Page 109 of Quarter Labyrinth

My birthright.

I kicked hard, spinning in the water as I scanned each vessel. Their towering masts stretched into the twilight sky, sails catching the fading breeze like ghostly wings. The larger ships were impressive, their hulls broad and intimidating, but my eyes locked on one vessel smaller than the rest. It was a sleek schooner, painted a deep navy with intricate golden trim that gleamed faintly in the dim light.

The scent of spices reached me even here, carried on the breeze from the crates stacked along its deck. But it wasn’t the cargo I cared about—it was the captain.

If anyone in this world knew the truth of who I was, they’d be aboard that ship.

Gritting my teeth, I swam with all the strength I had left, my legs burning with effort as the cold water clung to me like a second skin. But before I got too close, a loudclangbroke through the evening air.

A bell rang out.

I froze mid-stroke, my heart pounding. One by one, figures moved to the edge of the ship, silhouetted against the golden glow of lanterns swinging from the rigging. The flickering light glintedoff polished metal as pistols were raised, every barrel aimed directly at me.

I bobbed in the water while staring down the line of cold steel.

A new figure strode toward the ship’s railing with a measured confidence. I couldn’t make out his features from this distance, but the wide-brimmed hat atop his head was unmistakable.

With a chuckle, he leaned over the edge to call out, “You thieves are getting bold!”

“I’m no thief!” I shouted back, the salty air biting at my throat. “I’m the winner of the Quarter Labyrinth!”

The reaction was immediate.

The crewmates exchanged startled glances, murmuring among themselves. Pistols faltered. The captain leaned forward slightly, as if trying to see me more clearly through the growing darkness.

I held my breath, my body swaying with the waves as I waited for his decision.

Finally, he gave a slow nod. “Bring her aboard,” he commanded.

The tension snapped like a bowstring, replaced by the sound of ropes being thrown overboard. I grabbed hold, and felt them yank me through the water to the hull of theNorth Star. I wanted to take it all in, everything from the crisp paint to the polished planks, but I had no time. A crewman leaned over, extending a rough hand toward me, and helped me drag my soaking body aboard deck.

The one in the captain hat took a long look at me before jutting his chin over the water. “We’ll take you to theSea Serpent.”

“You’ll do no such thing. I know this is the ship that captains the fleet.”

He stiffened, then peered closer. He was made of rough lines and a firm jaw, unruly gray hair and a matching beard, but the crinkles by his eyes spoke of his softer side. I didn’t get that side now. His boots scraped against the planks as he stepped closer, staring into my eyes.

My father’s eyes.

His were dark blue and filled with questions. “How do you know such a thing?”

“They told me,” I stated. “When I won.”

He clicked his teeth together a few times. “This isn’t how the winner was meant to come to us. Where is Callahan?”

I drew in air like it were courage. “I promise you, I am meant to be the captain.”

Something in those words jolted through him. “What’s your name?”

“Serenity.”

I couldn’t tell if the name meant anything to him, but he turned from me to face the crew. “Lads and ladies, it looks like we have a new captain.”

They didn’t cheer. But they didn’t appear hostile either. Each one gave me a faint smile, then at their captain’s nod, went back about their business with hardly a second glance my way. Someone fetched me a blanket, and I wrapped it around myself while watching them all work.

One sorted through crates, counting, making little marks in a notebook. He’d read those marks to someone else, who would write them down as well. He’d go into one of the two on deck cabins to speak with someone else, who sat at a desk making notes. Nearby, a scribe sat cross-legged on a small stool, a ledger balanced on his knee as he scribbled furiously with a quill. He wore a pair of spectacles, their lenses fogged from the heat, and every so often, he’d swipe them clean with the hem of his shirt. “Barrel of cinnamon, forty pounds,” he muttered to himself before glancing at the next item being hauled onto the deck. “Sack of nutmeg, thirty pounds. Mark it!”

A boy no older than twelve darted between the workers, his bare feet slapping against the wood as he carried tags to attach to the goods.

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