Chapter 2 Maximus
Maximus
The wind whipped through my hair as I leaned against the starboard railing, watching the clouds part beneath us.
Dawn painted the sky in shades of amber and rose, the kind of sunrise that made my soul ache with the pure freedom of flight.
These quiet moments before most of the crew stirred were precious—no phantom pains from my leg, no responsibilities, just the embrace of the open air.
“Sir! Reaper, sir!”
The sharp voice cut through my reverie. Sparrow’s boots clicked against the deck as she hurried toward me, her spiky black hair disheveled beneath a faded red bandana, the tarnished silver beads at its edges clinking with each hurried step.
Her sail master’s coat—cut down from an admiral’s uniform she’d won in a card game—flapped open in the wind.
Suppressing a groan, I asked, “What’s the captain done now?” because there would only be one thing that would get Sparrow in such a state so early in the morning.
“It’s Moonie, sir. Viper’s threatening to throw them overboard. Something about a loose forestay?” Sparrow’s hands twisted together. “He’s in one of his moods.”
I frowned. Moonie was one of our best riggers. As sail master, Sparrow was in charge of Moonie. As XO—or, first mate, because we were on a pirate ship, not an Imperial Fleet vessel—I was in charge of making sure the captain didn’t kill anyone.
It was a role I was successful at. Usually.
“When isn’t Viper in one of his moods?” I pushed away from the railing, my mechanical leg creaking in protest. The damned thing was ancient—I direly needed an upgrade. “Where are they?”
“Main deck, sir. By the forward mast. Captain’s got his hat on sideways—you know what that means.”
“One day the wind will finally take that ridiculous tricorn of his.” I started toward the ladder. “How long has he been ranting?”
“Going on ten minutes now. Started when he found the loose rigging during his morning inspection.”
“I’ll handle it. You go spread the word that everyone needs to be on their best behavior today.”
The captain’s voice carried up from below, a string of creative curses that would make even the most hardened aeronaut blush. I quickened my pace. Van Jagger in a rage was like a storm front—best to navigate it carefully before it turned into a full-blown tempest.
My leg protested as I descended the steps two at a time.
The scene before me froze my blood—Moonie dangled over the edge of the ship, their dark hair whipping in the wind as Viper’s meaty fingers wrapped around their throat.
The captain’s prized tricorn sat askew, and his face tattoo—a morbid skull—seemed to smile maliciously in my direction.
“Captain.” I kept my voice steady, though my pulse hammered. One wrong word and Moonie would plummet through the clouds. “A word?”
“This piece of bilge rat nearly killed us all.” Viper’s gold tooth caught the light as he spoke, his breath visible in the crisp morning air. “Loose rigging could’ve taken down the whole forward section.”
Moonie’s fingers clawed at Viper’s grip, their face turning an alarming shade of purple. I needed to defuse this—fast.
“The forestay?” I moved closer. “I ordered Moonie to leave it. Found a crack in the mounting bracket last night. Better to have it loose than snap mid-flight.”
A lie, but one that might save a life.
Viper’s dark eyes narrowed. His grip on Moonie loosened slightly. I could see the calculations running behind those eyes—weighing his rage against the possibility he might be wrong.
“If that bracket’s not cracked…” The threat hung in the air.
I met his gaze. “Then you can throw us both over.”
A tense moment passed before Viper hauled Moonie back onto the deck. They collapsed, gasping for air, as the captain stomped away, pausing only to straighten his beloved hat.
I helped Moonie to their feet. “You okay?”
They nodded, rubbing their throat. “Thanks, Reaper.”
“Go get Puffy to replace that bracket. Now.” I kept my voice low. “And Moonie? Next time, double-check your work. I won’t always be here to save your neck.”
I watched Moonie hastily disappear. My hands still trembled—I gripped the railing to steady them, letting the endless expanse of clouds below calm my racing thoughts.
It had been years now, but I still hadn’t acclimatized to pirate life.
In the Imperial Fleet, there had been protocols, procedures, chain of commands that were respected without question.
A proper XO’s job involved paperwork, training schedules, and crew evaluations.
Here? I spent half my time preventing murder.
Beside me, The Black Wraith’s massive wing extended outward, its wooden spokes splayed like the ribs of some ancient beast. Canvas membranes billowed between each strut, taut and gleaming with morning dew.
