“Welcome to the snowseas, old man. Let’s see if I let you survive until sunrise.” Zane’s mouth tipped upward in victory.

But there was no dismay on the man’s face, even as he finally replied, “I am not old.”

The ship rocked the crew to sleep, the easy sway soothing Zane’s weary body as he stared through the cage at the prisoner the crew had dragged belowdecks. His mother had declared the prisoner to be worth a ransom, should his two allies return. So, they hadn’t killed him. Yet.

It was very much like his mother to decide the prisoner belonged to her.

After an hour or three of mocking the middle-aged man, the rest of the crew had drifted away to their cabins, or to the main deck to set sail with his mother behind the wheel, until only Zane and Tigris remained.

“You cheated.” Zane finally said it. Even with everything that had happened since the race, he wanted Tigris to know he had seen it.

Tigris’s lip curled into a snarl. “You survived.” The words were so wicked, Zane looked at the boy.

Once, Zane was praised for his pranks and his ability to draw a laugh or three. Now, he had been handed a platter of frustration in place of it. Tigris was always the first to toss a cutting word in Zane’s direction or fling a fish at the back of Zane’s head to make the men laugh. Zane’s temper had become a thing so easily triggered, he was sure the crew placed bets on it.

Tigris’s eyes slid over, a gloat stealing his face. “I win, Cohen-Margus-Bowswither. Your ship. Your life. It’s mine.”

Zane grunted and looked back to the man in the cage who said nothing. It didn’t seem as though the old man was listening as he stared through the small window at the snowseas, but Zane had a feeling the old bat had heard every word.

I win. Your ship.

Your life.

But Zane could hold on. Had to hold on. Or he would have nothing. Being a pirate, son of the prophetess, was the only thing he was.

“We’ll see,” was all he said before Tigris’s quiet chuckle filled the ship’s belly. The boy strutted off to command the sails alongside the prophetess where he believed he belonged.

Zane was glaring when the old man glanced at him. To Zane’s ever-growing frustration, the man did not even look afraid. Nor did he appear bothered by the ring of purple around his left eye, or the swelling bruise along his jaw.

The prophetess would consider all her options before she decided what to do with the prisoner. She would settle on whichever one filled her pockets with the most gold rings.