Chapter 7: A Siren's First Feast
The Sapphire Kraken was the kind of tavern that had stopped pretending to be respectable two owners ago. The floorboards were permanently tacky with something no one wanted to identify. The air hung thick with the smell of frying fish, cheap tobacco, and the sour tang of fermented barley. It was perfect. No one here looked anyone in the eye for too long.
Leona had claimed a table in a shadowed corner of the second-floor balcony, a precarious wooden shelf overhanging the roaring cove below. The sound of the waves was a constant, chaotic thunder that made eavesdropping impossible. He slouched in his chair, one boot propped on the railing, watching Vil navigate the human ritual of a crowded staircase.
The sapphire silk was a problem. The vendor had called it a "doublet," but it was simpler than that—a deep blue garment that laced up the front, clinging to the new, unfamiliar planes of Vil's human form. It was too fine for this place. It caught the greasy lantern light and shimmered, turning every glance from the surrounding tables into a leer or a calculation. Vil moved through it all with a glacial disdain, as if the stares were just a mild, irritating weather pattern.
He slid into the chair opposite Leona, his posture unnaturally straight against the splintered wood. A serving wench slammed down two wooden bowls of stew, a slab of coarse bread, and two tin cups of something dark. Vil eyed the stew with the caution of a biologist examining a new, possibly toxic species.
"Eat," Leona said, tearing off a piece of bread. "It won't kill you. Probably."
"It smells of... fat and regret," Vil observed, but he picked up the spoon. He took a tiny, careful taste. His brows lifted slightly. He took another. "It's...warm."
Leona snorted. "That's usually a feature of food."
"I've never had food that was prepared," Vil said, his voice softer, almost lost in the crash of the waves. He pushed a chunk of potato around the bowl. "Only things that were... taken. Fruit from sinking supply crates. Hardtack from pockets. Once, a lemon. It was so sour it made my eyes water, but I tasted it for days." He looked up, his amethyst eyes clear and unsettlingly direct. "This is different. Someone made this. With intention."
The statement hung there, simple and devastating. Leona stared at him, his own spoon halfway to his mouth. He thought of the royal kitchens back home, the endless, ornate banquets he'd scorned. He’d never once considered the intention behind a boiled potato.
Before he could formulate a response—not that he had one—Vil’s attention had shifted to the tin cup. He sniffed it, grimaced, then took a sip of Leona’s rum instead, stealing it right from the bottle between them. He coughed, a surprisingly human sound. "That is awful."
"An acquired taste," Leona said, reclaiming the bottle. He took a long pull, the burn a familiar anchor.
They ate in a silence that wasn't entirely uncomfortable. Vil ate with a meticulous, focused grace, as if committing the act to memory. Leona watched the shifting crowd below, his eyes cataloging threats: a pair of too-interested sailors by the bar, a magistrate's man looking bored in the corner. Normal port noise. Nothing that screamed Azul.
Then, the first firework went off.
It was a festival night in the port. They’d forgotten. The explosion was a violent, unexpected crack in the world, not so different from cannon fire. Gold light flared beyond the rooftop across the street.
Vil startled violently. His knee hit the underside of the table. His wine cup—barely touched—toppled, the cheap red liquid arcing toward his lap.
Leona’s hand shot out. He didn't catch the cup. He caught Vil’s wrist, his fingers wrapping around the delicate bones. The contact was electric, a jolt that had nothing to do with the noise.
Their eyes locked. Vil’s were wide, pupils dilated with a primal, undiluted alarm. Not calculated fear. Not performative shock. Raw, unvarnished startlement. The flawless mask was gone, shattered by a simple bang in the sky.
Another firework screamed upwards. A shower of violet sparks bloomed, painting the smoky sky.
Without a word, Leona stood, his grip on Vil’s wrist firm. He pulled him up and towards the balcony railing, away from the shelter of the table. "It's not an attack," he said, his voice low, close to Vil's ear so he could hear over the waves and the next thump of the launch. "Look."
