Chapter 8: Parallax

Enter the fighting ring, where the choice between duty and loyalty changes everything

At long last, shipmates! We’ve reached Oliver’s narrative, one I am particularly excited for you to read with its revelations, ties to the previous chapters, and hints of what’s to come.

Please note that, like the previous two chapters, this one may appear truncated in your email, and you can simply click “view entire message” at the bottom to open the entire post.

Much like Tybalt’s and Lisbet’s chapters, this was one that I was not entirely happy with in its previous state, feeling that it was hollow and poorly paced. I took some time to thoroughly refine it before posting, which inevitably led to delays, as real-life things took precedence. I hope you enjoy this fresh iteration of it and this take on the world from our surly anti-hero’s eyes.

This concludes the second story arc for those of you who are doing the “binge read” of “Boundless”. To give you a recap of what’s to come and where we’ve already been (with hyperlinks for you to navigate there):

STORY ARC 1: AISEN & EVELYN
Prologue
Chapter 1, Evelyn: “Contracts and Crumpets”
Chapter 2, Aisengale: “Live by the Feather, Die by the Sword”
Chapter 3, Evelyn: “The Weight of Wings”
Chapter 4, Aisengale: “Borrowed Time”
Chapter 5, Aisengale: “The Shortest Night”

STORY ARC 2: TYBALT, LISBET, & OLIVER
Chapter 6, Tybalt: “Salt in the Silver”
Chapter 7, Elisabetta: “The Messenger”
Chapter 8, Oliver: “Parallax” —we are here

STORY ARC 3: AISEN & EVELYN
Chapter 9, Evelyn: “Boys, Bugs, and Men” —week of 9/28
Author’s Notes “Special Post”—week of 9/28
Chapter 10, Evelyn: “Dirty Deeds” —week of 10/6
Chapter 11, Aisengale: “Ascensionism” —week of 10/6

END OF ACT 1: LUGHNASADH
ACT II WILL LAUNCH IN MID-OCTOBER

I will again save my Author’s Notes for a post later this week, where I’ll give you some BTS insights about our 3 current POV characters as well as new character art and a peek at the fun I’ve been having on Instagram. For now, please join me as we step back into the Known World after a long hiatus!

Musical themes for Chapter 8:

⚠️Content Warnings (contain spoilers):
Strong and coarse profanity, keeping with the parlance of the Regency Era and the Age of Sail. A boxing match is described on the page, including injuries and blood. Alcohol and tobacco use. Discussions of debt, classism, war, politics, gang-related crime, power dynamics, family strife, and the grieving process. Strong sexual innuendo and an implied consensual sexual encounter. Depiction of sex work.

🗨️Terminology for this Chapter:
O’su: Elven for “Father”
Leftenant: British; a non-standard but historically common alternative for the word “Lieutenant”
Skipper: Informal term for Captain

When Lieutenant Commander Oliver Kinleigh steps into the boxing ring, he’s hunting more than just a prize purse—he’s tracking a fugitive whose capture could make or break his naval career. But the night takes a devastating turn when his best friend arrives with blood on his hands.

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CHAPTER 8: OLIVER

DUNTONPORT, THE KINGDOM OF PRIA

Oliver gritted his teeth, choked down his anger, and occupied his hands.

“To shun the flame is to remain cold, but to embrace it is to forge starlight.”

Those were the words the battle master said to him the first time he entered a fighting ring. At seventy, the Dark Elf had already brushed shoulders with death countless times, a lad full of such unbridled emotion and fear that the monks insisted he learn to channel it into a healthier outlet.

Those same monks had found him on the beaches of Innoris when his sloop capsized in a tempest, on the run from the Forrani Cavalry when his former gang dissolved. Yet they’d been willing to take him in despite the danger to themselves, a stray dog needing shelter and discipline. And when they’d discovered he had impressive physical prowess, they’d taught him to touch the stars—with his fists.

Oliver took a beat to wipe the sweat from his brow before bouncing back on his toes to dodge the next jab. It was seventy years later. He was fresh off the boat in Duntonport. He was fighting for the coveted welterweight belt and a large prize purse against “Lights Out” Frasier, a hobgoblin of formidable strength. The boxing mill under Aunt Polly’s bar was at capacity, packed with everyone from landowners to dockhands and filled with the cacophony of cheers, cigar smoke, and the ripe odor of blood and spilled beer.

And if Oliver failed tonight, he would not only lose the prize but also completely upend his current retrieval mission.

For five rounds, Oliver had employed quick footwork to orbit around Frasier and wear him out, using bare-knuckle blows and sidesteps as opportunities to scan the crowds, searching for his target. Then he’d intentionally lined himself up for Frasier to mill him into the corner so he could get a closer look at the darkened bleachers.

There he was. What Oliver knew of his quarry was that Silas Veridian was a disgraced noble from Northern Forran, a former barrister accused of tax fraud and now hiding in Pria from his parole officer. From the corner of the ring, he had a perfect view of the handsome Dark Elf sitting among the gentry of Duntonport, decked in evening attire with a cigar clenched between his teeth. A fucking dandy of a man.

