Heir to a Fallen Star

Chapter 55

He looks over at Kaelen, then back to me, a fierce, tight grin breaking through his beard. For the first time since we uttered the words Eye of Elas, the terror in his posture is entirely gone.

"We might actually survive this," Silas breathes, a sudden, booming laugh of pure relief tearing from his chest. He claps a heavy, grease-stained hand onto my shoulder—careful not to squeeze too hard. "Kaelen didn't just find a benefactor. He found our anchor. Get your things to the captain's quarters, Iris. I'll make sure you have a private brazier to start rendering that salve immediately. We weigh anchor in twenty minutes!"

Silas extends a large, calloused hand, his rough fingers carefully gripping my elbow to steady me as I step onto the slick, narrow gangplank. His hold is firm and unyielding, ensuring I don't lose my balance for even a fraction of a second. It's a striking contrast—this dangerous, lethal black-market trader, a man who commands cutthroats with a snarl, suddenly narrowing his focus down to that of a fiercely loyal protector. In his gruff, watchful guidance, there is a profound, newfound warmth, like a father fiercely guarding his own daughter against the harshness of the world.

"Step easy, girl," he grunts softly under his breath, his voice devoid of the booming anger he just levelled at the crew. "Keep your eyes on the deck, not the water."

The moment my boots leave the wood of the gangplank and thud against the heavy, salt-bitten oak of the ship's deck, the frantic chaos of the vessel grinds to a sudden, jarring halt.

The heavy thud of crates stops. The rattling of iron chains goes quiet.

Dozens of pairs of eyes immediately dart to me. Rough, hardened men—their faces weathered by storms and scarred by violence—stare with wide, incredulous eyes. A heavy, tense silence blankets the deck, broken only by the rhythmic creaking of the hull against the tide.

Then, the whispers start.

"A woman? On a vanguard hull?" "Is the captain mad? We're sailing into a graveyard and he brings a lady?" "Look at her satchel... she ain't no noble. What's a girl doing on a death run?"

The superstitious muttering ripples through the ranks like wildfire, a low, dangerous undercurrent of unease. They look at me as if I am an omen, a beautiful curse brought aboard to guarantee their doom.

Before the whispers can grow into a roar, a shadow falls over the deck.

Kaelen steps out from the shadow of the wheelhouse. His massive frame seems to double in size as he plants his boots on the deck, his hand resting deliberately on the pommel of his broadsword. His moss-green eyes flash with a cold, lethal fire as he sweeps his gaze across the muttering crew. The sheer, suffocating pressure of his commander's presence hits the deck like a physical blow, instantly cutting the whispers dead in their tracks.

"The next man who opens his mouth to speak without my leave will be testing the depth of this harbour with a cannonball tied to his ankles," Kaelen’s deep voice booms, low and terrifyingly calm. He walks down the steps, his eyes never leaving the men as he stops right beside me, his arm brushing mine in a silent, unbreakable show of solidarity.

He looks down at me, the ice in his expression melting into a gaze of pure steel and quiet pride. "Ignore them, Red. This is your ship now."

I look toward them, I need to stand my guard, I cannot look meek and timid "Oi!" i shout to them, "last time I checked you’re supposed to be men of iron and salt, not superstitious gutter dwellers. If you’re too frightened to sail because of what is between my legs then you have no place on this ship. I need men, not tavern wenches. So, what’s it going to be. Are you a man? or a Tavern wench, because believe you me, my iron is just as strong as yours."

The entire deck goes so quiet you could hear a pin drop into the dark water below. Silas freezes behind me, his single good eye widening to the size of a saucer, while Kaelen’s hand slaps against his thigh as he suppresses what sounds like a massive, choking gasp of pure delight.

The rough, heavily tattooed crewmen look at each other, completely stunned. They expected a timid apothecary girl to shrink away or seek shelter behind the captain. Instead, they just got reamed out, insulted, and challenged by a woman who is currently staring them down like an admiral on a warship.

A massive, burly sailor at the front—a man with a broken nose, arms thicker than my waist, and a chest like an oak barrel—stares at me for a long, agonizing beat. His jaw works. His fists clenched.

Then, a slow, ugly grin begins to split his weathered face. He lets out a sudden, booming bark of a laugh that echoes off the cliff walls.

"Tavern wenches, she says!" the burly sailor roars, slapping a heavy hand against the wooden railing. He looks around at his stunned crewmates, his eyes gleaming with a sudden, fierce respect. "Did you hear that, boys? The little gold-headed lady thinks we’re a bunch of soft, dress-wearing barmaids!"

