Chapter 25 The Captain and The Starling
Chapter Twenty-Five
The Captain and The Starling
Istand at the bow of the boat, gripping the railing so tightly my fingers ache. Pirates’ Cove looms in the distance, jagged cliffs rising like teeth from the sea.
My stomach twists with guilt. I’ve spent the entire trip trying to convince myself this is the right decision. I’m not betraying Peter. I’m trying to help him. This—this silence he’s wrapped me in—left me no other choice.
The sea breeze whips strands of hair across my face, cool against my burning cheeks. My palms are slick with sweat. Every breath feels too shallow.
Overhead, the sun is high in the sky—midmorning. We’re making good time. But the closer we draw to shore, the louder the thud of my heart becomes. It echoes in my ears like a drumbeat, drowning out even the waves.
I glance back at Thorne, silent at the wheel, his expression unreadable.
“You’re sure he’ll let us leave when we’re done talking?” I ask.
Thorne meets my gaze, hesitation flickering in his eyes before he exhales a weary sigh. “I… can’t promise you that, Wendy. But I have some sway with him. He should let us go.”
I don’t miss his careful wording. This whole mission feels more foolish by the minute.
As we enter the cove, I scan the ravaged coastal village ahead—if it can even be called a village.
It’s more like a crumbling labyrinth of docks and stilt-houses, the entire settlement teetering above the water on rotted timbers.
Weather-beaten shacks lean precariously, bound together by narrow planks and swaying rope bridges.
Nets hang limp from railings, sails flap tattered in the salt-heavy breeze.
Beneath the slats, I glimpse seafoam lapping at broken support beams, barnacles thick along their bases.
It looks like the whole place could collapse into the tide if I were to breathe on it too hard. And it is utterly silent. Not a single pirate on the docks, no movement in the shadows, no laughter or shouting—just the eerie creak of boards and the slap of waves.
Thorne sails past without a second glance.
I stare at him, bewildered. “Why aren’t we docking?”
Thorne only shakes his head, silent, guiding the boat toward the jagged maw of a massive sea cave. My breath catches as darkness swallows us whole. The only sound is the gentle lapping of waves against stone, echoing through the cavern like whispers.
As my eyes adjust, the cave reveals itself. A cathedral of rock rises around us—walls slick with moss and veined with softly glowing fungi. Stalactites hang like fangs overhead, dripping into the black water below. The air is cold and damp, heavy with a salty musk.
Thorne steers us forward with confidence, navigating the twisting path between half-submerged stones and narrow channels. No hesitation. No uncertainty.
He’s done this before.
Alarm hums beneath my skin. He’s far closer to Hook than he lets on.
Ahead, Hook’s ship comes into view, bobbing gently in the water, moored to a massive dock jutting from a sandy shore. Thorne eases his boat alongside it and ties off the line. He disembarks and turns to me.
“Come on,” he says, offering his hand.
My heart pounds harder, every beat louder than the last. Unease tightens in my stomach, a feeling of dread I can’t shake. None of this feels safe. I wish that Peter were here. But he’s not. He’s lying unconscious in our bed, the weight of whatever’s wrong with him still unanswered.
I draw in a shaky breath to steady myself. I, Wendy Darling, can do this, I chant to myself.
I take Thorne’s hand and step out of the boat, the dock groaning beneath my boots.
He leads me forward into a narrow passage carved into the rock, our footsteps muffled as we move from damp wood to packed sand.
The way is lit by flickering torches wedged into cracks along the walls.
The air is close and heavy, scented with damp stone, old smoke, and a faint tang of salt. Ahead, a pale glow beckons us forward.
We move toward it, and just as the passage begins to tighten, we emerge through a jagged opening into the dappled sunlight of a forest trail.
Narrow and winding, it cuts through a lush jungle of ferns as tall as my shoulders, vines draped like ribbons, sunlight filtering through the thick green canopy.
“Where are we?” I murmur. “I thought the pirate hideout was on the beach.”
Thorne chuckles, low and without humor. “That was the old hideout.”
My blood goes cold. I stop walking.
“Does Peter know about this?”
Thorne doesn’t answer.
