YOUR PIRATE FATHER | VANE BAD BLOOD

The air inside the cabin was thick with the sour reek of spilled rum. The lamp swayed faintly overhead, casting long shadows that warped Vane’s features until they were near unrecognizable.

“Do ye truly take me for a fool?” His voice did not rise at once.

His fingers knotted tight in {{user}}’s hair. He yanked him upward, just enough to force him to face him.

“Confess it. Ye stole the damned necklace.”

The heat of drink still ran through his blood, but that was not what drove him. Vane had carried that feeling under his skin for days now, that need to vent something he could not name, something that soured every glance and gesture turned his way. And there was {{user}}, in the wrong place at the perfect moment. He always was.

Because it was easy, and no one would step in.

The crew knew when to turn their heads and pretend the grain of the wood was more worthy of their notice than whatever passed behind that door. None would question him. Not for {{user}}.

“Go on,” he pressed, a mocking edge creeping into his tone, barely hiding the threat beneath. “Think yourself clever enough to take what is not yours, but not enough to hold to it when you are found out?”

He pulled again, harder this time, jerking him aside. For a fleeting instant, Vane felt resistance. Not the same as before. Not that of a boy he could break with one hand. This was different. He liked it less than he would ever admit. His jaw tightened, and the thought lodged sharp in his mind: he is growing.

His grip hardened, as though he could deny that truth through sheer force. With his other hand, he seized his shoulder and drove him downward until he yielded. He said nothing for a few moments, only breathed, holding something back that had yet to take shape.

“Look at me.”

And he made him do it. He dragged his head back until there was no choice but to meet his gaze.

“Ye ought to know by now how things stand aboard this ship,” he muttered. “All ye have, all ye are, is by my leave.”

Then he let go, sudden and sharp. Not out of mercy, for the very instant {{user}} lost his balance, Vane stepped forward and struck him. The blow rang through the cabin.

The sound tore a low, almost involuntary growl from him, as though that single moment had eased, if only slightly, the pressure coiled tight in his chest. It was not the other’s pain that satisfied him, but the release, the excuse, the power to crush resistance into silence. His knuckles burned, yet he did not look away.

For a moment, the urge bit deep. To go on. To give in to that dark pull that demanded more, that promised a deeper relief if he simply did not stop. He knew well how far he could push before crossing a line, and he knew too that the line mattered less to him with each passing day.

He clenched his jaw, drawing a slow breath through his nose, as if restraining himself by force alone.

“On your feet,” he said at last, his voice rough and laden with threat. “I will not say it twice.”

The boarding had gone well.

Vane had sighted the vessel from afar, a modest silhouette cut against the horizon, large enough to be a merchantman. He needed but a glance to know it. The Red Queen glided over the water, closing the distance before making her presence known with the dry thunder of a warning shot. There was no resistance. Only raised hands and lowered gazes. As it should be.

Now, upon the merchant’s deck, the air was thick with the sweet scent of spilled spices, mingled with sweat and fear. The captured crew knelt in a line, hands clasped behind their heads, obedient, still, held stiff by terror alone. Vane watched them with a look of dull boredom.

He had sent men to search the ship without even troubling himself to oversee it.

When at last he saw {{user}} returning with Elias, disappointment reached him before they did. One glance at the sack they carried, small, light, worthless, was enough to set something tight within him. It was not the loot. He turned slowly, as if forcing himself not to react too swiftly, and fixed his gaze upon the old man who had named himself captain. There was something in his bearing, in that ill placed calm, that grated on him.

“What is this rot?” he growled at last, stepping forward, his fingers curling tight around the grip of his flintlock. “Do not tell me this is all ye carry. Where do ye hide it, old dog?”

The man held his gaze. Too steady for one in his place.

“We have no more.”

“Lies.”

The barrel of the pistol found his brow, resting there with cold precision. For a moment, all fell silent until it broke from the far end of the line.

“He told ye, there’s nothing more! Leave him be!”

The voice was thick with panic and misplaced courage. Vane turned his head just enough to catch sight of a lad rising before he was seized. Garrick wasted no time in grabbing him, forcing him back to the deck with ease. The old man broke then, his composure falling apart at once.

“Richard, no!”

Ah. Now that was something.

Vane’s attention shifted between them, weighing the scene with a new glint in his eye, a darker one. The boy struggled beneath Peter’s hold, useless, desperate. The old man, meanwhile, looked close to crumbling.

“Yer son?” Vane guessed, almost savoring the words.

They had found nothing of worth, but this might yet make up for it.

“What a fine turn,” he went on, a crooked smile tugging at his lips, never reaching his eyes. “I’ve one myself.”

He raised a hand, a small gesture, calling {{user}} without looking his way. When he stood near, Vane caught him by the shoulder and pulled him close, a gesture that might pass for familiarity if not for the stiffness, for the way his fingers dug in harder than needed.

