Prince Maximus - two days later
Moonlight bathed the ships in a ghostly glow, shadows shifting as the waves lapped against the hulls.
Hidden within a secluded area of the city’s docks, Maximus, the eldest prince and heir to the fae throne of Othilia, meets with the pirates.
Around him, they leaned against barrels or perched on crates, their scarred faces illuminated by the flickering glow of lanterns. Their calculating gazes bore into him, testing him as they had for years.
Across the table, Captain Wolcott leaned casually, his gloved hands resting on the table as he studied the map laid across its surface.
“You called this meeting with urgency, Max.” Wolcott’s voice was low, his words slipping into the quiet like the hiss of a blade being drawn. “Your party has been a fine distraction, but the risk grows by the hour. Do you have something worth our time?”
He clenched his teeth, biting back a sharp retort. He hated how Wolcott could make even an ally feel like they were being interrogated.
“My father grows complacent, but the people of Iostra do not,” Max replied, his tone sharper than intended. “The kingdoms will intervene if we don’t act, and when that happens, we’ll lose control of this rebellion. We need a sea witch. What about Ursula?”
At the mention of her name, the pirates shifted uneasily. A few exchanged glances, their discomfort palpable in the cool night air. Wolcott didn’t flinch.
“Ursula,” he echoed, the name rolling off his tongue with a faint sneer.
“Aside from her being unreliable as hell? She’s as elusive as smoke on the wind.
And good luck finding her. You realize King Triton sent emissaries to your father last week, don’t you?
No doubt whispering that your rebellion is nothing more than a ploy to weaken the seas he claims as his own. ”
Max forced his shoulders to relax, though the tension in his chest coiled tighter, a serpent stirring beneath his skin.
“It doesn’t matter, because my father still doesn’t know I’m involved.
And Triton would know about ploys, wouldn’t he?
The Sea King’s been vying for control of Othilian ports since before I was born.
” At one-hundred and eighty-three years old, you’d think he would’ve given up by now.
Wolcott had been holding this port for over seven centuries, alongside the sea witch, Iris, before she died.
Wolcott’s lips twisted in a faint sneer. “True, but he’s not just sending whispers anymore. Word is, he’s offering your father his trident’s power in exchange for a permanent alliance. And if your rebellion fails, Max, he won’t hesitate to claim every inch of Othilia’s coast as his.”
Max’s fist slammed against the table, rattling the lanterns. “Which is exactly why I need Ursula. She’s the only one with enough power to match him.”
Wolcott’s lips twisted in a faint sneer. “You think she’ll help you? Triton’s wrath is the reason she’s in hiding, Max. If she comes out of the shadows to back you, she’ll be drawing a target on her back that even your rebellion can’t shield her from.”
Max’s jaw worked as he fought back frustration. “She’s my only option.”
Wolcott tilted his head. “Your only option, maybe. But not hers. If Ursula doesn’t want to be found, no amount of maps or smugglers will change that.”
Max clenched his fists, nails biting into his palms. The tension in his shoulders coiled tighter, a serpent stirring beneath his skin. He exhaled sharply, the faintest hiss slipping past his lips, a reminder of the half-shifter blood.
Wolcott’s gaze flicked toward him, sharp as ever. “You’ve been grasping at straws lately. This rebellion is teetering, Max. The sooner your father’s off the throne, the sooner you’re on it.”
Max’s eyes hardened. “Let’s not waste time with fantasies. My goal is to free Othilia, not to rule it.”
Wolcott’s smile was faint, the kind that never reached his eyes.
“That’s what you tell yourself, isn’t it?
” His attention shifted back to the map, his fingers tracing routes with a practiced ease.
“I’ve set eyes in the southern coves. Smugglers owe me favors, and if there’s a whisper of Ursula, I’ll hear it. ”
Wolcott’s fingers traced the edges of the map, his gloved hands brushing over faint glyphs etched along its borders—wards and spells long since faded, remnants of a magic only a few still understood.
“I know more about the old magics than you give me credit for, Max. If Ursula is using wards or spells to hide, I’ll find them. ”
Max’s lips tightened. “And what if she’s hiding because she doesn’t want to be found?”
Leaning against a barrel, one of the pirates spoke, cutting through the tension. “If she’s hiding, then that’s implied.”
Wolcott was fighting a smile at Johnny’s disrespect towards Max, who simply nodded while biting out a begrudging thanks.
“Then we make her want to be,” Wolcott said simply, his eyes glinting like the edge of a blade.
Max studied him, his unease growing. Wolcott was a master of navigating chaos, a man who could charm even the most hardened pirates, but there was always something guarded in his tone. As if his loyalty was a currency to be spent only when it suited him.