And before Oliver could regain his stance, Frasier dealt him a blow to the back of the head that made him crumple. As the crowds roared, Oliver scrambled to return to the center of the ring, his shoulders slumping in defeat when the referee called the round. As he retreated to the corner, his second—a Half-Elf midshipman named Hale—came to meet him, dutifully carrying a towel and a glass of murky water.

“What did you find out?” Oliver muttered, wiping blood and sweat from his face.

“He sails for Fabinmore tonight,” Hale replied as he stuck his head through the ropes. “Seems he knew someone was comin’ for him.”

“Who’s the turncoat?”

“His valet. Didn’t take much to persuade him.” Hale removed his cap to wipe his brow, giving a subtle nod towards the bleachers as he did so. “See the orc next to him? Says he’ll bring Silas out to you if you’re quiet about it.”

Oliver narrowed his eyes as he quickly counted the men in Silas’s retinue. “How much does he want for ratting him out?”

“Five hundred quid.” Hale chuckled as he watched Oliver take a long swill of the water. “That’s Prian Crowns, not dragoons. Plus hazard pay.”

“Tell him I’ll meet him out back. Half-past nine.” Oliver swished the blood out of his mouth, unceremoniously spitting it over his shoulder. “He comes alone with Lord Veridian or no bag.”

Ten minutes later, Frasier was throwing one heavy body shot after another as Oliver’s guard began to drop, his chest heaving with exertion.

“Where’s your pluck now, sailor?” Frasier chuckled as Oliver wove to the side, the next blow glancing off the tip of his ear.

“Still here,” he huffed, just as Frasier dealt him a gut-punch that sent him down to the floor. He stole a quick glance off to the side as he struggled to his feet. Hale had coaxed Silas’s henchman away to barter with him, both men standing near the bookmaker as if to place bets. The deal was made, thank the fucking ancestors.

Oliver righted himself and steered Frasier into the corner again with a flurry of jabs. Instead of trying to outbox him, he’d switch tactics—perhaps a grapple or throw he’d learned as a Marine.

And just as he lunged, Frasier overconfidently rolled his shoulders back and charged him.

“The Hells you don’t—”

With perfect timing, Oliver drew his fist back, held his breath, and swung. The punch landed right in the center of Frasier’s face as his eyes rolled back and his snout bled. But Frasier had countered just in the nick of time, snapping Oliver’s head back with the sheer force of it.

As his vision blurred and his knees buckled, he watched Frasier fall to the mat in perfect synchrony with him.

“One! Two! Three—!”

Time slowed to a crawl. The crowd’s deafening roar was suddenly hundreds of miles away as Oliver tried to roll onto his side and flopped backwards instead.

“—twenty-six! Twenty-seven! Twenty-eight—!”

Absolutely fucking not.

As a shocked hush fell over the crowd, Oliver sat upright, drew a weary breath, and rose to his feet, victorious—the flame reforged into something unbreakable.

“Good form, Kinleigh, good form,” Captain Elrindell said to Oliver an hour later, slapping his sore shoulder as he winced. “I don’t suppose you sniffed out Lord Veridian?”

“I did,” he muttered, looking down to button the remaining snaps of his waistcoat, barely out of the washroom as his commander walked him towards the bar. “Sitting up there like the Duke of fucking Felune.”

“Close enough. You knew he renounced the title of Viscount, yes? All so he could marry some lowborn wench from Southern Forran. Seems that was just the beginning of his troubles.” The captain—a ruddy-faced Sylvan Elf with gold hair and a swagger in his step—lit his pipe as he mumbled through his teeth. “In any case, well done. Let’s whet our whistles, eh?”

Then he chuckled as Oliver began to sit on an empty stool, steering him up the staircase to the loft instead. In Oliver’s experience, lofts above taverns meant two things: trouble that you paid for by the hour, or trouble with the local crime lord. Neither were things he wished to encumber himself with at the moment. The only things that defined him nowadays were assured victory, the strict rules and ordinances that kept him from succumbing to temptation, and a clear mind.

Tonight the calculating Lieutenant Commander would stay sober, as sharp as a blade, and honed in to every inch of his surroundings as the monks had once trained him to do. In perfect balance with the cosmos.

“No, no. Back here. This requires privacy,” Elrindell drawled as he nudged Oliver through a curtain at the top of the stairs. Beyond the golden, dim light was a lounge with shabby upholstered furniture and a much smaller bar, clearly meant for private encounters. Behind it was a diminutive faun with a head full of rag curls, a shawl wrapped around her shoulders, and a pleased grin; Oliver immediately recognized her as the local Madam, already preparing to pour them drinks.

“I’ll pass on the spirits, if you don’t mind,” Oliver said as he politely nodded for her to put the second glass away. Then he caught Elrindell pulling an embossed envelope from his breast pocket. “From Fleet?”

