At least she was kind to someone.
When she returned her attention to the Captain, Fynn’s hands were cupped over his mouth as he blew hot air into his palms. The temperature was hardly above freezing, but Fynn was dressed in nothing more than a dark blue tunic and pants. He bounced on the heels of his feet, jogged in place to keep his blood warm. He was a fool for dressing so light, for not fearing the hypothermia that would surely settle into his bones by morning.
Fynn gripped the helm when he was warm enough, and Sol wondered if perhaps his Magic could act as a barrier against the cold. She’d never met another Wind-Wielder, and she did not know the extent of their power.
The ship rocked gently beneath them, the current less choppy with Fynn at the helm. His dark eyes cut across the deck, bouncing from blanket to blanket, and Sol noted the movement of his mouth as he counted the members of his crew. Seemingly satisfied that no one had been swept out to sea while he’d slept, Fynn angled himself towards the bow.
He looked at Sol and raised an eyebrow.
Heat flooded her cheeks; he’d caught her staring. Sol tried to duck her head, but Fynn was already waving his hand and beckoning her to join him on the quarterdeck. She swore beneath her breath and lifted herself up from the icy planks she was curled upon.
Draven stretched languidly as he stood. His breath was a wispy cloud of white air as he yawned, his canines gleaming in the moonlight. Sol tugged gently at the wet fur matted against the nape of his neck, using him for leverage as they padded across the slick deck.
“Why are you sleeping near the prow?” Fynn asked.
Sol clambered up the stairwell with little grace, Draven pressing himself against her knees to keep her from slipping back down. “Your Quartermaster told me to.”
Fynn snorted. “Don’t let Riel give you orders. Only I give those around here.”
She pulled her blanket tighter around her shoulders. Sol had not seen him since earlier in the day, since he’d stumbled into his cabin to sleep off the strains of his Magic. Amael had not been concerned when Sol inquired about Fynn, had simply called him lazy instead of acknowledging the Captain’s exhaustion. But Sol had worried about him, anyway.
He looked better now that he’d rested.
“You can sleep wherever you’d like,” Fynn continued, snapping Sol out of her reverie. “Even below deck, if you’d prefer. It’s much less wet and probably a bit warmer, too.”
“Does anyone else sleep there?”
“Luca,” Fynn told her. “And Arden. They like their privacy.”
Sol shuffled from foot to foot. “Aren’t you cold?”
Fynn shrugged, a small smile pulling at the corners of his mouth, as if he’d been waiting for such a question. “I’ve spent half my life on this ship, and the cold reminds me of home. Besides,” he said. “I’m the Captain. Frozen fingers come with the job.”
“You won’t be saying that when you die from hypothermia.”
“Maybe not,” Fynn agreed. “But at least I have a cabin to sleep in. I give any extra furs and blankets I come across to the crew. They need it more than I do.”
Sol placed a hand over her heart. “That’s kind of you.”
Fynn shrugged again. “They’re my family.”
Family.
The word clanged through her like the sheets of ice that cracked against the sides of the ship. Her father had promised her hand to an enemy prince, and Silas had sent her away for safekeeping. Sol did not know if she would ever see them again—if she wanted to see her father if ever given the opportunity. But her brother… Silas had risked his own neck to save her.
She touched the necklace beneath her tunic, the stone’s edge poking into the pad of her finger.
“I’m sorry I escaped earlier,” Fynn said after a moment. Sol had not realized she’d gone quiet, that she’d dipped her chin and dropped her gaze to the planks. “Magic is taxing, and I used too much.”
Didn’t Sol know it, the strain and pull of the Magic buzzing beneath her skin.
“I don’t know if Amael told you, but we’re several months out from Nedros.”
Sol frowned. He had not. “Oh?”
“That’s assuming we don’t hit any bad weather, and I have a stop to make first.”
Her interest piqued, the Princess quirked her head. “Where?”
“The Dryu Islands,” Fynn said carefully. “Something I’m looking for might be hidden there.”
Sol had heard of the islands, had read about their ancient volcanoes and jungled forests in her studies. “Dryu,” she mused. “Aren’t the islands home to—”
“The Dragon Riders,” Fynn confirmed. He looked as if he might be impressed. “Though they don’t actually ride them anymore. Amael is from the main island, but I’m certain he probably didn’t tell you that. You didn’t hear it from me.”
“He’s a Dragon Rider?”
Fynn cupped his hands again, huffing air into his palms. He wasn’t even wearing gloves. “No. He doesn’t agree with how the Dryuans train the bloody beasts, and he vowed to never take a whip to one. They exiled him because of it.”
“For not wanting to hurt an animal?”
“For being different.”
Sol gripped the edges of her blanket. Exile—another word that resonated deep inside of her. She supposed she was in exile now, too.
“What are you looking for on the islands?” she asked. She did not want to think about home, a place she could not return to until Silas invited her back.
Fynn winked at her. “If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”
If not for his easy smile, Sol might have believed him. “Oh.”
Fynn tilted his face towards the sky.
He studied the twinkling stars above and adjusted the ship’s course accordingly. Moonlight illuminated the strong lines of his jaw and the gentle slope of his nose. It was crooked in a way that Sol knew it had been broken before, the same way Silas’ was bent at an angle that sometimes made his voice a bit nasally.
Fynn lolled his head towards her and grinned. “Do you often find yourself staring at pretty men?”
Sol’s cheeks heated with a blush. “I wasn’t staring.”
“You most certainly were,” Fynn said. “But that’s all right, love. I don’t mind.”
“And you most certainly are arrogant.”
His grin did not falter as he laughed. “I prefer the word ‘confident.’”
The Princess huffed at him, but she found herself smiling for the first time since she’d left Sonamire.
She and the Captain lapsed into a comfortable silence as Fynn navigated by the stars. Sol wanted to ask him how he did it, how the Captain knew which stars he was meant to follow—if he even followed them at all. He had no compass, no map, nothing else at all but the flickering balls of light that punched through the never-ending sky.
A gust of wind filled the sails of the ship.
Sol blinked at him. “You’re a Magic-Wielder.”
A gentle breeze tousled her braided hair. “What gave you that impression?”
“Was it dangerous,” Sol said. “To reveal your Magic in Valestorm?”
The light dimmed from Fynn’s eyes, sputtering out like the darkness had swallowed it up. “Yes,” he told her. “It’ll be months before I’m able to return, though I can’t say I’m in any rush to go back. The guards don’t take kindly to Magic-Wielders.”