A great flower of green and silver unfurled directly above the cove, its brilliant reflection shattering on the black water below. The boom echoed off the cliffs.
Vil stopped resisting. He gripped the railing, his knuckles white against the weathered wood. He stared upwards, his head tilted back, his lips slightly parted. The exploding colors danced across his face—gold, then violet, then a deep, emerald green. Each burst was met with a soft, incredulous exhale from the crowd below, but from Vil, there was only silent, rapt absorption.
Leona didn't watch the sky. He watched Vil. He saw the wonder break over his features like a wave, erasing the centuries of cunning and grief. In that moment, Vil wasn't a siren or a navigator or a prisoner. He was just someone seeing fireworks for the first time. The brilliant lights reflected in his eyes, turning them into kaleidoscopes.
A particularly large shell detonated in a series of rapid, thunderous reports, a finale of red and white. Vil flinched again, instinctively leaning back—into Leona's space. His shoulder brushed Leona's chest.
Leona didn't move away. The heat from Vil’s body seeped through the thin silk and Leona’s own linen shirt. He could smell the sea on him, and something else, faint and floral beneath the tavern stink. Lilac.
The final firework faded, leaving a pall of smoke and the ringing in their ears. The ordinary sounds of the tavern rushed back in. Someone clapped drunkenly. The wench yelled about an order.
Vil blinked, slowly, as if waking from a dream. The wonder didn't vanish, but it receded, folding itself away behind a veil of something more complex. He looked down at where Leona’s hand still loosely encircled his wrist. Leona let go.
"That was..." Vil searched for a word, his voice hushed. "It was like capturing a piece of a star and making it burn out on purpose. Such a waste of beautiful chemistry."
"Pretty, though," Leona said, his own voice gruffer than intended.
"Yes." Vil turned from the railing, his gaze sweeping over the now-ordinary sky. The reflection of the colors seemed to linger in his eyes. "Pretty."
He touched his chest then, a brief, unconscious gesture, his fingers pressing against the fabric over his sternum. Leona knew what he was feeling for: the hard, cool shape of the moonstone, hidden beneath the blue silk. A private wonder, tucked away.
The moment shattered with the sound of heavy, frantic boots on the stairs.
Ruggie appeared at the balcony entrance, his usual smirk gone, replaced by a tight, grim alertness. He didn't have to say a word. Leona read it in the set of his shoulders, the flick of his eyes towards the door.
Leona was already moving, dropping coins onto the sticky table. "We're done."
Vil’s face closed down completely, the siren’s mask slamming back into place with an almost audible click. "What is it?"
"Trouble at the ship," Ruggie said, low and fast, falling into step beside them as they pushed through the crowd. "Not our guys. Some local dredge, looking for a handout. Jack’s holding them at the gangplank, but they’re drunk and getting loud. Smells like a setup to me. Too coordinated."
They hit the cool night air of the cobblestone street, leaving the tavern's noise behind. Leona’s mind was already racing, scanning the shadows of the alleyways. A confrontation at the ship was a distraction. The goal would be to separate them, to isolate Vil.
"Change of plan," Leona said. "We don't go back to the quay. We take the long way, come at it from the seaward side. Ruggie, you circle around and get to the Savanaclaw from the next pier over. Tell Jack to let them get on board."
Ruggie's eyes gleamed in the dark. "Let them on?"
"Empty the safe, leave some copper out. Make it look good. Once they're busy playing pirate, sweep the deck."
Ruggie grinned, a flash of sharp teeth, and melted into a side alley.
Leona grabbed Vil’s arm, steering him down a steep, narrow flight of steps that led to a lower street and, eventually, a forgotten fishermen's path along the base of the cliffs. "Can you swim in that?" He nodded at the silk.
"It will be ruined," Vil said, his voice flat.
"Not the point."
"Yes. I can swim."