“No. Worse. This is from Nelson himself.” Elrindell groaned as he handed it to Oliver, plopping onto one of the empty chaises. “Seems now he’s offering a bounty to round up the wayward sons. Orin Shandalar’s got the Admiral’s bollocks in a vice over it.” The captain was quiet for a moment as he puffed on his pipe. “And fuck-all if I know why.”

“Well…I reckon it’s to re-conscript them,” Oliver sighed, glancing at his pocket watch. He had a little less than an hour until the appointed time to snare Silas; he was putting every ounce of trust in his hand-selected detachment that they were in place, standing vigilant.

“Or hang ‘em. Most of ‘em are gang members.” Elrindell’s eyes narrowed as he studied Oliver’s bouncing leg and nervous expression, then nodded, indicating Oliver should open the envelope. “Not to open old wounds, Leftenant, but…given your former proclivities, perhaps you’d like to take a gander at this thing? Tell me if any of the names ring a bell?”

Oliver repressed a hard shudder, willing himself not to bite back. For decades, he had fought to separate himself from the sullied legacy he’d inherited—the only son of Albion Kinleigh, the leader of the Fenneryn Family, the most powerful crime cartel in Forran. The son who had grown up with a silver spoon in his mouth, then disowned when he refused to step into his own, begging to attend university instead. Then he’d become a self-fulfilling prophecy when he’d wound up on the streets anyway. And his only means of survival: the criminal skills he’d learned from his father, all part of his recruitment into a rival gang.

Elrindell leaned in with the dossier in hand as Oliver stiffened next to him, pointing to one section in bold typeface. “Like there. Wasn’t the First Served your old crew?”

Thank the gods for the First Served, because Oliver would have surely been dead in the gutter if they hadn’t seen his potential as a thief. When they’d pulled him aside one day and informed him he’d be working as the “second story man” to their most nimble assassin—an arrogant lad named Aisengale who had an affinity for poisons and sharp, pointy things—it had been a match made in the Hells. Aisen and Oliver were staunch allies, even during the raid on their gang, when Oliver escaped and left Aisen to be apprehended at the Half-Elf’s insistence. Even beyond that, when Aisen showed up at Oliver’s public hanging, a newly minted Naval officer begging for his friend’s clemency,

It was a travesty that their friendship didn’t survive Irameshi. Because, despite all his failings, Aisen had been a hundred times more competent a leader than the boorish shadow of a man now sitting next to him. Elrindell was doing the one thing Aisen would have never dared—using Oliver as a pawn for his associations with the criminal underground, then bringing it up as an intimidation tactic to manipulate him.

Birds of a feather, he supposed as he snatched the dossier from Elrindell to skim it.

And then his stomach roiled with anxiety as he saw the name at the bottom of the list. Wanted for dereliction of duty, suspected criminal activity, and treason against the Commonwealth: Chief Petty Officer Tybalt Lyanth’Tel.

Now Tybalt, too—fucking ancestors.

“Ah, no. Sorry, Skipper. Can’t say I know any of ‘em,” Oliver shrugged, putting on his most apathetic expression as he passed the dossier back.

“Well, keep your pistol loaded,” Elrindell muttered, rising from his seat. “Here. I did you the service of hiring you company for the evening. A compliment to that Town Bronze you’re now boasting.”

Oliver’s face went from amethyst to red as heat rushed to his ears. “Oh, Skipper, I don’t—”

“Don’t what? Enjoy a rough shag after a fight?” Elrindell chortled as he passed a fold of banknotes across the bar to the Madam. “We’re shipping out for gods know how long. May as well catch the spinnaker while you can. You’ve got a good hour, so make it quick.” Then he winked at the Madam as she rang the little silver bell in front of her. “Rosalie, let my first mate see the siren I wrangled for him.”

Suddenly, a courtesan had emerged from behind a beaded curtain. A Feyborn Elf, but more than that—a changeling—moving with such sensuality that Oliver’s breath caught in his chest. They were lithe under their gossamer robes, fair in face, and shimmering with glamour magic as they came to stand before him.

“Hello, sailor,” they murmured into his ear as he felt his already strained muscles tensing with anxiety.

“Watch out for that one. His captain says he has a soft spot for blondes.” Roaslie laughed as the courtesan reached behind their head to free their star-kissed hair from its bindings. Oliver directed his gaze straight to it as it fell around their shoulders, avoiding eye contact.

“Oh, I wouldn’t call him soft.” The courtesan traced a manicured finger along the patch of exposed skin under Oliver’s undone collar, outlining the inked constellation of Virgo under his clavicle. “He’s built like a god, no?”

Built like a god.

Faraway memories taunted him as he imagined being pressed against the oaken panels of a stateroom’s walls, aching with desire and completely undone. Someone else was plying him with those same compliments as they undressed him in a slow ritual—

“You look like your mind’s a thousand worlds away,” the courtesan purred as they took his chin between their thumb and forefinger to tilt his face up. Oliver allowed his gaze to wander to theirs. Then he felt the floor falling out from under him as he was met with eyes of the most startling, beautiful blue.

Blue like the sea after a maelstrom.

