Chapter 8 Maximus
Maximus
Jimmy’s large hands gripped the hem of Willy’s shirt and ripped it clean off in one violent motion. The fabric tore with a sound that cut through the morning air like a blade.
If only the boy removed it himself rather than begging for mercy. Willy was only making this harder on himself.
He stood there, shoulders hunched, his knitted brown cap still perched on his blond head like some pathetic shield against what was coming.
The circle of pirates around us shifted restlessly.
Hawk-eye’s face had gone pale, while Greybeard watched with the detached interest of someone who’d seen this dance too many times.
Patty couldn’t even look, her gaze fixed firmly on the deck planks.
I crossed my arms and kept my expression neutral, even though every instinct screamed at me to intervene. But Butcher had followed protocol—sought the captain’s permission, presented his case with witnesses. When I’d questioned it, the bastard’s justification had been solid enough.
“Boy wasn’t where he was supposed to be,” Butcher had explained with barely concealed satisfaction.
“Found him helping Sage in the galley instead of checking the powder stores like he was supposed to. When I confronted him about it, little whelp called me a ‘bullying pig’ right in front of Moonie, Sprocket, and Jimmy. I’m not having the crew thinking they can mouth off to their superiors without consequence. ”
Viper had nodded, his gold tooth glinting. “Ten lashes should remind him where he stands.”
I could have pushed harder, could have argued that Willy was just trying to be helpful. But overriding Butcher’s authority as boatswain would undermine the entire chain of command—including my own position. The crew needed structure, needed to know their place, or chaos would follow.
It didn’t make watching this any easier.
Butcher hefted the cat-o’-nine-tails, testing its weight with obvious relish. The leather strips swayed in the wind as he positioned himself behind Willy, who had his hands pressed against the mainmast. The boatswain’s balding head gleamed with sweat despite the cool morning air.
“Ten lashes for insubordination,” Butcher announced to the assembled crew, his voice carrying across the deck. “Let this be a lesson to anyone else thinking of abandoning their duties.”
He raised the whip high, muscles bulging beneath his shirt, a gleeful expression spreading across his scarred face as he prepared to deliver the first strike.
The first lash cracked across Willy’s bare back like thunder, and the boy’s sharp cry cut through me worse than any blade. I kept my face stone, arms crossed, but inside, something twisted and bled.
True strength is protecting those who cannot protect themselves, Maximus.
Mother’s voice drifted through my mind, soft and warm as summer rain.
Lady Catherine Blackwood, kneeling beside a sick child in the lower districts, her silk dress stained with mud and worse.
Years later, she’d died for those words, catching fever while nursing the poor when she could’ve stayed safe in her manor.
The second lash fell. Willy’s knees buckled, but he caught himself against the mast. A whimper escaped his throat.
Grandfather would have stopped this. One of the most respected fleet admirals ever to serve Sunada—who taught me that the sky belonged to those brave enough to claim it, who believed command meant responsibility, not cruelty. He’d commanded respect through fairness, not fear.
What would they both think of me now?
The third strike left an angry red welt across Willy’s shoulders. I forced my breathing to remain steady, my expression neutral. The Reaper couldn’t show weakness. The Reaper couldn’t care.
But inside, my family’s disappointment crushed me, stealing the air from my lungs.
Movement caught my eye—Ariella stalking away from the circle, her blue eyes blazing with disgust. She’d head straight to Stitches’ cupboard, prepare bandages and salve. At least someone here still had a conscience.
The fourth lash. Willy gasped, his knuckles white against the dark wood of the mast.
I’d become everything my family stood against. A man who watched children suffer in silence. A man who prioritized his own survival over protecting the innocent. The bitter truth settled in my stomach like poison—I was no better than the man who’d framed me for treason. Not really.
Ghost stood almost opposite. Though his green eyes weren’t on Willy’s bloodied back… They were fixed on me, studying my face with an intensity that made my skin itch. His fists clenched at his sides, jaw tight with barely contained fury.
Does he think I want this? Does he not understand how powerless I am here?
The fifth lash fell with a wet sound that turned my stomach. Willy’s sob echoed across the deck, and I died a little more inside while keeping my mask perfectly intact.
After what felt like an eternity, the tenth lash fell with a sickening crack. Willy’s legs finally gave out, and he slumped against the mast, his back a mess of angry welts and seeping cuts. The punishment was over.
