragging him to the bar and shot up from his stool. He had a stubble of facial hair now, but Courik was mostly surprised by how tall he had grown. He had to crane his neck back to look up at him.
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“Well… slap me ass and call me a baboon,” Emerik said joyfully thrusting out his hand.
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Courik laughed as he clasped his brother’s forearm. “Hello, brother. It’s been a while.”
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“Forty-five years, is more like. You’ve grown taller!”
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“Says the giraffe himself,” Courik countered with a grin. “My word, do you have to duck under the sails?”
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Emerik wrapped a hand over Courik’s shoulder as he responded, “Every damn day.” He pulled Courik to the bar and said, “Pick your poison.”
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And just like that, he was at a loss for words. He hadn’t had to order a drink in almost six years. On the Sin Eater, there were only two options: water or ale. That was it. What had he ordered at his first Conclave?
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Emerik was right. It did feel like forty-five years ago. He vaguely remembered that every captain had a drink named after them.
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“A Baron…” he said hesitantly.
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Emerik heartily clasped him on the back, as he shouted at the bartender, “Ooi! Let me get a Baron, a Black-Jack, and a Red-Handed Ramos!”
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“You’re not drinking a Soulless?” Asher asked curiously. “It’s good luck to begin the night with the drink named after your captain.”
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Courik tried to imagine what a drink named after Maxim Soulless Wes would taste like. He turned to Asher and put on a show of frowning, “I think the tears of small children would be too salty for me.”
Quickly changing the subject, he asked, “How’s life sailing with Ramos?”
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Asher smiled. “It’s great. I have lessons every morning, followed by fencing practice. After that, I have a shift steering the ship so that I can learn how to both navigate and handle the vessel. My last lesson comes right before dinner is served.”
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Courik merely blinked. He was saved from having to recover, as their drinks had arrived. “A Ramos for the kid,” Emerik said, sliding a red liquor toward Asher. “A Black-Jack for the most handsome lookin’ fella here,” he slid a glass in front of himself. “And last, but certainly not least,” he slid a rum-mix to Courik, “a Baron for our lost brother returned.”
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They all lifted their glasses. “To the Lances,” Emerik said with a grin.
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They clinked their drinks and downed them in one go.
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“Well, would you look at that,” came a rough voice from behind them. “If it isn’t the three whoresons that embody the fleets. The black-haired runt, the gilded bitch, and the redheaded freak.” The noise and music in the room ensured that Hawthorne’s words went completely unnoticed by all those who were not close by.
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Courik took his time setting his glass down before he turned to meet the eyes of Holt Hawthorne. He was nineteen now, the same age as Emerik, but the same height as Courik. He was so stocky and muscled that he must have weighed the same as a small horse. A wicked scar covered his left eye under dark hair cropped so close to his scalp that he looked like a soldier in the kovanic legions on the mainland.
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“Don’t ya ‘ave a single mother somewhere off in a dark, muddy alley waitin’ for your company?” Emerik asked with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Ya betta hurry, Havoc, before the farmer locks his sows up fer the night and ya miss ya chance.”
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Courik chuckled. Emerik had the quickest and most reckless mouth he had ever heard. If ‘Havoc’ Hawthorne pursued verbal sparring, Emerik would absolutely decimate him.
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“Cute, Emerik.” Hawthorne fired back. “But everyone knows the only Stanton interested in bedding sows is Hellborn Harlow.”
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Courik raised his brows, surprised. That was actually a good one. Had Hawthorne gotten smarter?
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Asher made to move, and with a knee-jerk reaction, Courik latched onto the boy’s shoulder, stopping him.
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Hawthorne laughed. “Nice to see you keep your dog on a leash.”
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Courik frowned. Maybe not.
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His silence seemed to vex Hawthorne more than the insult Emerik had delivered him. The Holt twin refocused his attention solely on Courik.
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“How is it that a worthless piece of shit from the slums of Rhenik, survived on the Sin Eater?”
Hawthorne gave a twisted smirk as he added, “Did you have to go into your mother’s line of work?”
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Courik gave a humorless chuckle as he casually moved away from the bar and stood in front of Hawthorne. He was not ten years old anymore, and it was about time that Hawthorne realized that.
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“I can show you, Hawthorne,” he said. He did not scowl or threaten. He simply thought of his time aboard the Sin Eater. He then called forth his demons, and they came. His memories of bloody hands, his first kill, his second. Against his will, he had helped Skinner torture a man for over nine months. He knew the mewling, woeful sounds people made when their minds broke. He knew what it was to suffer. And what it was to inflict that suffering.
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Holding all of that in mind, he let down his guard, allowing his eyes to bear his soul and his pain. He watched, detached from himself, as Hawthorne took a step back from him.
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