Sentra growled in response—a feline sound that fit her. She wasn’t quite normal, not a colour-blooded Rime Folk. Something dug up from the pits of the snowseas perhaps and given legs and a face. But those pure black eyes…

“I invited her,” his mother said.

Only now did Zane realize he was bare chested beneath his open-hanging coat. With a snarled lip, he yanked his coat shut and folded his arms to conceal himself from the two devils before him.

You will marry Sentra Donspellis, his mother had informed him two quarters past when their feud had truly begun.

I certainly will not. Trust me, I’ll be dead before I’m seen marrying a demon-eyed, rival captain’s daughter.

His mother had thrown a fit of rage, claiming Zane did not care for his crew and that he would never be captain if he did not do as she asked. But Zane refused to be married during the season next when he would be merely ten plus three seasons old. Still a sputtlepun.

Sentra was ten plus seven seasons old and certainly planned to control him after the deal was sealed by their dreadful union. Zane would not do it.

It was why his mother had not spoken to him in almost a full quarter—until now. Until she had wished him luck before the race and pressed a pin into his wrist so the octosiren would smell his sweet blood and become infatuated with it.

The prophetess’s façade dropped as she glanced at her son in the doorway. Sentra stared at him too, her glare equally as piercing. Even her leathery wings seemed arched in disdain.

And so, Zane smiled.

“I’ll leave you unmerry lassies to your ugly scheming.” He bowed. “But as always…find a way to leave me out of it.” He said the last part to his mother, ice-blue eyes sharp.

She snarled at his back like a polar bear when he turned.

“Steelheart.” The name rolled off her venomous tongue. “Stop.”

The air in the room seemed to change, and Zane was met with the sound of his mother lifting from her cot.

So, they would finally speak, then. Finally sort this out. But when he turned back, he saw that his mother was not bracing for a quarrel.

“I don’t answer to you,” she said.

“And I don’t answer to you,” Zane reminded, leaning in to emphasise it. “But when I’m captain, you will answer to me. And after you tried to feed me to the octosiren this sunset past, I vow I’ll come up with all sorts of dreadful little ways to make you hate your scotchy life on my ship.” The same as what you did to chase off my father, was what he did not add.

His mother shut her cherry-red mouth. And so, Zane made his exit.