We walk only a little farther before the trees thin—and then the forest breaks open entirely.
Spread out before me, nestled between jagged cliffs and a cascading waterfall, is a hidden settlement—so unexpected and breathtaking it looks like something out of a dream.
Wooden structures rise directly from the cliff face, winding upward in tiers like a fortress grown from the stone.
Rope bridges crisscross the air, suspended between balconies and trees, swaying gently in the breeze.
Lanterns hang from every branch and beam, catching the sunlight as they sway like tethered stars.
The waterfall crashes into a sapphire pool below, its roar echoing through the glen, soothing and ominous all at once.
It’s a pirate den, but nothing like I imagined. It was wild and ungoverned, beautiful in a fierce, unruly way.
Pirates mill about, shirtless and sweat-slicked, hauling crates, sharpening blades, laughing raucously across balconies. But as Thorne steps out beside me, their movements slow. Heads turn. Eyes narrow. And then they see me.
Silence falls, and every pirate within view freezes. Some straighten. Some reach for weapons.
I inch closer to Thorne’s side, half-hiding behind his back. He glances down at me with a furrowed brow before sweeping his gaze over the now-still crowd. Their stares track me, hard to decipher, harder to ignore.
“Just stay close to me,” he murmurs.
I let out a dry, nervous laugh. “Yeah, I wasn’t planning on wandering off with them looking at me like they want to slit my throat.”
Thorne leads me through the heart of the hideout toward a large structure towering above the smaller, rough-hewn buildings scattered along the cliffs.
Unlike the others, this one is solid, angular, built on stone footings with dark-stained wood that looks permanently infused with soot.
We climb a creaking staircase to a pair of imposing double doors carved with swirling nautical motifs—waves, krakens, shipwrecks.
Thorne pauses at the door, casting me a sideways glance. “Are you ready?”
I swallow hard, nerves buzzing beneath my skin. “As I’ll ever be.”
He pushes the doors open. They groan on their hinges, revealing a vast dining hall bathed in firelight.
The space is cavernous, built directly into the cliffside.
Rough beams stretch high overhead, and narrow windows set near the ceiling spill sunlight across the room.
A long wooden table commands the center, its surface scarred by years of knives slamming into the wood.
Iron chandeliers hang above it with flickering candles, and furs are draped over the bench seats.
Maps and weapons line the walls, giving the place the feel of a war council rather than a dining hall.
At the head of the table lounges Captain Hook. He reclines with one boot propped on a chair, his hook skewering a hunk of meat as he tears into it, a silver goblet gleaming in his other hand. A platter of fruit, cheese, and bread sits before him.
He looks up as we enter, and his eyes widen in open surprise. Then—slowly, like a ripple catching its momentum—a predatory grin spreads across his face.
“Well, well, well,” he drawls. “What a delightfully unexpected surprise.”
Dread coils low in my gut, alarm bells clanging in my skull.
This was a mistake.
Hook stands abruptly, the legs of his chair scraping across the stone. “Where are my manners?” he says, voice smooth and a bit dramatic. “Welcome. Come, sit down. Are you hungry?”
Before either of us can answer, he bellows for two more plates of food.
I slide into the seat directly across from Hook, casting a sideways look at Thorne. He’s watching Hook closely, his expression tight and carefully blank. Relief flickers through me when he chooses the chair at my right instead of the one beside Hook.
Hook leans back, spreading his arms with a theatrical flair. “So. To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”
I open my mouth to respond, but a nearby door creaks open. A man strides in carrying two steaming plates, the smell hitting me before I can even see the food—savory and rich, a heady mix of sizzling fat, warm bread.
He sets a plate before me: thick slices of perfectly crisped bacon, buttered bread still glistening, and soft scrambled eggs flecked with herbs.
Beside it, he places a silver goblet filled with an opaque pink liquid that glows faintly in the candlelight.
My stomach twists painfully. I hadn’t eaten since lunch yesterday.
Dinner had vanished under the horror of Peter’s rage.
Hook watches me with a knowing smile, eyes glinting. “Why don’t you dig in,” he says smoothly. “Conversations go better on full stomachs, don’t you think? Easier to be civil.”