The wing flexed, its tip curling slightly upward as we caught an updraft, the entire structure trembling with barely contained power.
No wonder the crew endured Viper’s rages—there was no feeling in the world like soaring on wings that moved as if they were alive.
A burst of laughter from the crew’s quarters below deck drew my attention. At least they respected me—or feared me enough to follow orders. The whole “Reaper” persona had certainly worked. Better to be the threatening shadow that kept order than the disgraced ex-fleet officer with a bum leg.
Maximus Blackwood, with his spotless uniform and dreams of captaincy, was nothing but ash scattered on the winds. He’d died the day they arrested me, stripping me of my rank. The Reaper had risen in his place.
The crew whispered about me, of course. Tales of how I’d earned my nickname grew more outlandish with each telling.
I never corrected them. Let them think what they wanted—it made my job easier.
They followed orders, kept their heads down when I passed, and came to me with problems before they escalated to the captain’s attention.
But, by the goddesses, I missed the simplicity of fleet life. The clean uniforms, the polished brass, the certainty and order of it all, the pride in it. Here, every day was a delicate balance of managing Viper’s moods and keeping the pirate crew—over a hundred souls—long enough to earn their pay.
Under my well-worn breeches, my leg twinged, a phantom pain shooting through a limb that no longer existed.
I shifted my weight, trying to find a more comfortable position.
One day, I’d finally save enough for a decent prosthetic—one that didn’t creak and groan with every step.
Newer top-of-the-range models could even be surgically attached to my body, permanently—as close to a ‘real limb’ as I’d ever get.
Perhaps I’d even grow to accept it, rather than battle the revulsion that flooded through me when I attached my current one each morning.
Duty called, so I made my way below deck, the familiar scent of Sage’s cooking guiding me through the narrow corridors.
The galley was his domain—a cramped space that he’d somehow transformed into a miracle of efficiency.
Copper pots hung from hooks in the ceiling, swaying with the ship’s movement.
His prized herb garden thrived in small boxes mounted to the walls, the plants secured against turbulence.
Every surface gleamed—Sage wouldn’t tolerate anything less than spotlessness in his kitchen.
The man himself stood at the iron stove.
His meticulously clean apron—a patchwork of fabrics from every port we’d visited—was tied tightly around his waist, the numerous small pockets bulging with dried herbs.
Beneath it, he wore a simple linen shirt with the sleeves rolled precisely three turns up his forearms, as fastidious about his appearance as he was about his kitchen.
Sage stirred what looked like gruel but was actually porridge in a massive pot.
Pebble-grade fluxstones—the smallest grade of the energy-storing rocks—powered the heating elements, their blue glow reflecting off the polished surfaces.
Sage’s dark skin glistened with sweat from the heat, but his face lit up when he saw me.
“Reaper! Good to see you.” He gestured with his wooden spoon. “I’ve added dried berries to make this more palatable. The crew won’t even realize they’re eating something healthy.”
I laughed. “They’ll spit the berries out, knowing them.” Leaning against a pole, I got straight down to business. “You wanted to report someone stealing food?”
Sage’s expression darkened as he wiped his hands on his apron. “Three nights in a row now.” He pulled out a leather-bound notebook, flipping it open to reveal neat columns of numbers. “See here? Ten portions of dried beef missing. Four water skins. Enough hardtack to feed a small family.”
“You’re certain?”
“I track every morsel that leaves this kitchen. These aren’t random snacks, Reaper. Someone’s stockpiling.”
I frowned. Sage’s methodical nature was one reason I trusted him. If he said supplies were missing, they were missing. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“Wanted to be double sure it wasn’t just my imagination. But after last night…” He shook his head. “We can’t risk the captain getting any wind of this.”
I sighed, twisting my metal rings around my fingers. “Leave it with me, Sage. I’ll figure out who’s—”
A crash echoed near the galley, followed by shouts and the thunder of boots on wooden planks. My leg protested as I spun around, but I ignored the stabbing pain and rushed toward the crew quarters.
The scene that greeted me could’ve been lifted from a tavern brawl. Greybeard had Patty in a headlock, her face turning an alarming shade of red. The rest of the crew formed a circle around them, whooping and placing bets.
“STOP!” My voice cracked like a whip across the cabin.
Greybeard released Patty immediately. She stumbled forward, gasping for air.