The Nightshade reached port two days later — a small, rough-edged harbor where few questions were asked and fewer rules enforced.
The crew busied themselves securing the ship. Sawyer stood at the rail, watching the docks with a narrowed gaze.
He glanced back — found Syrena helping stow some lines.
"Come with me," he said, voice even. "I'll be asking after the Spaniards. You could help"
She gave a quick nod. "Aye, Captain."
They made their way into the winding streets — a maze of weather-beaten taverns and low stone buildings. The place smelled of salt and smoke, thick with sailors and rough men.
Sawyer led them to a dim bar tucked between crumbling walls. Inside, the air was heavy with ale and sweat. Men shouted over card games, tankards slammed on wood.
Syrena followed close.
More than a few heads turned. Conversations slowed. Eyes lingered on her — too long, too bold.
At the counter, Sawyer questioned the barkeep in low tones about the Spaniards — trading coin for scraps of information.
Meanwhile, two men at a nearby table eyed Syrena openly. One leaned back in his chair with a crooked grin.
"Not often we see a pretty thing like you here," the man called, raising his mug. His friends chuckled, watching her like hawks.
Sawyer's shoulders tensed. He turned, gaze hard.
The man started to rise, swaying slightly with drink. "Come now, darlin'—"
Sawyer was on him in a flash — hand at the hilt of his blade, jaw clenched. "One more word," he growled, "and you'll be picking your teeth out of the floorboards."
For a moment it looked like he might strike — knuckles white with anger.
But he stopped himself — barely.
The man backed off quick enough, muttering.
Sawyer's eyes swept the room — daring anyone else to try their luck. No one did.
He turned back to the barkeep, voice low and cold. "Well?"
The barkeep nodded quickly. "Spaniards passed through not long ago. Left word they'd be heading east. A fort, some say — one of theirs, old and well-guarded."
Sawyer tossed a few more coins on the counter and turned toward Syrena. "We have what we need. Let's go."
He didn't look at her as they left the bar — jaw still tight, steps brisk.
They reached the Tempest just as the last of the crew were settling in for the night. Sawyer gave a few orders, voice curt, then stalked off toward his quarters without another word.
Syrena watched him go, still smirking to herself.
Then she glanced down at her clothes — worn thin from salt and time aboard the ship. She hadn't had a proper change since they'd left the last port.
She turned to one of the crew. "I'll be heading into town. Won't be long."
The sailor nodded, unconcerned.
Syrena slipped away, walking through the darkened streets to a small clothier she'd spotted earlier. Inside, the shopkeeper showed her simple, sturdy garments — nothing too fine, but clean and well-made.
She picked out a new blouse and trousers, along with a scarf to tie her hair back.
While she waited for the bundle to be wrapped, voices drifted in through the open door — two local women chatting eagerly as they passed:
"—he's back, they say. Captain Sawyer Maddox."
"Aye, heard it myself! Wonder which poor girl he'll charm this time, eh?"
"Always did have a way with the ladies — and the temper to match!"
"A dangerous man... but a handsome one."
Their laughter faded down the street.
Syrena frowned slightly, fingers tightening on the cloth in her hand.
So... that's how they speak of him here.
She shook her head, irritation prickling in her chest.
With her purchase in hand, she stepped back into the night — the words still echoing in her mind as she made her way toward the ship.
By the time Syrena returned to the docks, the sky had darkened. A breeze tugged at her hair as she made her way toward the Tempest.
She'd changed into her new clothes — a simple linen shirt tucked into sturdy dark trousers, a leather belt at her waist. The outfit was plain, practical — but fit her well, and there was something sharp and confident in her stride as she climbed the gangplank.
A few of the crew noticed first.
One let out a low whistle. Another gave a playful grin.
"Well now," one called, "look at our Syrena— dashing as any sailor!"
A round of chuckles followed. The mood was light, friendly.
Syrena only smirked faintly, making her way across the deck.
As she passed, her eyes met Sawyer's.
He stood near the helm, arms folded, gaze locked on her — silent, unreadable. But he didn't look away.
She held his stare a moment, then let a scowl tug at her brow before turning her gaze aside.
Sawyer frowned slightly — caught off guard, not quite understanding the sudden shift in her mood.
For once, he was the one left wondering what the hell had gotten into her.