Relief flooded through me like cool water. Thank the goddesses.
But Butcher didn’t step back. He hefted the cat-o’-nine-tails again, a cruel smile spreading across his face.
“No harm in a couple extra,” he called out to the crew. “Make sure the lesson really sticks.”
The eleventh lash ripped across Willy’s already torn flesh. The boy’s scream echoed across the deck, raw and broken.
My blood turned to ice. This wasn’t discipline anymore—this was sadistic pleasure. I looked at Viper, but he only held an expression of vague amusement on his horrible face.
The twelfth lash fell before I could move. Willy collapsed completely, his forehead pressed against the mast, shoulders shaking with silent sobs.
“That marks twelve,” I bellowed. “Stop now, because I need the whelp to be able to work today.”
Butcher turned to face me, the whip still raised. His small eyes glittered with challenge, testing whether I’d back down in front of the entire crew. The moment stretched between us like a taut rope—one wrong move and everything would snap.
“The boy’s learned his lesson,” I continued, my tone deadly calm. “Unless you think he needs to be unconscious to truly understand his place. But I’m not sure the crew wants to pick up the extra work Willy won’t be able to complete.”
The boatswain’s jaw worked silently. He wanted to refuse, wanted to assert his authority over mine. But challenging the first mate directly would cross a line even Viper wouldn’t tolerate.
“Reaper’s right,” the captain’s voice boomed. “Everyone needs to get back to work now, show’s over, kids.”
Butcher’s face flushed red, but he tossed the cat-o’-nine-tails to Jimmy and stalked away, his massive frame radiating frustrated anger.
The crew began to disperse. Willy remained crumpled against the mast, soft whimpers escaping his throat. Blood trickled down his back in thin crimson streams.
Across the circle, Ghost’s green eyes met mine. No words passed between us, but I felt the weight of his judgment. He’d watched me stand silent for twelve lashes. His disgust with me matched the disgust I felt for myself.
But the longer we stood there, locked in this silent exchange across the blood-stained deck, the more I realized that Ghost’s green eyes didn’t burn with judgment or condemnation.
They weren’t cold with disgust at my cowardice.
Instead, they held something infinitely worse—sympathy.
The kind of look reserved for wounded animals trapped in cages of their own making.
And that gentle compassion in his gaze cut deeper than any blade ever could.
My throat tightened, and I tore my gaze away from Ghost’s face and focused on the immediate problem.
Willy still slumped against the mast, his back a canvas of angry red welts.
Ariella had returned from Stitches’ cupboard with supplies, kneeling beside the boy to tend his wounds.
Ghost soon joined her, and together, they wiped the welts with soft, tender strokes of wet cloths.
“Get him cleaned up and then hide him away somewhere for at least an hour,” I hissed into Ariella’s ear. “But he’ll need to be seen working after that.” I turned to Willy. “And next time, powder monkey, follow your assigned duties.”
Willy nodded weakly, not lifting his head from where it rested against the mast.
I turned on my heel and strode away, my prosthetic clicking against the deck planks with each step. But I could still feel those green eyes following me, still feel the weight of that terrible, gentle understanding burning between my shoulder blades.
The scent of stale coffee and burnt toast filled the galley as I watched Sage tap the oven’s temperature gauge with his knuckle. The needle sat motionless at zero.
“Dead as a doornail.” Sage yanked open the oven door with a metallic screech. “Six coin-grades in three weeks. At this rate, we’ll be eating raw fish before we reach Asteris.”
I leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “Six? That can’t be right.”
“Count ‘em yourself.” Sage pulled a wooden box from beneath the counter and flipped open the lid. Inside lay a neat row of dull, gray stones, each the size of a silver piece. “These need to go into the hold.”
“Damn.” I picked up one of the spent stones, its surface cold and lifeless against my palm. “How many charged ones do we have left down there?”
“Not enough,” he replied.
I crossed the galley, bending down to reach inside the oven. I pried the two fluxstones out, tossing them in the box with their dead brothers.
“We’ll need to replenish at the next port. Several of the cannons are down as well. Can’t make it to Gearhart like this,” I said.
Sage grunted, already wiping down his workstation. “Better tell Viper. Last time we ran out of coin-grade, he had us eating hardtack for a week.”
“I’ll talk to him.”