It had been…gods, ages since he’d been intimate with anyone. And it was better that way—there was something much more gratifying about brutal sport than to fall to someone’s whims in the bedroom. More blood, less pain.

But this vexation was too much to bear. The monks at Innoris had taught him compassion. Patience. A loving touch. Oliver wasn’t sure if he would even recognize a loving touch anymore.

Suddenly, the courtesan had their lips on his bared throat, running their fingers through his hair as he involuntarily sighed. Such a simple transaction this would be, cleansing himself of the memories with this compliant proxy. But self-indulgence wasn’t the same soothing balm for his aches as self-reflection…was it?

“Tell me, sailor. What’s a dashing officer like you doing in an establishment as filthy as this?”

When had the courtesan coaxed him into a chair? When had they perched themselves on his lap? When had Elrindell and Rosalie left them alone?

“This isn’t your first time, is it? You’re blushing like a virgin—”

Is this your first time?

Do you want to keep going?

“Oliver.” Someone was interrupting their transaction, loudly clearing their throat. He peered over the courtesan’s shoulder to see a brawny human in full uniform leaning against the door frame, his elbow resting on the hilt of his service weapon.

“Oh, fuck me,” Oliver reached into his waistcoat, pulling out his pocket watch. “Sorry, Leland. I lost track of time.”

“Clearly,” the soldier chuckled, blowing a tuft of auburn curls from his eyes. “I even had time to count my card deck before you joined us.” Then he retreated back a step, bemused. “Uh…perhaps I should—”

“No,” Oliver snapped, a wave of relief washing over him at this opportunity for egress. He quickly fumbled for his service holster on the table, then ran his hands through the sides of his hair to ruffle it into place. “Not now, darling. Maybe another time,” he said to the courtesan, politely nudging them off his lap so he could stand. As they sighed in disappointment, he felt in his waistcoat for his prize purse and pulled out a gold crown. Gently touching it to their nose, he dropped it into their waiting hand. “That’s for your trouble.”

“I should be the one apologizing. You were quite occupied back there,” Leland joked, slapping Oliver’s shoulder as the two men headed towards the staircase to the ground level of The Blackbird. Leland was an affable member of the Royal Prian Cavalry, a wilderness scout recently promoted to Sergeant Major. He and Oliver had become friends the previous summer, after a contentious night of placing wagers on some unregulated horse race in Ravenna. Leland was also a sporting lad who’d grown up on a farm—a man who found pleasure in a rough ride through the dunes or a football match as much as Oliver did. And over time, Oliver considered him indispensable for gleaning bits and pieces of intel gathered during his tours of duty along Pria’s eastern border with Fralise.

“You can make amends by paying for the first round,” Oliver replied coolly as he re-tied his cravat and tucked it neatly into his waistcoat. Then he followed his friend down the narrow stairs into the ample seating area.

It was the first night of Lughnasadh, and Duntonport’s streets would soon be filled with revelers off to watch sporting events, wander the festival booths along the boardwalk, or attend one of the many Church services commemorating the beginning of high harvest season. The Blackbird was already packed to the gills with patrons celebrating a few hours early—mainly rowdy tourists preparing for the Prian Cricket League championships.

Oliver felt a sad pang when he recalled his and Tybalt’s agreement to attend those very games together. But he was notably absent from the usual flock of locals, as was Fleur, who would usually be on stage for such a lucrative opportunity.

“Ugh. We should’ve met another night,” he groaned, noting the lack of seating. “At least we would’ve been away from the sporting crowds.”

“Speaking of…a few of us are thinking about heading down to the pitch after this. I know you love watching a good ol’ shitfaced hooligan brawl, Kinleigh.”

Huddled around a corner table was a group of uniformed scouts—Leland’s squad mates, all looking up from their dice game as the men approached. “How kind of you to join us, Leftenant. We were startin’ to think you’d finally decided you were too good for us,” one of them grinned, rising to shake Oliver’s hand.

“You all? Never. There’s still a piece-of-shit bilge rat under here,” Oliver laughed darkly as he dragged a chair over to join them and took stock of his surroundings. On the opposite side of the tavern was Silas Veridian, tucked away in a booth and surrounded by his lackeys, all drinking the night away. With his feet arrogantly propped up on the table and his head rolled back, the lordling didn’t appear to be going anywhere soon. Perfect. If Oliver timed it just right, he could still move through the paces of his social affairs and corner Silas before he could abscond.

“Are we going to the cricket pitch after this?” Leland piped up a few minutes later, setting his stout down and wiping the froth from his stubble. “I placed a hefty wager on the Kelpies. Gotta go see it through to the end.”

“The Kelpies? Really? Didn’t they just lose the playoffs?” Oliver asked through his clenched teeth as he lit a cigarillo. He allowed himself another glance at Silas, then relaxed as he noticed his lackeys beginning a round of poker. “They’ve played a terrible game ever since their point threw his shoulder out.”