“You’ll handle it, then,” Max said, keeping his voice steady.
“Who else?” Wolcott smirked, rolling up the map. “You’ve got bigger things to worry about—like making it out of this alive.”
Wolcott leaned back, his gloved fingers drumming on the table. “And let’s not forget why I’m here, Max. That bastard sitting on the pirate throne isn’t just bleeding my people dry—he’s turning them into beggars and slaves. My people have suffered enough under his taxes and raids.”
Max nodded stiffly, his own frustrations echoing Wolcott’s. “We all know you want the Pirate King gone, Wolcott, but he doesn’t move without Triton’s and my father’s leash. As long as my father stays on the throne, Othilia keeps feeding him power and protection.”
Wolcott’s smile didn’t waver, though his eyes glinted with sharp intent. “And that’s why your father has to go first. Only then can we cut the strings and deal with the pirate king like the dog he is.”
Max tilted his head. “What happens after? You take the Pirate King’s throne for yourself?”
Wolcott didn’t hesitate. “Someone has to. Someone who knows the sea and its people better than that landlocked tyrant ever could.”
Max studied him, his unease growing. “This rebellion is meant to free people—not replace one throne with another.”
“And you think freedom comes without someone steering the ship?” Wolcott’s tone hardened, his voice as sharp as the blades hidden beneath his coat. “The pirate throne isn’t just power—it’s control. If I don’t take it, someone worse will.”
Wolcott nodded at the other pirates to leave them alone. As their footsteps grew far away, his gaze locked on Max.
“You want me to risk everything for your rebellion,” Wolcott said, his voice low and edged with a quiet venom. “But let’s get one thing straight—you’re not my king.”
The words struck with a force Max didn’t want to acknowledge, but his face remained impassive, his jaw tightening as he met Wolcott’s stare. “I never asked to be your king.”
The faint humor drained from Wolcott’s expression, leaving behind a cold edge. He leaned closer, his voice soft but no less cutting. “No. You didn’t. You had the chance to be something more, and you threw it away.”
Max’s throat tightened as the serpent shifter blood coiled beneath his skin. “This isn’t the time for your bitterness, Wolcott,” he snapped, his words more forceful than he intended.
Wolcott let out a dry, humorless laugh, straightening. “Call it whatever you like, Max. Just don’t mistake my loyalty to this cause for loyalty to you.”
Magic tightened around Max, pulling him from the salt-stained docks and Wolcott’s cutting words. The rebellion’s weight didn’t dissolve in the shift—it lingered, a shadow clinging to his thoughts.
The chaotic, perfumed pulse of the palace ballroom crashed over him like a breaking wave, its noise and heat an unwelcome assault.
The massive room throbbed with life, its air heavy with the mingling scents of wine, sweat, and smoke. Wild music filled the halls, accompanied by the sharp crack of a whip and a low groan of pleasure. Bodies twisted together in a fevered dance, the rhythm pulsing like a heartbeat.
Max moved through the crowd, his presence commanding nods and whispers but never breaking the flow of the revelry.
Once, these parties had been his escape—a fleeting thrill to drown out the weight of expectation.
Now, they felt hollow, the indulgence a mockery of the rebellion clawing for survival beyond these walls.
Wolcott’s voice echoed in his mind. The sooner your father’s off the throne, the sooner you’re on it.
The thought tightened in his chest, suffocating. He didn’t want the throne. He wanted freedom—for his mother, for Iostra, and for himself.
Wolcott’s words haunted Max as he navigated the fevered revelry of the ballroom.
The Pirate King’s cruelty was a cancer on the seas, but his power was rooted in Othilia’s court. His father’s alliance with that tyrant had been solidified through blood and gold—an unholy marriage of land and sea that had driven the rebellion to the brink.
Wolcott’s infiltration mission wasn’t just about gaining allies; it was about dismantling the throne’s influence from the inside.
Max couldn’t decide if the pirate captain’s ambition was a blessing or a curse.
Wolcott wanted freedom for his people, yes—but what kind of ruler would he become if he succeeded?
Max’s father had to fall first. There was no other way. Until then, the Pirate King would remain untouchable, feeding off Othilia’s wealth and starving the seas.
He turned to retreat, the noise grating against his nerves, but a sudden, foreign sensation rooted him in place. A tightening, sharp and unfamiliar, like a blade pressing against his ribs.
The doors opened, and chaos stilled.
She stepped inside, silver-clad, her presence slicing through the room like moonlight forged into steel.
Max’s breath hitched. Everything else—the rebellion, the palace, even Wolcott’s barbs—faded.