The sun was trying to kill them.
Not metaphorically. Not poetically. The damn thing had risen over the North Blue like a white-hot brand pressed against the skull of the world, and it clearly had a personal vendetta against two particular escaped prisoners drifting in a stolen lifeboat.
Elijah Sparrow lay sprawled across the bench like a man who had been murdered by the heat and was simply waiting for his body to catch up. His dreadlocks hung limp against the weathered wood, soaked through with sweat that had long since stopped cooling him down. The linen shirt, usually so dashingly unbuttoned, now felt like a wet towel wrapped around his chest. He'd considered taking it off entirely, but the sun would cook him alive even faster that way.
This was not how the Pirate King was supposed to look.
At the other end of the boat, Duckworth worked the oars with the slow, steady rhythm of a man who understood that every wasted movement meant death. His tan duster had been folded beneath him as a cushion, leaving him in just his black vest, and even that seemed like too much clothing for this hellscape. Sweat dripped from his chin in a steady cadence, marking time like a metronome of misery.
"Left," Elijah muttered.
Duckworth didn't change direction.
"I said left."
"I heard you."
"Then why aren't we going left?"
"Because you've said left four times in the last hour, and each time we've gone left, we've ended up right back where we started." Duckworth's grey eyes remained fixed on the horizon. Nothing but blue. Endless, mocking blue. "If you'd quit backseat rowing, we might actually get somewhere."
Elijah pushed himself up on his elbows. The movement cost him precious energy he didn't have. "If you'd just let me use the compass..."
"It points to what you want." Duckworth's voice carried the patience of a man explaining basic arithmetic to a particularly slow child. "You want a drink. It's probably pointing to the bottom of the ocean where some poor bastard dropped a bottle of rum a century ago. It's not a map."
"It's a map of destiny! Much more reliable than your random rowing."
"Destiny doesn't care about hydration, Captain."
The word "Captain" dripped with enough sarcasm to fill a bathtub. Elijah flopped back down on the bench and stared up at the cloudless sky. Even that hurt. Everything hurt.
"This is the worst day of my life," he announced.
"We escaped a Marine vessel twelve hours ago."
"And now I'm thirsty. The high points were high, Quickdraw, but the lows are very, very low."
Duckworth said nothing. He just kept rowing.
The boat drifted on.
After what felt like an eternity, but was probably closer to twenty minutes, Elijah sat up again. His stomach had joined the sun's assassination attempt, twisting itself into knots of hunger.
"I'm starving."
No response.
"And parched. Absolutely parched. My tongue feels like a dried squid."
Still nothing.
"For future reference, First Mate, a proper escape includes raiding the pantry."
Duckworth stopped rowing.
The oars rested in the water, dripping, as the boat began to drift. He turned his head slowly, giving Elijah a look that could freeze fire.
"Let me retrace our steps." His voice was flat as a blade. "We broke out of a cell. We fought our way through a ship full of armed Marines. We reclaimed our property from a lunatic Commodore. And then we blew up the main mast." He paused for effect. "Forgive me if I didn't have time to pack us a picnic basket."
Elijah opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
"...Fine. You have a point. A very boring, practical point. But a point."
"Thank you."
"Still thirsty, though."
"Noted."
Duckworth resumed rowing. The rhythm returned, steady as a heartbeat. Stroke, stroke, stroke. The boat moved forward. Probably. It was hard to tell when every direction looked exactly the same.
Silence settled between them. Not uncomfortable, exactly. More like the silence between two men who had nothing left to argue about but couldn't quite let go of the desire to argue anyway.
Elijah's mind wandered.
Back to the ship. Back to the fight. Back to the moment when everything had gone sideways and somehow come out right.
"You know," he said, tilting his head, "something's been bugging me."
Duckworth grunted.
"For the North Blue's most feared bounty hunter, you're remarkably gentle."
The oars faltered for just a moment. Then resumed.
"Two perfect disarms in the cabin. More on deck. You didn't kill a single one of them." Elijah's purple eyes had lost their lazy humor. Something genuinely curious glinted there. "Why?
"Had the situation under control." His voice was quieter now. "No need for it."
"Killing them wouldn't have changed anything. Just would've made more noise." Duckworth's jaw tightened. "A dead man can't learn a lesson. Can't spread word about what happens when you cross certain lines."
"That's very philosophical for a bounty hunter."
"Bounty hunting is philosophy. Every shot is a choice." He deflected then, turning the sharp question back like a mirror. "What about you? You had plenty of chances. Why didn't you?"
Elijah laughed.
"Kill them? Are you kidding me?" He sat up fully now, that insufferable grin spreading across his face. "If I kill everyone on that ship, who's left to file the report? Who's going to tell the world what happened?"
Duckworth's eyebrow rose.
"A ghost story doesn't get you a bounty poster, Quickdraw. A terrified survivor does. Marines love paperwork. They'll document everything. The escape, the fight, the explosion. My name will be all over their reports." His grin widened. "Free advertising."
"You're treating your bounty like a business."
"Because it is! Fame is currency. The higher my bounty, the more respect I command. The more respect I command, the stronger the people who'll want to sail under my flag."
Duckworth considered this. "That's actually... not stupid."
"I know."
"Don't let it go to your head."
"Too late."
Then Elijah's grin faded into a frown of genuine annoyance.