“I always favor the underdog,” Leland grinned, his smile puckering the long scar that crossed his freckled cheek. “But if you’re opposed to a little cricket, we could place our bets at the King’s Ascot.”

“No. Not only no, but fuck no. I still owe the bookmaker a hundred quid for the last race,” Oliver chuckled, blowing a plume of fragrant smoke towards the rafters.

One of Leland’s friends—a grizzled tiefling Corporal named Valentine— narrowed his eyes at the Dark Elf. “Nine Hells, Kinleigh. You just won the goddamn Town Bronze. What crawled up your arse and died tonight?”

“Don’t pay any mind to him. He’s got a case of the blue balls tonight,” Leland laughed raucously. “Seems I interrupted his playtime with one of Rosalie’s sirens.”

“Well, color me surprised,” Valentine scoffed as he puffed on his pipe. “Maybe you should have stayed back there, let ‘em put a smile on that sour face. And leave us more winnings to take home in your stead.”

When Oliver chose not to respond, Leland knowingly shook his head. “I might have to side with my Corporal on this one.” He laughed even harder as Oliver glared at him. “Oh, come now, Oliver. You’ve got to end that dry spell. The jilted lover isn’t coming back for you—”

“So you’re about to deploy, eh?” Oliver cut him off with an edge of disdain, changing the subject. He was much more interested in hearing about Leland’s most recent assignment to investigate skirmishes at the eastern border of Pria and Fralise.

“Aye. Last I heard, Radyn Calek had the vanguard rerouted to Malton. Captain says we’re intercepting bandit strikes,” Leland shrugged as he idly circled the rim of his glass with a fingertip. “But I have my own suspicions that the Fralisians have moved their ground troops across the border.”

For several months, rumors had circulated that the Fralisian peerage was moving their holdings north, one family at a time, largely financed by the Venturis. Two millennia ago, the Cataclysm left much of the central and southern continent barren or else torn asunder by jagged mountain ranges, primarily in Arleham-Fralise and central Pria. And while Pria had remained neutral in the warmongering that followed, their neighbors had taken it upon themselves to reap the harvests that lacked in their own countries…by plundering Forran. Although if Oliver was being honest, the hubris of his own people had prevented any genuine progress in settling things through diplomacy, negotiations, and simple humanity.

It didn’t surprise him that Pria might be next to join the war effort. The fertile provinces surrounding Fabinmore and the Gash—the massive central river that opened over converging ley lines—were a seat of progress. It made the twin farming cities of Malton and Grannes desirable assets. Of course, the Venturis would eye them for potential conquest. Thank the gods the Prian Cavalry had a semi-competent leader in General Calek—and not some drunk bellend like Captain Elrindell.

The creak of Valentine’s chair brought Oliver back to the present. “Speaking of deployments, when are we getting the Hells out of here? I’m tired of looking at all these bloody tourists drinking the bar dry.”

“Nothing’s keeping us. In fact, that first match with the Kelpies starts in…” Leland looked down at his pocket watch. “... thirty minutes.” He took one last pull from his stout glass, then nodded at Oliver. “You joining us or not, Leftenant?”

“Not tonight. I’m on duty.” Oliver stubbed his cigarillo out, casting another glance towards Silas to see him throwing his hand of cards down with a grimace. Here was his chance to slip out the back and hide in the shadows to wait. “In fact, I…”

Oliver trailed off as he spotted Polly emerging from the back room, her expression pale and wrought with worry. And with her—like the prodigal son coming home—was Tybalt. He looked like he had just returned from an extended tour at sea, his face blistered with sunburn and marred with fatigue. When he caught Oliver’s gaze, he made an immediate beeline to their table, his pace hurried as if he was on some sort of timetable.

Oliver masked his alarm at this awkward turn of events, giving Tybalt a half-grin. “Tybalt. Bloody good timing. I was just about to ask Polly where you were—”

“I’ll tell you later,” the Sylvan Elf grunted, nervously tugging at the kerchief around his neck.

“Won’t you join us?” Leland looked up at Tybalt, his eyes alight with a wanton mischief Oliver was familiar with—an appreciation for men of the same cut and physical prowess as they were. “Any friend of Kinleigh’s is a friend of ours.”

“Don’t,” Oliver murmured into Leland’s ear. “He’s a right mess. And also spoken for.” He gave the soldier a sharp slap on the bicep and a knowing wink. “Now wipe that fucking grin off your face.” Then he glanced at his pocket watch again—only fifteen minutes until his alleyway rendezvous. “I’m stationed here for the next sennight. Maybe if the Kelpies lose, I’ll go with you to tomorrow’s match. Just to rankle you.”

“Always such a killjoy,” Leland chuckled, giving Oliver a mock salute as he rose. “But I’ll look forward to buying your round tomorrow with my winnings.”

As the group said their farewells and filtered their way through the dense crowds, Oliver stole a glance at Silas. The lordling was sliding his way across the booth to talk to one of his armed escorts, as they surveyed the room together. From the other side of the tavern, Hale was also watching Silas, one hand on the pistol concealed under his tailcoat. The two officers exchanged nervous looks as Hale nudged his head toward the back-alley exit, awaiting a silent order from his commander to make a move.

