But he did not storm down the hall as he might normally have done. He slid against the wall to listen. And he hated himself for it—that he was so desperate to learn what his mother was doing, to learn what the moves she had been making these quarters were leading up to.

The woman had begged Zane to let her see the secrets of his heart in his seasons, and each time, he had refused. So, she had tried anyway, working her visions and spells to dive into his heart against his will. She had been furious when she realized she couldn’t get in—something Zane himself did not understand either but had been all too pleased to discover. The woman claimed a wall of steel existed around his heart.

“That boy is not going to wed me.” Sentra’s gurgling fish-voice slipped out from the cabin.

“He will. I will bloody make him,” his mother cooed. “I need to make this deal. My supplies won’t last another season and we’ve already pillaged the coastal villages we can reach. I need more cutlass wielders. I need a new crew with a hunger for blood.”

Zane shook his head in disgust. All this over a few more weapon-hands? He had discovered at a young age that she would do anything to get what she—

“You can kill him after the wedding.”

Zane stared at the chipping boards across the hall, not truly seeing them at all.

“You’re certain? I don’t want a prophetess’s retaliation if you decide you regret it.” Sentra’s voice held no conviction, and Zane’s jaw solidified. His fingers tapped his bone dagger as he considered marching back into that cabin and ending their conversation for good.

“My son will not be Captain of Kelidestone,” his mother whispered. “Steelheart has no interest in fulfilling the role I made him for, and I won’t spend the next twenty bloody seasons putting up with his insubordination.”

Whether it was anger or sorrow that touched his stomach with heat, Zane didn’t know. But he pulled himself off the wall and walked on light toes to his cabin in silence.

All night he lay awake, ignoring the pile of books stashed on his night table which he would read at times like these to keep his mind from caving in on itself. But he only stared out the oval window at the Winter stars now, singing along to a song his father had taught him as a boy.

“Row, row, row your boat—” His hum took over for a verse when he couldn’t remember the words. “–Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily—Life is but a dream.”

He ended the song as it settled in him what he was: unwanted. Someone not worth fighting for. Only an animal to be forced into submission. He was a creature of the seas, abandoned by his father, and hated by his mother.