The path was treacherous, slick with spray, barely visible in the gloom. They moved in silence, the only sounds their footsteps and the relentless hunger of the sea. The festive lights of the port faded behind them, replaced by the deep, consuming dark of the cove.
From here, they could see the Savanaclaw. Lanterns blazed on her deck, illuminating a scene. Five or six men, big and belligerent, were shouting at Jack, who stood alone at the head of the gangplank, his arms crossed, a menacing statue. As they watched, Jack—following an order only he could hear—stepped aside with theatrical reluctance. The men whooped and swarmed aboard.
"Now," Leona murmured.
They slid down the last rock face into the icy, black water. The shock of it stole Leona’s breath. Beside him, Vil gasped, a sharp, pained intake. Then there was a shimmer, a distortion in the dark water. The sapphire silk floated up, an empty ghost, as Vil’s form streamlined, the powerful lilac tail cutting the water with a single, silent thrash.
Leona swam, strong and grim, towards the ship’s shadowy stern. Vil kept pace beside him, a deeper shadow in the dark, his movements utterly silent. They reached the dripping hull, the barnacles sharp against their hands. A rope ladder, left for just this purpose, hung down.
On deck, the chaos was unfolding. The drunkards were whooping, smashing a crate. One was trying to pry open the false safe Ruggie had installed last year. They were so loud, so focused on their petty victory, they didn't notice Ruggie and two other crewmen slip over the rail from the neighboring ship. They didn't notice Jack, now armed with a belaying pin, moving to block the gangplank.
Leona hauled himself over the rail, water streaming from his clothes. Vil rose beside him, his human form coalescing from the cascade, water sheeting off his skin and hair. He was barefoot, wearing only the simple trousers he’d had on under the silk. The moonstone necklace lay stark against his damp skin, gleaming in the lantern light.
One of the intruders, a bear of a man with a broken nose, finally saw them. He blinked, his liquor-slowed brain processing the sight of the captain and a stunning, half-naked man appearing from the sea. He opened his mouth to yell.
Leona hit him. It wasn't a fancy punch. It was a straightforward, brutal crack to the jaw. The man dropped like a sack of stones.
That got their attention.
The fight was short, messy, and vicious. Ruggie used a net. Jack broke an arm with a satisfying crunch. Leona dislocated a shoulder with a sharp twist and put another man down with a knee to the gut. It was less a battle and more a brutal correction.
Through it all, Vil didn't move. He stood by the rail, a silent observer, his eyes cold and analytical. He watched Leona fight—the lazy captain gone, replaced by something purely efficient and lethal. A strange, conflicted look flickered in Vil’s eyes—appraisal, and something darker, more akin to recognition.
The last man standing, a wiry rat-faced fellow, made a mistake. He saw Vil, seemingly undefended, and lurched towards him, a knife in his hand. It was a stupid move, born of panic and lust.
Vil didn't sing. He didn't need to. As the man closed in, Vil moved. It was too fast to see clearly—a shift of weight, a graceful sidestep. His hand shot out, not to the knife, but to the man’s throat. His fingers, looking slender and almost delicate, pressed with surgical precision. The man’s eyes bulged. He made a horrible gurgling sound, the knife clattering to the deck, and crumpled, clutching his neck, gasping for air that wouldn't come.
Vil looked down at him, his expression one of mild distaste, as if he’d swatted a particularly irritating insect. Then his eyes met Leona’s across the deck.
In that moment, the "just friends" lie lay dead between them, bleeding out with the groans of the defeated men. They weren't friends. They were this: a pirate who fought like a king, and a siren who could kill with a touch, standing in a circle of wreckage they’d made together.
Leona walked over, stepping over a groaning body. He stopped in front of Vil, his gaze dropping to the man choking at their feet. "He'll live," Vil said quietly, answering the unspoken question. "In an hour."
Nodding, Leona reached out. His thumb brushed a drop of saltwater from Vil’s collarbone, just beside the chain of the necklace. The skin was cold, but beneath it, he felt the rapid, avian flutter of a pulse. "You're shivering."