Fuck. He was about to lose his chance. Someone must’ve tipped him off—

“Oliver. You gotta help me, mate.” Suddenly, Tybalt was in his ear, gripping his arm with the boldness of someone bartering for his life. “I fucked things up royally this time,” he continued, leaning in close to murmur as he glanced around the bar. “Rooster Remmington’s after me. Wrote me O’su a bad loan, and I tried to pay it back by doin’ a run for him.”

Oliver’s heart sank for his friend as he recalled his own tangle with the pirate many years ago. “And—?”

Tybalt sighed in defeat, one hand over his eyes. “Got ratted out by someone on the inside. It all went arse-up as soon as we docked in Coral Fang—”

“Oh, Tybs, no. You went there?”

“Aye. I bloody went there. I was desperate, yeah?” Tybalt grimaced, throwing his flat cap on the table in frustration. “And now Rooster wants me head. I gotta get out of Duntonport before they go after me relatives. Throw off their scent.” The Sylvan Elf ran his hands over his face with a grunt. “Plus, I got a whole rack of Sundrop I gotta move—”

“Tybalt, you idiot,” Oliver groaned as he rubbed his sore cheek. “And what about Fleur?”

Tybalt was quiet as he looked off into the distance, jaw ticking and hands clenched into fists. “She left me…the cruel bitch.”

Before Oliver could say anything, Tybalt had pulled a crumpled piece of foolscap from his pocket, thrusting it into Oliver’s hands. And written in delicate strokes was Fleur’s list of grievances about all the times Tybalt had left her to chase some prize on the high seas. A missive on his failings as a stable future prospect or a trustworthy partner. It didn’t pass Oliver’s notice that as he skimmed Fleur’s words, Silas was now watching him closely, one of his lackeys whispering in his ear.

“Oh, fuck. Oh, Tybs, I’m sorry, mate,” Oliver said softly, trying to re-center himself on his friend’s dilemma as he patted his arm.

“I suppose she got tired of waitin’ for me to clean me act up. And no, I don’t wanna discuss it,” Tybalt grunted, reaching for his cigarillos. “Just help me, I’m beggin’ ya. I need to find a ship goin’ west. Preferably now.”

“No, you don’t,” Oliver sighed, glaring over his shoulder to nod at Hale. “Look, I probably shouldn’t be talking about this anymore because gods know I could lose my rank for it. You can’t go anywhere near Forran’s borders right now.”

“Why?” Tybalt glanced up with one eyebrow raised, grumbling through clenched teeth. “Was the armistice lifted while I was gone?”

“It may as well have. Listen. They know about you. Your dereliction of duty—”

“Who’s ‘they’?” Tybalt’s eyes narrowed as he extinguished his match with a wave. “The coppers?”

“No, you fool. The Elder Council. Orin Shandalar bribed informants to round you all up. To bring you home. Probably to hang.” Oliver nudged his head toward the bar. “See the ol’ man over there? That’s my Captain. He’s already got a list in his pocket with your name at the bottom.” Then he leaned forward, fiercely gripping Tybalt’s arm. “You’ve got to get as far away from the coastline as possible.”

“Fuckin’ ancestors. I need to find Aisen,” Tybalt muttered as he pawed at the back of his neck.

“Had to bring him up again, didn’t you—?”

“Oh, come off it,” Tybalt snorted and rolled his eyes. “Do you know where he is?”

“Not really,” Oliver shrugged, willing himself not to visibly flinch. “Last I’d heard, he was in Northern Pria. Hiding like a snake in the grass.”

“He ain’t on your list too? You ain’t tried to sniff him out yet?” Tybalt waited for Oliver to say something, then gave him a bitter smile. “No, I suppose ya wouldn’t, seein’ as you two had some awful bad blood, eh? You sour bastard.” He gave Oliver’s shoulder a light shove. “I’d bet me last Crown he’s in Fabinmore. That fucker always liked hard livin’.” Then he leaned back in his chair, billowing smoke towards the ceiling. “Listen, you gotta help me find passage up there. It needs to be a gig I can earn coin with. I just lost me whole lot—”

“Then what’s your plan? Just hope you find Aisen and that he’ll be willing to shelter you? Have him hire you to be his damned supplier?” Oliver scoffed, dozens of hurtful memories cresting like a rogue wave. “That would be a sight. The two of you digging yourselves into a deeper grave than the ones you’re already in—”

“Piss off, you self-righteous prick.” Something equally provoked rose in Tybalt as he dropped his voice to a growl. “You know, stickin’ around for this shitshow of a war really changed ya, Kinleigh. You used to be the type who’d help a brother out no matter what. Someone who honored the code. Yeah, don’t look at me like that, you know exactly what I mean.” He flicked the neat-pressed lapels of Oliver’s tailcoat with a huff. “Never forget, we lads are all cut from the same cloth. And underneath this fancy swagger? You’re still just a thief like the rest of us—”

Just like that, Silas Veridian had placed his top hat on his head, gathered his winnings, and was headed out the back door, surrounded by his armed retinue. As Oliver began to rise from his seat, the lordling tipped the brim of his hat to him in a mocking cut, then shot him a crude gesture as he disappeared into the night. And just as Hale followed them, two henchmen blocked his way, hands on their pistols.