"Damn it. Now that I think about it, I probably should have killed one or two. Just for emphasis. Now my first bounty is going to be pathetic." He threw his hands up in frustration. "Probably just for 'arson' and 'petty theft.' I swear, if I debut under ten million Beri, I'm going to be pissed."
Duckworth snorted. "Anything under nine million would be an insult. The average rookie captain with any noise is worth fifteen." He paused, considering.
"But a low bounty keeps bigger fish from sniffing around. You might see it as a blessing."
Elijah's expression twisted like he'd bitten into something rotten.
"A blessing? A blessing?!" He jabbed a finger at Duckworth. "That's the most insulting thing you've said to me, and you've been insulting me all morning. I don't want to hide from bigger fish. I want the bigger fish to know my name and tremble."
"Trembling comes later. Survival comes first."
"You sound like my father."
The words slipped out before Elijah could stop them.
Something flickered across his face. Not quite pain. Not quite anger. Something more complicated.
After another stretch of silence, Elijah clapped his hands together. The sound was sharp in the quiet air, startling a seabird that had been circling overhead.
"Alright, First Mate. Enough philosophy. Let's talk logistics." He leaned forward, suddenly all business despite the sweat dripping down his face. "Did you have a ship stashed somewhere? Some capital to get us started? A secret cave full of treasure you've been waiting to tell me about?"
Duckworth's expression went utterly flat.
"I did have a ship."
"Had?"
"A hunter-class sloop called The Albatross. Fast. Agile. Perfect for tracking targets through shallow waters." His grip on the oars tightened. "The Commodore had it seized and burned when he arrested me. Said it was 'confiscated contraband.'"
Elijah stared at him.
"He burned your ship."
"To ashes."
"After not paying you."
"Correct."
"And then mounted your guns on his wall like trophies."
"You were there."
Elijah let out a long, low whistle. "Okay, I take back everything I said. You should have killed him. That level of pettiness deserves death."
"Crossed my mind." Duckworth's voice was colder than the ocean depths. "But I made a promise. We'd meet again. And when we do, taking his life will be the least of his concerns."
"Ominous. I like it." Elijah nodded approvingly. "So no ship, no money, no supplies. What about contacts? Friends? Acquaintances who owe you favors?"
"Bounty hunters don't have friends. We have employers and targets. Sometimes both at once."
"That's depressing."
"It's practical."
Elijah threw his hands up. "Everything with you is practical! Don't you have anything in your life that's just... fun?"
Duckworth considered the question. Really considered it, his grey eyes distant.
"Gambling," he finally admitted. "I like cards."
"Are you good?"
"Terrible. Lose more than I win. Every time."
"Then why do you do it?"
"Because losing is still more entertaining than winning would be."
"Okay. Okay, I can work with that. A first mate with a gambling problem. That's character. That's flavor." He grinned. "The ballads will love it."
"There won't be any ballads if we die of thirst out here."
Elijah closed his eyes.
His mind drifted to the compass. The Wayward Compass. His father's gift, the one possession that didn't come weighted with expectations and demands. It pointed to what you wanted most, and right now, Elijah wanted a lot of things. Water. Food. A ship. A crew. Fame. Power. Wealth.
Everything.
Maybe that was why the needle had been spinning. Too many desires, all competing for attention.
"Land."
Elijah's eyes snapped open.
Duckworth had stopped rowing. He was squinting at the horizon, one hand raised to shield his eyes from the glare.
"Where?" Elijah scrambled up so fast the boat rocked dangerously.
"East. Maybe five kilometers out."
Elijah followed his gaze. At first, he saw nothing. Just more blue, more shimmer, more cruel emptiness.
Then he saw it.
A dark shape against the horizon. Small at first, but growing as his eyes adjusted. An island. No, an archipelago. Several islands clustered together, their shapes hazy in the distance.
But one stood out.
Its central mountain rose from the sea like a monument, and twin peaks flanked it on either side. The silhouette was unmistakable. It looked exactly like a colossal bird spreading its wings, ready to take flight.
Elijah's breath caught.
"No way..."
He scrambled for his compass, nearly dropping it in his excitement. The lid flipped open with a familiar click.
The needle, which had been drifting aimlessly for hours, snapped to attention. It pointed with unwavering certainty toward the bird-shaped island.
"Swallow Island!" Elijah whooped, throwing his hands in the air.
Duckworth grabbed the side of the boat to keep it from tipping. "Sit down before you drown us, idiot!"
"That's Captain Idiot to you!" But Elijah sat, still grinning like a madman. "Swallow Island. Trading post. Fresh water. Food. And if the stories are true, the cheapest booze in the North Blue."
"You're excited about cheap booze."
"I'm excited about any booze at this point. But also!" He held up the compass, its needle still pointing true. "This is where we're supposed to be. The compass knows. Destiny knows. This is the first step."
Duckworth picked up the oars. "It's also our only option, so I wouldn't read too much into destiny."
"You're such a killjoy."
But even Duckworth couldn't entirely hide the relief in his shoulders as he began rowing toward the island. Land meant survival. Survival meant another day to chase whatever mad dreams had brought them together.
Elijah snapped the compass shut and tucked it back into his pocket.
"Well, First Mate," he said, "it seems destiny has provided. Swallow Island. Our first port of call."