Ten years had not been long enough for Silas to forget the horrors of that war. To forget the scar that still marked his chest from where he’d very nearly died fighting against the Prince of Dyn. Often, he woke with nightmares, and Sol could hear him screaming from her chambers. She prayed that Quint could now offer him the comfort that Sol could not.
The Captain patted her arm again, his fingers brushing against the solid gold cuff around her wrist. “What about your home?” he asked. “Tell me about it.”
“There’s nothing to tell. Valestorm was an awful place. You’ve seen it.”
He shrugged. “You must have had a favorite place to go,” he insisted. “Somewhere you went to escape.”
Sol lowered her hands from his side. There was nothing left but a thin pink scar to mark the wound’s infliction. “There was a beach,” Sol admitted. “Forgotten amongst the people of Sonamire. I went there often to be alone.”
With a gentle flick of her wrist, she sent the saltwater, red with Fynn’s blood, shooting across the cabin. It speared through the open window.
“It was the only place where I could practice my Magic in peace.”
Fynn sat up carefully, slowly twisting his body as if to test her handiwork. “What do you mean ‘forgotten’?”
Sol watched him assess his mobility, as he prodded at the scar with his fingers. “During the war, that beach is where the Kingdom of Dyn tried to invade Sonamire. It has a very bloody history, and my people believe it to be cursed. No one goes there because of it.” Sol nervously wrought her hands together as Fynn stretched. “How does it feel?”
He smiled and lifted his head, his dark hair framing his face. “Better. Thank you.”
“Luca could have done it quicker, I’m sure.”
“Maybe, but he’s used to healing gruesome injuries. With some training, I’ll bet you could make a living as a healer, especially in Nedros.”
Her cheeks heated at the compliment. “Perhaps.”
“Luca would be more than willing to teach you what he knows,” Fynn offered. “In exchange for your help in the infirmary, of course. The Gods know he’s tired of tending to our stupidity on his own.”
Sol nodded eagerly. She would love to learn from him, to expand on the gifts that the Gods had so graciously given her. “I’d like that.”
Fynn was still prodding at his scar as he asked, “Why didn’t you tell me you were a Wielder?”
“Because my brother told me not to,” Sol answered quietly. She toyed with the cuff around her wrist, twisting it until the candlelight shimmered against the moonstones. “He said I wouldn’t be safe if people knew.”
His expression softened into one of calm understanding. “I get that,” Fynn said. “But you are safe on this ship, Sol. You aren’t the only Wielder here.”
Sol hummed with interest. “I know about Riel, and Arden, and you, but what about Gracia?” she asked. “Her brother is a Wielder, but is she?”
“No, but maybe that’s a good thing. I’m sure you’ve noticed that Gracia is a nervous creature. Give that girl some Magic and she’d blast us all away unwillingly.”
“Perhaps she has a reason to be nervous,” Sol countered. “I can hardly blame her for being so anxious if she and Luca had it rough before joining your crew.”
Fynn cocked his head. “That’s fair.”
Sol toyed with her bracelet as Fynn stretched once more, further assessing her healing. He did not groan with pain, did not double over from his injury. Sol must have done something right.
“Why do you wear that?”
Sol blinked at him. “My bracelet?”
The Captain nodded.
Sol slid the golden cuff further up her arm to reveal the ruined flesh that lie beneath. Fynn did not balk from her scars, and if he found them unsightly at all, he certainly did not show it. “My brother is a Fire-Wielder,” Sol explained. “He burned me when we were children. On accident, of course, but it was before I discovered I could heal. I wasn’t paying attention and stepped into a busy road, right in front of a horse-drawn carriage. His Magic flared from fear, and he pulled me out of the way.”
Fynn gently took her hand between his own. She stilled as he traced his thumb over the warped skin. “This is nothing to hide,” he said thoughtfully. “Nothing to be ashamed of.”
Sol’s heart skipped a beat. Even Silas had always refused to look at what he’d done. “You’re a pirate,” she replied. “You’re only saying that because you want my bracelet.”
He laughed. “Your bracelet is far too gaudy for me.”
She returned the cuff to its proper place around her wrist. “Maybe someday I’ll give it to you anyway,” Sol mused. “As payment for taking me to Nedros. It’ll get you far in a port much nicer than Valestorm, and since you wouldn’t take my money…”
Fynn chuckled. “Only when you’re ready to part with it.”
The Princess tilted her head.
“We all have scars, love. Some more visible than others, some deeper.” Fynn raked his fingers through his hair, smearing dried blood through the strands. “But they’re not what define us. They do not make us who we are.” He tapped her wrist with his index finger. “Someday, you’ll wear that proudly. It’s there because you survived.”
“I survived being trampled by horses.”
“I didn’t say you survived something epic.”
Sol rolled her eyes to the beamed ceiling as she fought a smile. “Your wisdom only stretches so far, it seems.”
Fynn grinned as he swung his legs off the bed. “Wisdom is boring.”
He rose to his feet, the color having returned to his cheeks as he strode to the chest stacked precariously atop an old wooden crate. Fynn flipped open the lid and rummaged through the clothes inside, procuring a burnt orange tunic that cuffed at the wrists. He pulled it on over his head.
“I should check on the crew,” Fynn said. “Care to join me?”
Sol stood to follow him from the room. “I can help with smaller injuries.”
Fynn frowned. “You must be exhausted,” he mused. “Don’t exert yourself. Let Luca handle the wounded.”
“I feel fine,” Sol promised. “Healing you didn’t take nearly as much effort as I was expecting.”
He raised an eyebrow. “If you’re sure.”
The Princess shuffled to the door. Draven was waiting for her there, his tail wagging as he nuzzled his nose against her palm. “After you, Captain.”
Fynn snorted. “Please, for the love of the Gods, don’t call me that.”
Sol laughed and motioned to the door. “As you wish.”
He pressed a kiss to her cheek. “Thank you again for the healing. I owe you.”
He was swaggering onto the deck before Sol could disagree, before she could tell him that he owed her nothing. She touched her cheek, her freckled skin warm with a rosy blush. No one except family had ever shown her such affection.
She did not know if she liked it, this strange, fluttering feeling inside her chest that she had never felt before. It was as foreign to Sol as Sol was as foreign to this ship.