The man had slipped right through his fingers, all because he had chosen loyalty and distraction over sworn duty, and at the worst moment—a crushing defeat. How the fuck would he explain this to Elrindell later?

“Alright, listen well,” Oliver grunted, his purpose renewed as he scanned the room for any sign of the remainder of his men. “The only smuggling gigs I know of are with the Fralisians. And, Tybs, I’m telling you this as a friend—you do not want to incur a debt with them. They won’t just let an Elf walk aboard and sign a privateer contract. You’re gonna have to find a Coiner or someone to write up false papers. And gods know how you’ll manage this, but you’ll have to do something about…you know.” Oliver frowned as his eyes darted to Tybalt’s high-tipped ears, studded with hoops. “Find a back-alley Crone to glamour you—”

“I already have that covered, mate,” Tybalt chuckled as he reached into his open collar to show Oliver his disguise charm. “Only thing Fleur left me ‘sides a broken heart.” Then he stuffed it back into his shirt as he leaned closer to lower his voice. “So which ship is it, then?”

“The SS Fortune Found. It’s the last clipper on the east end of the docks. You can’t miss it—it looks like one of ours but with a gods-awful paint job. Pretty sure they salvaged it from Isola Verde.” Oliver reached for his cravat to loosen it, rolling his shoulders in exhaustion. “Captain’s a real piece of shit—name’s Farnese. You’ll hate him.”

“Fuck me,” Tybalt huffed as he ruffled his sandy hair. “This oughta be good.” He stubbed out his cigarillo in an empty stout glass and shoved his flat cap back on. “Listen. I need one more thing. I need ya to find some way to look out for Polly. Put her under your protection. I already lost me girl and me dad. I can’t lose her, too.” Oliver could swear he saw a faint glimmer in Tybalt’s brown eyes as his friend anxiously rubbed his chest. “Please, mate, anything you can do to make sure she’s safe—”

“Yes. I’ll ask Constable Murdoch to patrol her neighborhood—should be on his nightly beat.” Oliver tried to give Tybalt a reassuring grin as he patted his forearm. “And—yes, Tybs—I will check on her whenever I’m in port. You have my word. Come on,” he grunted, rising from his seat and tipping his head towards the door. Perhaps he could still track Silas to the harbor if he said his goodbyes quickly. “Rooster’s already one of the most wanted pirates on the Strand, so I don’t think you have to worry about me keeping an eye out for him.”

Once they’d stepped out onto the sidewalk, Oliver extended his hand to Tybalt in a fraternal farewell gesture. “Tybalt, listen. Please don’t get yourself killed. And one more thing,” he continued, grasping Tybalt’s hand. “You’re still my brother, eh? ‘Till the end of the line. Or until you shoot me in the back.”

“Aye, brother. ‘Till the end of the line.” Tybalt took a long moment to keep Oliver there with one hand on his shoulder and the other clasped in his, and it suddenly occurred to the Dark Elf that he may never see his best friend again. They had firmly drawn a line in the sand—a promise that one would not pursue nor betray the other. It was all part of the first and most important tenet of the thieves’ code they both subscribed to:

Trust and loyalty are earned.

Secrets are kept.

And when a brother needs you, you answer the call, even if it means meeting your ancestors.

“You know…once I find me footin’, you ought to come visit.” Tybalt finally broke their grip on each other, heading towards the docks with an overconfident swagger. “Take some shore leave, come have tea with ol’ Aisen and me in one of those fancy hothouses they got up there. Just like the regular swells you are.” Then he gave Oliver a mock bow, dramatically sweeping his flat cap in front of him. “I’m sure Aise would love to see you.”

“Fuck off, you old salt,” Oliver grimaced, giving Tybalt the middle finger. “And you can give him that same sentiment from me.” He laughed bitterly, glancing up at the sky. “If you even find him.”

“Oof. I’ll be sure of that, mate.” And with that, the Sylvan Elf had disappeared into the humid night, headed for ports unknown.

The HMS Fairlight was one of the crown jewels of the Royal Elven Navy, a first-rate ship of the line with a crew eight hundred strong and three gun decks boasting well-oiled cannons and ballistae. It spent most of its days patrolling the sea channels between Benevento and the mouth of the Gash, assigned as the first line of defense for Duntonport’s maritime zone. And now it sat at the end of the pier, its dark oak stain, sleek frame, and massive bleached sails stark under the full moon.

And if Oliver was being honest with himself, he should have been the one at its helm. But he’d never been enterprising about moving up to captaincy when the opportunities arose…perhaps he was afraid to chase his full potential. Perhaps it was more comfortable to stay at the front of the boarding parties and the vanguard, if only to keep himself in lockstep. Perhaps—

“Oi!” Someone was leaning over the balustrade of the upper deck, waving their straw hat at him. “Captain’s been lookin’ for you, Kinleigh!”

