Kinsley eased the Lioness into its berth as dawn bled red over Aazor. The fishing town smelled of cheap wine. Nets hung slack from poles, boats rocked empty in the harbor. The market stalls were half‑bare – dried eels, bruised roots, a few shriveled mollusks. Acid rains and Salacia's storms had poisoned the waters; the once‑bustling docks were a collection of creaking planks and hungry eyes. Two years since Kaen died. Two years of desperation and hunger and receding hope.
As the gangplank thudded to the pier, women leapt forward from the Lioness. The crew spilled onto shore, laughter and sobs mixing as husbands and children clung to them. Bonnie slung her gear onto her shoulder and looked at Kinsley with a crooked grin.
"Drink with me?" she asked, jerking her chin toward the taverns. Her freckles were washed out by weeks at sea; her hair glowed like embers in the weak light. She was trying to pull him back into their rhythm: a beer at the Shuck and Shell, gambling for coppers, a song to drown failures.
"Later," he said. "There's something I have to do."
Bonnie's gaze searched his for a moment, then she nodded. "Don't stay in your head too long, Captain." She clapped his arm and let herself be swept toward the town.
Kinsley pulled his coat tighter against the chill and headed up a muddy lane. The stares followed him: narrow eyes under woven hats, whispered curses in a language he'd learned as a boy. Aazor was home, but its people had never forgiven him for loving the sea more than their traditions. They whispered sinner, traitor …
He ignored them. He had his own failures to haunt him.
The Lioness had chased an illusion. The Meiren's song had promised him Isla Rhea. He had watched the spires of a golden city crest the horizon, felt his heart swell with the thought of getting Gorgo the medicine she had asked.
Then, as the prow cut the silver mists, the island vanished. Sea and sky mocked him. He had failed again.
He found the gambling den on a side street, beneath a sagging awning painted with faded fish.
Men hunched over barrels and crates, tossing bone dice, slapping cards, shouting and swearing. The scent of cheap liquor and rotting wood mingled. A sawdust floor soaked up spills and blood.
Nestor was at the center of it all, as always. He swayed from hip to hip, laughing, black hair tangled, eyes glazed from wine.
Coins and tokens cluttered the table before him; empty cups clinked at his elbow. He tossed dice with a flourish, shouted something unintelligible, and watched them tumble. The crowd booed or cheered. He took another swig of clear spirit and grinned with a mouthful of white teeth.
He was exceptionally handsome.
Kinsley pushed through the circle and grabbed Nestor by the collar.
Nestor squinted, recognition dawning slow as fog. "Ahh. Captain!" "You're coming with me," Kinsley said. He hauled Nestor away from the table. Dice skittered, curses flew, but no one intervened.
Outside, the light made everything look flatter. Kinsley shoved Nestor against a wall blackened with damp and termite holes. Dust sifted down. "I'm starting to think you've never been to Isla Rhea," he hissed. "The people are starving under Salacia and you're in here playing games?"
Nestor laughed, the sound thick. "Oh, the great humanitarian speaks. Worried about the poor fishermen? Or just your own little sailor parts getting cold at night without Kaen to warm them?"
Kinsley's fist connected with Nestor's jaw before he thought about it. Pain shot up his knuckles; Nestor's head snapped to the side. He wiped blood from his lip and smiled with a lopsided charm that made Kinsley's anger flare hotter.
"It's not my fault you're a bad navigator," Nestor slurred. "Isla Rhea exists. It's full of treasures. You just can't find her."
"If Gorgo wasn't so stubborn, maybe we'd have more than empty nets," Kinsley said. He felt fatigue settle in his bones. There was a time when he would have laughed at the absurdity of begging an exile princess for help. Now the hunger he saw in children's eyes made him desperate. "If only she'd help because it was right, not because she wants some impossible prize."
"What do you expect?" Nestor spread his hands, palms up. His wrists were thin; veins stood out beneath his skin. "Oceanids are cruel, petty. Personal tragedy can't humble them. Nothing ever will."
Kinsley stepped back, shaking his head. "You disgust me. I thought you cared about this world."
"I care about my bottle," Nestor chuckled. He tilted it and took a long drink. "And you, Kinsley, are so much fun when you're angry."
Kinsley left him there, laughing softly to himself. Outside, the street had grown busier. The cries of fishmongers hawking nonexistent catches rang hollow.