Heave her up and don't be slack, boys,
Heave her up and away we'll go,
Heave her up and don't be slack, boys,
Bound for South Australia!"
🎵
The crew's voices rang loud through the clearing night air. The storm had passed, the sea calmed once more. Spirits were high — the men relieved to be through the worst of it.
Barrels had been rolled up from the hold. Ale and rum were passed around. Syrena moved among them with a faint smile, handing out mugs, letting the rough energy of the song settle the unease that still clung to some of them.
She stopped by the rail, watching them sing and laugh, her smile soft. The ship felt lighter tonight — though she knew better than anyone that weight still hung in other corners.
Her gaze drifted up, toward the captain's quarters. The window lantern inside was lit. From where she stood, she could see his shadow moving across the panes.
Sawyer's outline paced — no, limped — around the small room. His posture stiff, one hand pressed at his side.
Syrena's smile faded a little. She knew his wound still troubled him more than he let on. And after this morning... after how he'd pushed her away...
A knot tightened in her chest.
"You're watchin' him," a voice said behind her.
She turned, finding Harrow leaning against the rail, a pipe between his teeth, eyes sharp despite the gray in his beard.
He'd been with Sawyer longer than most — maybe longer than anyone. Some whispered he was the reason Sawyer had taken to the sea at all. If anyone aboard had earned the right to speak plain, it was him.
Syrena gave a small shrug. "Just saw him pacing. He's still hurt."
She looked up once more at the window. The shadow inside still moved, slower now.
And despite herself, she found her feet turning toward the stairs
At the door, she stopped.
Inside, she heard the faint scrape of a chair. A muffled curse — low and sharp. Then the rustle of cloth.
Her fingers hovered near the latch, uncertain.
Inside the cabin, Sawyer sat at the edge of his table, shirt half-pulled aside, trying to retighten the bandage at his ribs. His side burned with every breath — stupid, stubborn wound.
He hissed through his teeth, struggling with the knot. The linen was damp with sweat and old blood.
He paused, leaning forward on his elbows, breathing hard.
For a flicker of a moment, he thought of her.
She'd helped before. Gentle hands, steady eyes. No fuss, no pity.
He scowled at himself.
No. You don't ask. You don't start that again. She's crew. This life isn't hers. Let it lie, fool.
Out in the passage, Syrena lowered her hand from the door.
She stood there a breath longer, torn.
Then, silent as a shadow, she turned and made her way back down the stairs — the bottle still in her hand, the words she hadn't spoken heavy in her chest.