She ignored. The risk to Cam was too great, even with fishers watching. Plus, her crew must be so near. The Empress must be so near. Vivia had to see that they were safe—had to know where they were before she made any aggressive move.

They reached the center of the village, and Vivia almost laughed at the sight of a Dalmotti trade galleon, upside down and converted into a building. Again, it was so much more than what she’d imagined. For one, it seemed enormous with the hull exposed and curving upward. For two, it had been finely maintained: no old barnacles in sight, no storm damage, no grime.

Yoris and his hunters kept it spotless, and Vivia had to admit she was impressed at his ability to not only run a militia, but to have won such loyalty from them.

Yoris strutted into a gap that cut through the ship’s center. On one side was the quarterdeck. On the other, a new structure had been wedged beneath the forecastle to hold the ship flat. He aimed for the new structure, where an archway had been cut into pine planks and double doors opened wide.

They led to a jail dug into the ground. Crammed into the mud walls and six wooden paddocks was Vivia’s crew. Some sat against the walls, eyes closed, but most stood. Most huddled. Most whispered.

Until they heard Yoris arrive—and spotted Vivia behind him. Then they rushed to the wooden walls bars. “Captain,” they murmured. Or, “Thank Noden.” Or, “Thank the saints.” Several even spat curses at Yoris as he hobbled by.

And there it was again: that elation in Vivia’s chest. That strange, illogical certainty that this was right. That here was right, even as she was being marched along in ropes.

She said nothing to her crew. Gave them nods—Sonja, Ginna, and there was Sotar too. All of them grave, even as their eyes shone at the sight of her. I will get us out of here, she thought at each face. I will fix this, I swear.

At the end of the dug-out hall, where lantern light scarcely reached and roots poked down from the ceiling, Yoris paused before a final cell. The smallest of them all.

“The royal chambers,” he said, and his hunters, still marching behind Cam, gave obligatory chuckles. “You’ll be the third royal in here, Princess.” He pulled a key from his belt and with flourishing, ridiculous movements, he unlatched the door and opened it wide. “We had a Cartorran prince here two months ago. Now you and that Marstoki bitch. Enjoy.”

He kicked Vivia; she toppled through the door into darkness. Her knees hit soil. The door thwacked shut behind her, and five sets of laughter drifted away.