Three women emerged from the crowd, each wearing billowy blouses, formfitting breeches, and coal-black boots fitted with shining silver buckles in the fashion of their captain. Judging by the shoes’ perfect mold to the women’s calves and the lack of grime, I wagered a cordwainer had joined their ranks.

“Lanard, please escort these women to their rooms below deck. Make them comfortable and fetch them anything they request.” I paused, adding, “Within reason.”

A pale-faced Lanard acknowledged my order with a slight tip of his chin. He kept a healthy distance from Captain Lou as he ushered the procession to the wooden planks bridging our ships.

I couldn’t blame him for his wariness. Lanard was no stranger to demise, having endured far worse than a sword to his throat. His father Domain had been slaughtered by a siren while part of my crew. A tragedy that marked The Sea Singer’s last encounter with the sirens’ imperial clan. Despite his rightful distrust of Captain Lou, he’d never disapprove of our alliance. To end the War of the Sea was paramount for all of us.

As I watched Lou lead her women across the planks, the youngest of the bunch, a petite thing with frizzing brown curls, nervously peeked over each shoulder and reached for a willowy woman’s hand. I knew the slender blonde from a brief encounter back on Cava, a meeting neither of us would make known. They threaded fingers, exchanging words I didn’t catch. The fourth woman, though, gave me pause. The tense creases around her eyes and lips were visible at a distance. Older. Wiser. She towered over most of my men. She walked with stiff shoulders as rigid as her severe black bun. Her gaze darted in every direction as if cataloging details for a later attack. I wondered if this troubling, unusual woman was Captain Lou’s trusted assassin.

As everyone returned to their stations and prepared to sail back to port, I admired my ship from across the waters. The Sea Singer, secretly constructed by King Delphi’s men, was a gift for my nineteenth birthday. Twice the size of The Freedom, it held over two hundred men, many of whom, like me, had once pledged their loyalty to the Royal Navy. Old bronze lanterns adorned the stern, and the bowsprit stretched into a piercing apex. Crushed, black-lipped pearls were pressed into the inscription of the ship’s name on the port side. It served as a homing beacon for my contact under the waves. Contrary to its reputation, The Sea Singer was no ordinary pirate ship. The vessel was designed to chart the waters to the siren island so I could kill the queen. But each excursion failed, good men paying with their lives.