He steps forward, planting his heavy boots, and gives me a sharp, mocking but deeply approving salute. "Name's Boulder, mistress. And I ain't no tavern wench. If you've got iron in your spine, then I'll gladly pull an oar for you. At least we know the captain's got good taste in fierce company!"

Like a wave breaking, the tension on the deck instantly shatters. The rest of the crew lets out a chorus of gruff chuckles, catcalls, and thumping boots. The dangerous, superstitious fear has vanished, burned away by the raw, gritty defiance they respect above all else. They aren't looking at a curse anymore—they’re looking at a crewmate.

Kaelen steps in close, his massive shoulder bumping against mine as the men aggressively return to tossing crates and tightening ropes, moving with twice the speed they had before.

"A tavern wench, Red?" Kaelen whispers down at me, his deep voice vibrating with an absolute, breathless pride, his moss-green eyes practically burning with adoration. "Gods above, you are magnificent. I was ready to draw my sword, and you just conquered my entire vanguard with a single tongue-lashing."

Silas steps up on my other side, a massive, proud grin cutting through his thick grey beard. "Told you she had steel in her spine, Boulder! Now get back to work before she calls you a maiden again!" He turns to me, giving me a respectful nod. "The quarters are ready for you, Iris. Let's get that fire lit. We sail on the tide."

The captain’s quarters are nestled at the far aft of the ship, a private sanctuary accessed only by passing through the cramped, low-ceilinged berth where the crew sleeps. Dozens of canvas hammocks are strung up in every direction, swaying gently with the slow roll of the vessel, smelling heavily of damp wool, tobacco, and sweat.

Stepping through the heavy oak door of the quarters feels like entering a different world. It’s small but meticulously organized. A sturdy wooden desk is bolted securely to the floor, cluttered with navigation charts, brass dividers, and a sputtering oil lantern. To the right, Silas has already kept his word: a clean, iron brazier sits ready, vented through a small pipe in the hull, surrounded by a heavy worktable perfectly suited for my apothecary mortars, pestles, and jars.

But my eyes immediately dart past the workspace to the opposite wall.

There is only a single bed—a narrow, built-in berth lined with heavy wool blankets and a straw mattress, meant to save space against the pitching of the sea.

I turn around, my eyes locking onto Kaelen, a sudden question hanging in the air.

Kaelen shuts the heavy door behind us, cutting off the rowdy shouting of the crew outside. He drops his heavy rucksack onto the floor with a dull thud, his moss-green eyes catching mine in the warm, amber glow of the lantern. A soft, understanding smile touches his rugged lips as he sees where my gaze is lingering.

"Don't worry, Red," he rumbles, his voice dropping into a low, intimate whisper that makes the small cabin feel even smaller. He walks over, his large hands coming up to gently rest on my waist, pulling me just a fraction closer. "The bed is yours. All yours."

He glances back toward the heavy wooden door, his expression hardening slightly into that of a seasoned commander.

"As captain of a crew like this, I sleep out there," he explains softly, nodding toward the room full of hammocks. "In a corner berth right by the hatch. When you’re commanding desperate men, deserters, and cutthroats, you don't lock yourself away in luxury while they squeeze into the dark. I need to be by them. I need to hear every whisper, every creak of the floorboards, and ensure no nonsense of a mutiny arises before it can even start."

He leans down, his forehead resting gently against mine for a brief, grounding moment, his breath warm against my skin.

"I have to earn their respect every single night we are on these waters, Iris. They need to know their captain shares their hardships. But more than that..." He pulls back slightly, a fierce, protective fire burning in his eyes as he looks down at me. "...sleeping right by that door means anyone who wants to get to you has to step over my corpse first. You stay in here where it's warm, and you focus on brewing that miracle salve. I'll keep the monsters at bay."

“I want to learn the ways of the ship, I want to learn to steer, to hoist the sales, cast nets, I want to learn it all. I want to feel the wind against my skin, if you think I’m staying in here all day you are surly mistaken Captain.”

A sudden, breathless laugh barks from Kaelen’s chest. He releases my waist, taking a half-step back as he shakes his head, his moss-green eyes sparkling with a mixture of utter disbelief and sheer, intoxicating admiration.

"Surely mistaken, am I?" he echoes, the title captain rolling off my tongue causing a wicked, thoroughly pleased smirk to spread across his rugged face. He folds his massive arms over his chest, leaning his hip against the heavy wooden desk as the ship gives a sudden, deep lurch—the heavy groan of the timbers signalling that we have officially broken away from the pier and caught the main current.

"You don't do anything by halves, do you, gold locks?" he rumbles, his voice vibrating with a deep, fond warmth. "Most ladies of your standing would be clutching a bottle of smelling salts, praying to the saints that the sea sickness doesn't take them. And here you are, demanding to wrestle with hemp ropes and iron wheels."