Tipping his head back against the stone-encrusted edge of the pool, Fynn closed his eyes and listened to the incessant splashing of his crew. Water steamed and rippled around him, but a smile curved at his mouth. That he could do so at all was a testament to Luca’s skills as a healer, who’d assured him earlier that evening that Arden would be just fine. He’d chosen to stay with her on the ship.
Riel shrieked as Amael dunked her head beneath the water, his laughter booming off the rocky walls. “What was that, Ri? I can’t hear you with all that water in your mouth.”
Gracia shouted in outrage, slapping her palms against Amael’s chest. “Let her go!”
“Why? She’s been doing it to me all night!”
But he did indeed let her go.
Their Quartermaster surfaced, sputtered, and rasped, “You’ll pay for that.”
The springs around them quaked, and Fynn pried open one eye as Amael was yanked beneath the water. The bedrock below curled around his ankles and held him there, his arms flailing as Riel’s Magic, wild and raw after all these weeks away from land, sought revenge.
“Riel,” Fynn drawled. She whipped her head to where he lounged in the corner of the spring. “Do not drown my boatswain. I still need him.”
Gracia wrapped her arms around Riel’s middle and pressed a kiss to her shoulder. “Fynn’s right,” she said. “If you kill Amael, Milo will take his place and he always falls from the rigging. And he’s no good with a hammer.”
The Jadoan boy splashed water at her, ruining the delicately pleated braids that Riel had done for her that night. “I’ve helped Amael patch up the ship dozens of times,” Milo argued. “And I’ve only fallen once.”
Amael gasped for air as he emerged from beneath the water. Fynn closed his eyes again. Whatever chaos ensued at the other end of the spring, he did not let himself watch lest he end up wading over to join them. Instead, he listened fondly to his family, content in both his own leisure and their merriment.
It was so quiet that he nearly missed it, so lost to the renewed elation of his crew that Fynn opened his eyes only after the large stone doors sealing in the spring heat creaked open. He blinked the haze from his eyes, entirely convinced that it was not the Princess of Sonamire who was creeping along the outer edges of the spring until she lifted her head and looked at him.
Fynn waved at her, beads of water rolling from the tips of his fingers, and motioned her over. Sol wrapped her arms around herself as she padded towards him, a complimentary inn robe draped over her shoulders and fluttering at the heels of her feet.
“I’m surprised you came down.”
Sol stood above him, her face drawn as sweat began to gather at her brow. “I waited long enough that I thought no one else would be here.” She shifted on her feet in a way that told Fynn she was uncomfortable.
“I’d stay here all night if I could.” He absently traced shapes through the water. “Are you going to stand there, or come in?”
The Princess chewed on her bottom lip, her options like a visible weight on her shoulders: join the Captain in the pool, or go back to her room and pretend she had never come here. Fynn dropped his head against the edge of the spring and closed his eyes again, giving her the choice to stay or go without the fear of his judgement.
A moment passed before Fynn felt the water ripple against his bare torso. Sol had not climbed into the spring, not entirely; her legs were dangling over the edge of the pool when Fynn looked at her.
“It’s better if you come all the way in.”
Sol gripped her fluffy white robe and pulled it tighter around her. “Maybe later.”
Fynn shrugged, lolling his head towards her until his temple was resting against her knee. “Suit yourself.”
They fell into an easy silence, Fynn’s deep breaths the only sound between them. He knew she was watching the crew, likely smiling at their antics, and possibly wishing she could join them. He almost suggested she do so, if only for his own amusement when Riel dunked a Water-Wielder’s head beneath the spring. But he didn’t. If Sol joined his friends, Fynn would find himself paddling through the water alongside her instead of relaxing on the curved rock bench carved into the spring wall.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this relaxed.”
It had not occurred to him that perhaps Sol was watching him, too.
“I’m always relaxed,” Fynn mused. “But there’s something about this spring that always puts me at ease. It’s like the water melts away every concern I have and stores it in the bedrock until I leave.”
Sol’s giggle took him by surprise. “How poetic.”
Fynn nudged her leg with his elbow. “Don’t mock me. You’d know this feeling, too, if you’d only join me in the water.”
“I don’t have proper swimming attire,” Sol said. She tucked a loose strand of red hair back behind her ear. “And don’t suggest that I swim with a robe on. This was the only one in my room.”
He raised an eyebrow. “That’s your only reservation?” Fynn asked. “That you’ve got nothing to swim in and that’s your only robe?”
She shrugged, the garment nearly swallowing her whole. “I suppose.”
He moved like lightning. Fynn grabbed Sol’s wrist and grinned, pulling the Princess into the hot spring. She momentarily sank beneath the water, her arms flailing until she gathered her bearings and surfaced. The water rose to her chest, and Sol yelped as she flipped back her hair, the strands clinging to her cheeks.
Fynn’s crew stopped what they were doing to look at them, Riel cackling at the sight of Sol submerged in the spring before she and the others resumed their reverie.
Fynn was still smiling when Sol whirled on him, her hazel eyes dark with a strange, muted fury that Fynn had not thought her capable of. His mouth turned down at the corners, and he watched as she rallied her power. The Magic in her veins called to the water of the spring, water that was suddenly too warm to have been heated by the Mountain alone. Steam rose in thick plumes around them, a haze of blistering heat that stung the Captain’s eyes. Sol clenched her fists, her nostrils flaring as she breathed in sharply through her nose.
It was here that Fynn finally saw her bloodline, that infamous Rosebone temper that allowed the Prince of Sonamire to burn their enemies to ash.
“Sol…”
She blinked, the sound of her name like dousing the flames of that ancient rage inside her. Her brow furrowed, and the water cooled to a soothing warmth that lapped at Fynn’s scarred chest.
He reached for her, and the horror written across her face was enough to tell him that she had not meant what she’d done. That the sudden anger had taken her, too, by surprise.
“Magic has a mind of its own,” he explained slowly, his hand floating palm-up atop the water in silent offering. She eyed it warily. “If it thinks we’re in danger, sometimes it’ll do what it must to keep us safe. We don’t always have control over it when that happens.”
Sol swallowed with what appeared to be great difficulty. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to—did the water—”
“It got a little toasty,” Fynn said. “But it didn’t hurt me, and the others don’t seem to have noticed.”