I hesitate, eyeing the food. But Thorne is already eating beside me, unfazed. My stomach growls loudly, betraying me. With a resigned sigh, I pick up my fork.
The bacon is impossibly crisp, the bread melts on my tongue, and the eggs are runny and perfectly seasoned. I lift the goblet and take a long sip. The juice is cold and citrusy, tinged with a strange floral sweetness I can’t place.
Across the table, Hook watches me eat with barely concealed interest as he finishes off his hunk of meat. His smile is easy, but never touches his eyes.
We eat in silence, tension humming in the air like a taut wire strung between us. When I finish, I dab my mouth with a cloth napkin.
“Shall we move somewhere more comfortable?” Hook asks.
I straighten immediately. “I’d rather stay here,” I say, my voice firmer than I feel. I don’t want to lose the table between us, my only barrier.
Hook arches a dark brow but doesn’t argue. Instead, he lifts two fingers lazily. “Wine?” he asks.
We both shake our heads.
A moment later, the same man returns to clear the plates. The instant the door clicks shut behind him, Hook shoots me a cunning grin.
“Before we get to the nitty-gritty of today,” he says, reclining with deliberate ease, “I want you to tell me a story, Miss Darling.”
I gape at him. “You can’t be serious.”
“Oh, but I am.” His grin sharpens. “It’s been so long since you last regaled me with a tale. What can I say? You have a certain way with words.”
I fight the urge to slam my fist on the table, to demand he stop playing games, but I swallow it down. I knew coming here was a gamble. I can’t just throw away my only chance at information over a story—not when Peter’s life might depend on it.
“Well then,” Hook urges, gesturing with his gleaming silver hook. “Get on with it.”
I take a slow breath, letting the warm hush of the candlelit room settle my nerves. “Fine,” I say softly. “I’ll tell you a story.”
Hook’s eyes gleam triumphantly. Thorne goes still beside me.
“There once was a lonely captain,” I begin, “a man who sailed farther than any map dared stretch. People whispered about him in every port—some called him brilliant, some ruthless, some cursed. But everyone agreed on one thing: he didn’t let anyone close. Not truly.”
Hook lifts a brow, clearly amused.
“One day, in the middle of a storm that should have swallowed his ship whole, the captain found a starling struggling in the waves. A tiny thing—fragile and half-drowned. Wings trembling. Chest barely rising.”
My eyes flick briefly to Thorne, whose gaze is fixed on the table.
“He scooped it from the water, tucked it inside his coat, and carried it into his cabin. For days, he fed it crumbs from his table, warmed it by torchlight, whispered to it in the quiet hours of the night. And slowly… the starling healed.”
“The bird soon began to mimic him,” I continue. “It learned the cadence of his voice, the tilt of his laugh. It perched on his shoulder during long voyages and sang whenever storms rolled in. It adored him because he had saved its life. But the captain… well, he mistook its devotion for belonging.”
I fold my hands in my lap to steady myself and meet Hook’s gaze head-on.
“One evening, the starling hopped to the edge of the cabin window, ready to take flight. Its wing had healed. It was strong again. But the captain slammed the shutters closed. He told himself it was for the bird’s own good.
That the world outside was cruel. That storms and predators waited beyond the rails.
But the truth was far simpler. He couldn’t bear the idea of the bird leaving him. ”
An odd stillness settles over the hall. I hear Thorne swallow hard beside me.
“At first, the starling waited,” I say. “It trusted the captain. Trusted that the window would open again. But days passed. Then weeks. Months. And its song grew thin. Its feathers dulled. The cabin became a cage. Then one morning, the captain woke to find the starling on the floor. Not dead, but dying from the very devotion he had mistaken for love. And so the captain carried it to the highest mast, opened his hands, and set it free. The starling didn’t look back. ”
I let the words hang for a moment. Hook’s gaze is hard to read, but he doesn’t look particularly pleased. I spare a glance at Thorne, whose eyes remain fixed on the table—jaw clenched, shoulders rigid.
“And every morning afterward,” I finish quietly, “the captain climbed the mast and waited for wings that never returned. He was alone again.”
Silence descends like a curtain.