Oliver gave him a silent nod as he strode up the gangway, his eyes still turned heavenward. Just an hour ago, he’d watched Silas Veridian’s private schooner leave port after giving chase the moment Tybalt was gone. The lordling had laughed at Oliver from the quarterdeck as he stood breathless at the end of the pier, silently cursing himself for his folly.

Then he’d taken a walk—despite the throbbing in his head from the facer Frasier landed earlier, the crush in his chest from failing his mission, and the looming ship curfew. He strolled along the boardwalk and across the expanse of pearly sand on the public beach, taking in the clear skies above. And as he became lost in thought, he performed a private ritual in his head. It was a series of complex calculations and astrophysical processes, unfolding like a diagram spread out over the heavens, and it was the only thing that felt like it truly held him.

For on the day Albion Kinleigh threw his son into the streets, Oliver’s true confession had been that he wished to study the stars…to become a scholar of the great mysteries of the universe. And over time, the language of numbers, constellations, and unsolvable equations had become his most dependable pursuit outside of pugilism. It had taken him from navigator to Sailing Master to Lieutenant in one short decade. Studying the heavens was his comfort and solace.

Yet it was also a perfect metaphor for the pent-up rage he carried on his shoulders. At that moment, Oliver decided that what he was experiencing was not unlike that of a star dying–his heart expanding and burning into a dangerous explosion that had the potential to destroy everything around it.

Or it could metamorphose into something beautiful and everlasting. Like the love he’d once tasted, albeit briefly.

Or perhaps that opportunity had already slipped past him, like starlight snuffed out.

A moment later, he stood before Elrindell’s desk, his commander well on his way to being three sheets to the wind if the half-empty decanter of rum was any indicator.

“Where the Hells have you been, Leftenant?” Just as Oliver opened his mouth to speak, Elrindell waved him off. “Doesn’t matter. While you were getting fucked and letting Silas Veridian run like the animal he is, I got another brief from Nelson.”

“And?”

Elrindell paused to run his hands over his reddened face, then tossed a fresh telegram across the desk at him. “The Zephyr’s missing. Command stopped receiving a signal from them twenty-four hours ago. Somewhere west of Benevento.”

The HMS Zephyr was the Fairlight’s sister ship, equally as critical to their strategy for defending the contested waters of the Strand. Oliver’s hair stood on end as he considered the staggering implications before them.

“There’s more,” Elrindell grunted, brandishing a second telegram. “We’ve got reports of a Fralisian cruiser nearby—just left port this evening. A suspected smuggling rig disguised as an envoy. Captained by someone named Farnese and owned by Serpico Venturi himself.” He paused to light his pipe as Oliver gritted his teeth, waiting for the other shoe to drop. “Our man at the dockyard says they’re transporting a high-value individual and have something potentially volatile in their hold.”

Elrindell paused again, allowing his words to sink in while Oliver clenched a fist at his side, sure of what he’d say next.

“I believe you know what that ‘volatile item’ may be, Leftenant.”

“And the ship’s destination?”

Elrindell smiled around the mouthpiece of his pipe, a sinister thing to see. “Fabinmore. Right to Niles Lancaster’s warehouse.”

Indeed, Oliver knew. And here was a terrible decision point for him—exact the justice waiting to be deployed on Serpico Venturi while potentially exposing Tybalt? Or save the sinking ship?

“Well, it seems we’re in a pickle, Leftenant.” Apparently, Elrindell was going to infantilize him by laying it all out again. “On one side, I have a warship missing that’s carrying eight hundred souls and two tons of seed stores.” He sighed as he rose from his chair to gaze out the bay window of his stateroom. “On the other, I have a sea captain suspected of heinous crimes against the Elves, working with one of the most wanted men in Forran. Both with massive bounties on their heads.”

And at that moment, Oliver chose compassion and love, the supernova that would become the beacon of light in his own darkness.

“Sir, we can’t leave our men in contested waters,” he said softly, composing himself. “The cost to the Crown would be immense. We’d be neglecting our treaty to protect Aeretreya’s coast. And we have a duty to aid our shipmates, no?”

Elrindell chuckled as he continued looking out over Duntonport’s harbor. “Very well. But we can’t take the Fairlight, it’ll leave too wide a gap in our defenses.” Then he glanced over his shoulder at his first mate with a cunning grin. “Looks like you’ll be leading the search and rescue mission, then. Gather your crew…Captain Kinleigh.”

---

With Silas Veridian escaped, Tybalt aboard a dangerous smuggling ship with his sworn enemy, and his shipmates missing in contested waters, Oliver faces his first command knowing that every choice he’s made will echo across the sea. Next week, we’ll discover what awaits Aisengale and Evelyn…as their paths finally cross in Fabinmore…where old flames and new dangers collide.

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Until next time, sailors and sirens! ⚓🧜‍♀️🌊