"It's cold," Vil said, but his voice lacked its usual edge. He was looking at the bruise already forming on Leona's knuckles.
Ruggie sauntered up, wiping his hands on his trousers. "All trussed up. Local guard’ll collect 'em in the morning, none the wiser." He glanced between Leona and Vil, his smirk returning. "Nice evening stroll?"
"Get this deck cleaned up," Leona said, not looking away from Vil. "We sail at first light. The diversion's over. Time to go where he leads."
The crew jumped to, hauling the intruders towards the gangplank. The night returned to the sounds of the sea and the creaking ship.
Vil finally looked away, towards the eastern horizon, invisible beyond the cove's walls. The wonder from the fireworks was gone, replaced by a grim resolve. He touched the moonstone once, a quick, firm press, as if reaffirming its presence. A private charm against the dark water ahead.
"We go east," he said, his voice barely louder than the waves against the hull. "Tomorrow, after the second moon sets, I dive. The marker is in a trench. Azul will know the moment I read it."
Leona followed his gaze to the black, endless east. The warmth of the tavern, the shock of colors on Vil's face, the fragile trust built on shared secrets—it all felt suddenly thin, a fleeting dream before a long, deep dive into a nightmare.
"Then we'll be ready," Leona said, and the words tasted like a vow, and like a lie.
The deck was cleared, the intruders dumped on the dock with a few broken bones as a receipt for their trouble. The crew moved with a new, grim focus, their earlier laughter from Jack’s kiss long forgotten. The cove felt less like shelter now and more like a trap waiting to be sprung.
Leona stood at the helm, his hand resting on the worn teak wheel. He didn’t steer; the ship was anchored. He just needed to feel the solid, unyielding wood beneath his palm. Vil had retreated below to the warded cabin an hour ago, a silent shadow slipping away without a word. He needed to rest before the dive, he’d said. His voice had been flat, all the earlier wonder from the fireworks utterly drained.
“He’s not sleeping,” Ruggie muttered, materializing beside him. He leaned on the railing, staring at the dark water. “He’s just sitting in the dark in there. I can feel it through the door.”
“Let him sit,” Leona replied, his eyes on the eastern horizon where the sky was beginning to bleed from black to a deep, bruised purple. The first moon was a sharp sliver overhead. The second, fatter moon wouldn’t rise for hours. “He’s got a long swim ahead.”
“You trust him? With the real heading?” Ruggie’s question wasn’t accusatory. It was practical.
Leona thought of the moonstone, hidden under Vil’s shirt. He thought of the raw, unguarded shock on his face when the firework exploded. “I trust that he wants Azul gone more than we do,” he said finally. “The rest is just navigation.”
Ruggie grunted, unconvinced. “Jack’s on first watch. I’ll take the dawn.” He pushed off the railing and disappeared into the gloom, leaving Leona alone with the creaking ship and his own circling thoughts.
The hours dragged. The ship was too quiet, the normal night sounds of the crew muted by anticipation. Leona paced the quarterdeck, his cat-like eyes scanning the placid water. Nothing broke the surface. He eventually retreated to his own cabin, leaving the door cracked open to hear the deck. He didn’t bother lighting a lamp.
He sat in the dark, polishing a dagger with a slow, methodical rhythm. The routine was mindless, comforting. The scent of salt and oil filled the small space. He listened to the lap of waves against the hull, the groan of timber, the distant call of a night bird. His mind kept returning to the feel of Vil’s pulse under his thumb, the terrifying speed of his movement against the intruder, the awe on his face as colors bloomed in the sky.
He must have dozed. The sound that woke him wasn't loud. It was a voice, threaded through the cracks in the door, woven into the sigh of the wind. It was Vil’s voice.
"Leona."
It was soft, melodic, but strained. It came from the deck, just outside. Leona was on his feet, the dagger loose in his hand, before his mind was fully awake. Something was off. The voice… it was Vil’s, but thinner, pulled taut like a wire about to snap.
