The world was a rocking cage of darkness. It smelled of brine and tar and something sour that clung to the back of my throat. My index finger traced the ghost of a spiral into the rough-hewn wood of the wall, a habit from a lifetime of silent, empty rooms. This room was not empty. It was full of the groaning complaints of an old ship and the slap of water against the hull.
My wrists were raw. The men who had taken me from my tower room—faceless brutes in black—had bound them with cheap rope. This was shoddy work. Uneven twists, fibers already fraying. In the palace, the ropes for the draperies were silk, spun so tightly they felt like a single, solid cord. I never thought I would miss the feel of drapery pulls.
A key rattled in the lock. Not the harsh grate of the iron key my first captors had used, but a cleaner, more metallic sound. The door swung inward, spilling a wedge of buttery lantern light across the floorboards. A man stood silhouetted in the doorway, so tall his head nearly brushed the frame.
"I brought you some water," he said. His voice was a low, gentle rumble.
I flinched back against the wall, my hand instinctively tightening around the cold, metal disc hidden in the folds of my tunic. He held out a wooden cup, his movements slow and deliberate. He wasn't one of them. Different build, different voice.
"It's just water," he repeated softly. He set the cup on the floor just inside the door, along with a hard-looking biscuit. "I'm Yunho."
I said nothing. Names were currency I did not have to spend.
He lingered for a moment. "You're safe here." A statement of fact, offered without expectation of a reply. Then he was gone, and the heavy door was bolted once more.
I stared at the offering. My throat was a desert, my stomach a clenched fist of hunger. On my own initiative, I crawled forward, my knees protesting against the splintered wood. I tested the water first, a tiny, cautious sip. It was clean. I drank half of it in desperate gulps before forcing myself to stop, my body unused to such bounty. The biscuit was as hard as a rock, but it was food.
The rocking of the ship was a constant, lulling thing. I didn't know how much time had passed before the lock turned again.
This time, two figures filled the doorway. The lantern was held by the first, a man with sharp cheekbones and an air of impossible elegance, even in the salt-stained clothes of a pirate. His eyes, dark and intelligent, swept over me, missing nothing. He noted the half-eaten biscuit, the nearly empty cup, the way I curled into myself against the far wall.
The man behind him was all sharp angles and contained energy. He had bleached-white hair that fell across one eye and a silver compass tattooed on his exposed collarbone. He radiated an impatience that felt like a physical force in the small space. This was not a kind man. This was a man who got what he wanted.
"Status," the white-haired man said, his voice clipped and cold. He didn’t look at the elegant one; his gaze was fixed on me, a predator assessing prey.
"No signs of serious injury," the elegant one replied, his tone precise. "Dehydrated. Malnourished. Unharmed otherwise. The ropes they used were cheap, they chafed her wrists but didn't break the skin."
"Who are you?" the captain—he had to be the captain—demanded.
I shook my head, pressing myself further into the corner. My knuckles were white where they clutched the object in my pocket.
"Can you speak?" he snapped.
"Hongjoong," the elegant man murmured, a quiet note of caution.
Hongjoong ignored him. "The men who left you on that island. What was their ship's name? What flag did they fly?"
"I don't know," I whispered. The words came out as a raw croak. It was the truth. They had worn black masks, their ship a black shadow that had stolen me from my life.
Hongjoong took a step into the cabin. He smelled of sea-spray, metal, and something like ozone, the charge before a lightning strike. "You were found on a deserted spit of land in the Azure Strait with a wrecked longboat and three dead men. They were not your friends. So you will tell me who they were."
"I don't know," I said again, louder this time. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drum against the steady rhythm of the sea.
The elegant one, Seonghwa, moved with a fluid grace that belied the ship’s sway. "Her hands are clean, Joong-ah. No calluses. Look at her clothes. The fabric is fine, even torn. She's no deckhand."
Hongjoong's eyes narrowed. He saw it then. The bulge in my tunic, where my fist was clenched. Before I could react, he closed the distance between us, his fingers wrapping around my wrist with a grip like iron. I cried out, a small, startled sound.
"What are you hiding?"
He pried my fingers open one by one. I fought him, a pathetic, desperate struggle, but he was immovable. The object fell from my palm, landing on the floor with a muted clink.
It was my compass.
Seonghwa leaned down, picking it up before Hongjoong could. He brushed the dirt from its silver casing, his movements careful. He clicked it open.
Hongjoong snatched it from his hand. He held it up to the lantern light. It was beautifully made, etched with constellations I did not recognize. But its needle was not pointing north. It was spinning, a frantic, chaotic dance, never settling, never finding its pole. A compass that could not find its way.
"It's broken," Hongjoong scoffed, his thumb tracing the rim.
"Please," I gasped, reaching for it. It was the only thing I had left of home. The only thing my father had ever given me. "Please, it's mine."
He closed his hand around it, concealing it in his fist. His eyes were flinty, devoid of sympathy. "Nothing on this ship is yours." He looked from the useless compass in his hand to my face, and for the first time, his expression shifted from cold anger to something else. A flicker of calculation. A question forming in his mind. He was no longer looking at a victim. He was looking at a prize.
He and Seonghwa exchanged a look I couldn't decipher. It was a silent conversation that lasted only a second but felt like an eternity. Hongjoong gave a sharp, almost imperceptible nod.
He tossed the compass to Seonghwa, who caught it deftly and slipped it into his own pocket. They turned to leave.
"Wait," I cried, scrambling forward. "Where are you taking it?"
Hongjoong paused at the door, turning his head just enough to pin me with his gaze. He didn't answer my question. "Yunho will bring you food twice a day. Don't cause trouble."
The door slammed shut, plunging the cabin back into near-total darkness. The bolt slid home with a sound of utter finality. I was left alone with the rocking of the ship and the ghost-smell of ozone. My hand was empty. The cold spot where the compass used to be was a gaping wound.