Boot stomp on the cobblestone, as another squadron of marines passes by. Morgan and I freeze in the shadow of a crate stack, the smell of wet tar and salt assaulting us. He presses himself against the wooden planks, pinning me with his hold so I don't jostle. I can feel Morgan's heart hammering through his back. Despite its speed, it's steady, beating at a controllable speed.
Mine isn't.
The marines are close. The entire world shrinks to the scrape of boots and the rattle of muskets. "Easy, lad, they'll pass," Morgan whispers."
But the marines don't pass, they're lingering: talking, waiting, barking orders down the streets. The smell of black powder clings to the air like a warning. Morgan shifts slightly, adjusting my weight on his back. He angles his gaze around the corner, watching the marines' position.
Finally, they start moving again, the stomping of their boots fading down the street into an alley. We wait for a full minute after they're gone before we move.
Morgan's first wasn't slow nor quiet. He begins to stride, almost run, across the street. His steps are aggressively heavy, marching toward rather than away from danger. But I can hear his heavy breathing, still tired from climbing the cliffs. "Morgan," I whisper harshly. "You should slow down, rest a little. You're—"
"No waiting," he mutters. "Not now, lad. Not when she's close by."
"She?" I repeat.
Morgan's breath shakes once before grinning. I don't have to see it; I feel his whole body shift with that grin. "The Albatross," he whispers with the tone matching a man muttering a lover's name. "She's near."
"Morgan—"
"Hush," he says as we pass through a street, entering an alley, and the surroundings start to become familiar. We're nearing the harbor.
We slip through a narrow slit between two warehouses, the walls so close that Morgan's shoulders scrape both sides—his hand clamps around my legs to keep me steady as he barrels forward. But something's wrong.
His steps are too loud, too unconcerned with how many rifles patrol the harbor. Morgan, who earlier moved through the shadows carefully, is now moving like a charging bull.
"Morgan," I whisper, tightening my grip around his neck. "Slow down."
He doesn't, instead his pace increases.
"We're close, so close," he says. Despite his recklessness, Morgan stays off the main street, attempting to take the long way around through minor roads and alleyways, which brings us near the sea wall.
"The Albatross is right past the pier. I can smell her tar, her iron, cedar, I can smell my girl." There's a tremor in his voice that scares me. It's full of excitement and desperation. His eyes don't even watch the corners in case another patrol is nearby.
"Morgan—" I call, yet he doesn't slow down, picking up even more speed.
His boots slam down against the cobblestone so loudly as if he's daring the marines to come. The alleyway spits out into a wider road lit by the falling westward sun.
It's all empty.
The hair on the back of my neck rises. There's no purposeful noise, only the groan of distant piers and the hiss of the sea dragging itself on the rocks.
"Morgan," I breathe. "This isn't right."
But my words fall on deaf ears as if he can't hear me.
Or perhaps, he doesn't want to hear me.
He barrels forward like a man possessed, veering a sharp corner that leads straight onto the docks. And to my surprise, it's all empty.
A place that's usually lively with sailors and dockhands working all day is now quieter than silence. "Morgan," I hiss, "stop—"
He pushes through a row of crates, throwing them toward the wooden floor, creating a loud echo.
Then Morgan halts for a breath, his entire body trembling, yet full of excitement as his eyes glance toward the far end of the docks, and sees his ship, the Albatross.
He steps forward slowly, almost reverently.
The Albatross sits silently with her anchor dropped and moored to the bollard on the pier. Her sails hang limp and lifeless, exactly how Morgan left her.
"She's here. My girl is here," Morgan steps forward, the boards under his feet creak, crafting a hollow sound that rings louder than it should in the emptiness.
"Morgan, something's wrong. We should come back at another time. It's all too suspicious."
"Be quiet, lad. It doesn't matter, she's right there. There's nothing to fear."
"Morgan, don't you think there's something wrong here? You said it yourself, Bruis is supposed to be locked tight, as if this moment there's no one guarding the ship—no one watching the piers in case someone wanted to leave by sea."
"Shut it, boy! You have no idea what kind of connection a captain has to his ship. My girl is bloody there! Unlike the dream that demon showed me, everything will be good. I believe wholesomely. Nothing bad will come to my girl. She's the only thing I need. I must be with her. I must!"
Morgan storms down the docks, each step heavier than the last; his breath harsher than the last. His body shakes with what isn't joy and isn't sanity: it's hunger. A need. A sailor's madness that drowns every warning every time I speak.
"Morgan, please listen!"
But the moment the Albatross enters his vision, everything else inside him dims. His pace becomes frantic, his shoulders heave, and his hands twitch as if they're reaching for a dream inches from his fingers.
He doesn't hear me. His entire world has been consumed by the ship. Morgan all but sprints up the gangplank. He steps onto the deck, and something snaps, and drops me.
"Morgan! Stop!"
My words dissolve into the wind as my body hits the deck. Morgan doesn't look back, his hands already at the helm, clutching the wheel with such fervor.
Pain envelops my ribs as my breath escapes me. My vision bursts in red static. I gasp, choking on air. I try to move, but my limbs refuse. It has reached its limit.
"Morgan…!" I try to call, but the sound barely escapes me.
Morgan presses his forehead against the wood, his shoulder fills with tension as he breaks into a sob or laughter, making a sound that's a mix of both, I can't tell which.
"My girl, my beautiful girl," his voice trembles. "You're still here! You waited for me. You waited!"
His hand clutches the helm tighter, his knuckles turning white. "I'm here now, I'm here. It's alright, nothing will ever happen to you, not when I'm here."
His voice is full of cracks. It's painful, it's raw, it's wrong.
"Morgan!" I yell. "Please, look around, something's—"
A noise interrupts me. My eyes widen with understanding.
There's a creak, a shift of weight from beneath the deck. Then another. And another.
Then I hear the deafening sound of footsteps echoing from somewhere. I turn my head toward the hatch as it bursts open with men pouring from it. Not any kind of sailors, but marines, and many of them.
Six. Eight. Fourteen. Twenty-two—dozens. Men, not only pouring from the hatch, but from the gangplank. All of them climbing up with their muskets raised, gleaming from the light of the westward sun falling behind us, leveling toward our bodies. The marines are readying their fangs, poised to strike at us at the slightest movement.
In their black coats and the red feather insignia sewn onto their shoulder, surrounding Morgan, who hasn't even noticed them. He's too lost in the helm's embrace.
A marine levels his rifle at Morgan's spine, his finger wrapping around the trigger. "In the name of the city of Bruis, the Duke of Seine, and the Saints' Inquisitor, Henry Quin, orders you, captain, to be under arrest for violating the city's lockdown. You will comply, or you'll be deemed a traitor and shot immediately. Do it and do it now."
I try to lift my arms, move a limb, or even lift a finger, but I cannot. All my energy is gone and spent in the fight with the Matriarch.
Morgan doesn't move, not at first.
His face twists, expressing grief, betrayal, and rage. He looks at the marines, then the helm, then back at the marines again.
"No," he whispers. "You can't. You cannot take her away from me again!"
"Morgan!" I cough out. "They'll shoot you!"
"Hand in the air!" A marine shouts.
Morgan inhales sharply. He clenches his jaw, and his eyes begin to fill with a madness. No… Morgan is going to fight. He's going to die.
"No…" I wheeze. "Morgan… please…"
But their rifles are already trained, and the order has been given.
The law of the Saints' Inquisitor descends upon us with the might of a guillotine.