"Leona, please. I need you."
The words slithered under the door. They held a familiar, captivating resonance, but beneath it was a note of pain that twisted something in Leona’s chest. Vil never said ‘please’. Vil never sounded weak.
Leona moved to the door, his senses screaming. This was wrong. Vil was supposed to be miles deep by now, reading his stars in a trench. He peered through the crack.
A figure stood at the starboard rail, silhouetted by the weak light of the single sliver moon. It was Vil’s height, Vil’s slim build, his long hair lifting in the night breeze. He was hunched over, one hand clutching the rail as if for support.
"I’m hurt," the voice came again, a perfect mimicry of Vil’s intoxicating timbre, now layered with a convincing tremble. "The dive… something was down there."
Logic warred with a sudden, violent urge in Leona’s gut. Vil was asleep at the bottom of the sea. Rook had said so. Epel had confirmed it. This was impossible. Yet the figure swayed, a portrait of beautiful distress. What if they were wrong? What if he’d been followed, attacked? The memory of Vil’s fingers pressing against the moonstone, that private gesture of desperate hope, flared in Leona’s mind.
He shoved the door open, stepping onto the deck. The night air was cold and heavy. "Vil?"
The figure at the rail turned. It was Vil’s face, pale and perfect in the moonlight. His amethyst eyes were wide, shimmering with unshed tears. He wore the same simple trousers from earlier, his torso bare. But something was missing. The moonlight fell on his smooth, unadorned chest. No chain. No moonstone.
The realization was a splash of ice water, but it came a half-second too late.
"Leona," the thing that was not Vil whispered, a smile touching its lips that was all wrong—too wide, too full of teeth. The voice deepened, shedding its disguise, becoming a syrupy, resonant baritone that vibrated in Leona’s bones. "How dreadfully predictable."
Leona’s muscles coiled to spring back, but the song erupted. It wasn't the complex, piercing melody Vil had used to shatter the storm. This was a simpler, more primal call. It wasn't heard with the ears; it slammed directly into the brainstem, a pulse of pure, irresistible lure.
It bypassed thought, igniting a single, overriding command: Come here.
Leona’s feet moved on their own. His dagger clattered to the deck, forgotten. He walked towards the rail, towards the beautiful, smiling thing wearing Vil’s skin. His mind screamed, a distant, muffled alarm. He saw the absence of the necklace. He saw the eyes, now shimmering with a cold, hungry light that Vil’s never held.
He couldn't stop walking.
The thing that was Azul reached out as he neared. Its hands were Vil’s hands, but the touch was wrong—clammy and possessive. Those perfect fingers wrapped around Leona’s biceps with surprising strength. "He’s grown quite fond of you, my little songbird has," Azul cooed, his true voice a corrupted melody. "But fondness doesn't fill my larders. A captain’s soul, though… that’s a vintage I haven't tasted in an age."
Azul shifted his grip, yanking Leona forward and twisting him in one fluid, powerful motion. The ship's rail dug into Leona’s back. Then he was falling backwards, the deck, the masts, the moon tilting away. The cold, black water hit him like a fist, driving the air from his lungs.
The shock of the water fractured the song’s hold for a single, splintering moment. Instinct took over. Leona kicked, thrashing towards the shimmering surface far above. A shadow, sleek and fast, shot past him.
Azul, still wearing Vil’s form, was in the water with him. The disguise was melting, sloughing away like wet paint. The beautiful human features blurred, stretched. The lilac hair darkened to the color of squid ink. The eyes remained amethyst, but they swam with a shifting, alien intelligence. A grin split the face, now too wide for a human skull.
"Fight," Azul whispered, the sound bubbling perfectly in the water. "It seasons the soul."