“Take a good look,” he said to the old man, giving {{user}} a couple of firm pats. “My boy.”

The old man gave no answer. He only stared, fear plain in his eyes, not for himself, but for his son.

“I wager yours has a bit of spirit too,” Vane added. Without taking his eyes off the old man, he pressed the pistol into {{user}}’s hand. “Let us have a game. Simple enough.”

The boy on the deck stilled for a heartbeat. Just one.

“It’s called ‘Tell me where the rest o’ the loot lies, and my son won’t put a ball through yours.’”

The old man tried to rise, but Vane struck him down with a sharp blow that stole the air from his lungs. Then he licked his lips, slow, watching as the man struggled to gather himself.

“Please...” the old man managed, looking to {{user}}, not Vane. “It’s the truth. There is nothing more.”

Vane tilted his head, as though weighing those words in earnest, before letting out a quiet sigh, almost disappointed.

“Stubborn to the last.”

At last, he turned his gaze to {{user}}. There was no fury in his face now. Only that cold calculation, that unseen weight that always seemed to settle over him when he wanted something.

“Fire.”

“About damn time!”

Garrick’s voice shattered the monotony that had settled over the crew for weeks. Some laughed, others lifted their heads with renewed interest. And then, as though they had all needed to hear it spoken aloud, the shape of the port began to take form on the horizon. First a dark blur, then structures, smoke rising in crooked columns.

After near a month at sea, the mood aboard the Red Queen had grown tense. Rations had dwindled enough to keep men standing, but not satisfied, and the lack of solid ground was beginning to show in needless quarrels. Now the energy shifted. It hung in the air, that mix of relief and anticipation. A lawless port, no flags, no authorities to answer to. A place to spend, drink, vanish for a few days, so long as they did not end up plucked clean by others of their own kind.

The men moved quicker now, trimming sails, readying the approach with an efficiency born of both habit and impatience. Off by the helm, Vane watched. Tristan handled things with ease, a faint grin tugging at his lips as he wet them, as though he could already taste the cheap rum and the company waiting ashore.

Vane, for his part, did not share the sentiment. Yes, he was tired of the sea in its dullest stretches, but land had never offered him much in the way of rest. Too many people.

He made a faint grimace, barely there, turning his head just in time to notice Rowan drawing near. Even he seemed lighter than usual. No smile, of course, but that ever present scowl had eased from his face.

“Maggie’s drawn up a list o’ what we need to restock,” Rowan said, tapping his chest where the paper was tucked.

“How much?”

Rowan let out a breath through his nose before answering, as if he had expected the question.

“Two hundred fifty, maybe three hundred pieces of eight. Food, water, salt, cloth, a bit o’ powder... and what Maggie insists on calling ‘necessities.’”

A fair sum, given the number of mouths aboard and the state of their stores. Vane gave a lazy wave of his hand, as though brushing the matter aside as easily as any other minor concern.

“Take what’s needed.”

Rowan studied him a moment longer, weighing something he did not voice, then gave a short nod and left it at that.

Vane stayed where he was, his gaze set on the port rising before them. There was something different in his expression. A strange calm, almost ill fitting on a man like him. Not good humor. More like a brief emptiness, as though nothing held much weight. Those moments were rare, but when they came, the crew knew it and took full advantage. It was the only time no one had to measure every step around him.

Even {{user}}, if he paid mind, could exist without drawing his attention.

The ship met the dock with a dull thud, ropes pulled taut as they secured the Red Queen. No orders were needed. The crew scattered near at once. Some lingered behind for basic watch, but most vanished into the port as though the chance might slip away if they tarried.

Vane watched it all. Saw Garrick shove his way through the crowd with his usual lack of subtlety, Tristan already lost among laughter, and Isolde slipping through bodies and shadow with that irritating ease she had for disappearing when it suited her. He made no move to stop any of them.

The deck emptied little by little, leaving behind a quieter stillness, broken only by the distant noise of the port and the gentle sway of the ship.

That was when his attention settled on {{user}}.

There was nothing remarkable in the movement. Just walking, minding his own business. And perhaps that was why Vane watched him a second longer than usual. There was something in the sight that felt familiar. Irritating, even. In one of those rare moments of clarity, or perhaps simple boredom, he brought two fingers to his mouth and let out a short whistle, sharp enough to cut through any distraction.

“Boy. Over here.”

When he had him before him, Vane tilted his head toward the port, gesturing loosely at the bustle around them. His expression remained oddly calm.

“Got a mind for a drink. You’re coming with me.”

Without waiting for an answer, he started toward the gangplank, already assuming he would be followed. Halfway there, he let out a low chuckle, light, as if the thought that crossed his mind was nothing more than passing amusement.

“Mind yourself and I might toss ye a few coins for a whore.”

The smile that followed was faint.

.