Powerful arms—tentacles now, slick and strong—wrapped around Leona’s chest from behind. They squeezed, forcing the precious air from his burning lungs. Leona clawed at them, his nails digging into a rubbery, cold flesh that gave no purchase. He bucked, twisting, but the grip was inexorable, pulling him down into the deepening dark.
The surface light shrank to a wavering coin above. Pressure built in his ears, in his skull. His vision began to tunnel, spots dancing at the edges. The last of his breath escaped in a stream of frantic bubbles. He was drowning. He was going to die here, in the cold dark, because a monster wore a face he’d foolishly started to care about.
He had one last, clear thought. It wasn't of the throne he’d left, or the ship, or his crew. It was of a moonstone necklace catching the light on damp skin, and a face painted in gold and violet, looking at the sky in wonder.
His struggles grew weaker. The dark was inviting, soft. It would be easy to just…
A new sound cut through the water. Not a siren’s song. A scream of pure, undistilled rage. It was a physical force, a shockwave that made the water itself tremble.
The tentacles around Leona flinched, loosening for a fraction of a second. A blur of lilac and fury shot past him like a harpoon.
Vil, the real Vil, was a nightmare of beautiful violence. His tail drove him through the water with terrifying speed. His face was a mask of primal fury, his features sharpened by something beyond hate. He didn’t sing. He slammed into Azul, his hands not gripping, but clawing.
He tore at the shifting face, his fingers finding purchase in the slippery not-flesh. “You dare!” The words were a vibration of pure wrath, understood more than heard. “You wear my face? You dare?”
Azul reeled back, his shriek a gurgling, distorted thing. The disguise collapsed completely, revealing a form that was both man and something far older: pale skin mottled with grey, those intelligent, cruel eyes, and a nest of restless, powerful tentacles where legs should be.
Leona’s lungs screamed. He kicked weakly towards the distant light, his limbs heavy as stone. His vision was greying out. Then a strong, familiar arm hooked under his shoulders, hauling him back. Not Vil. Rook. The blonde siren’s green eyes were grim, his grip iron as he powered towards the surface, dragging a half-conscious Leona with him.
The last thing Leona saw, looking down into the deepening blue, was Vil savaging Azul. It wasn't a fight; it was an execution. Vil’s tail whipped, coiling around a tentacle with crushing force. There was a muffled crunch, a cloud of something dark billowing in the water. Azul’s enraged scream bubbled up, then cut off abruptly as Vil’s hand, webbed and deadly, shot towards his throat.
Then the surface broke over Leona’s head. The night air, cold and glorious, flooded his lungs. He choked, gasped, vomiting salt water as Rook held him afloat beside the hull. On deck, lanterns were moving, voices shouting. A rope splashed into the water beside them.
“Up,” Rook commanded, his voice tight. “Now.”
Leona’s hands fumbled for the rope. He was hauled roughly upwards, his body scraping against the barnacled wood. Strong hands—Jack’s, Ruggie’s—grabbed him, hauling him over the rail where he collapsed onto the hard deck, shuddering and retching.
He rolled onto his back, sucking in ragged, painful breaths. The stars swam above him. A moment later, Vil breached the surface. He rose from the water in a cascade of silver drops, heaving himself onto the rail with a single, powerful motion. He landed on the deck in a crouch, water pooling around him.
He was breathing hard, his shoulders heaving. In his right hand, clutched so tightly his knuckles were bone-white, was a long, writhing tentacle tip, severed cleanly. Dark, inky blood dripped from it onto the scrubbed planks. Vil’s eyes were wild, his teeth bared in a silent snarl. He looked at Leona, chest rising and falling, then threw the tentacle fragment aside with a wet slap.
It landed near Leona’s head, still twitching.
Vil straightened up, his gaze sweeping the horrified faces of the crew before locking back on Leona. The fury was still there, banked but burning fiercely. His voice, when it came, was low, vicious, and shook with a terrible emotion.
“He touched you,” Vil said, the words dripping with a venom that had nothing to do with poison and everything to do with a violation so profound it burned in his eyes. “With my hands.”