Chapter 117

An hour passed. Jason didn't rest.

He sat on a stone bench near the edge of the cistern, silent, eyes half-closed. Sable stood nearby, watching him with that same unreadable expression.

"You don't fight like anyone from this side of the sea," Sable said eventually.

Jason opened one eye. "That's because I'm not."

He didn't elaborate. Sable didn't push.

The horn sounded again—sharper this time. A new crowd had gathered, drawn by the story of the man in the dusty cloak who folded his opponent without drawing a weapon.

This time, they were ready for him.

The second fighter entered from a side tunnel. Tall, lean, wiry. Two hooked blades glinted at his sides. His stance was low, serpent-like. Trained. Fast.

Jason stepped into the ring again, cloak left behind. His bare feet met the stone with quiet confidence. He looked at the man's blades and gave the smallest frown.

"Another one with weapons," he muttered.

The crowd surged, shouting for blood.

The fighter didn't waste time. He lunged in a flurry, his twin blades flashing like silver lightning. A feint to the left, a real strike to the ribs—fast, precise, practiced.

Jason turned his body just enough. The blade grazed skin but didn't break it. His hand caught the second strike by the wrist, and before the fighter could react, Jason twisted.

There was a wet pop, a cry of pain, and one of the blades hit the ground.

The man reeled back, off-balance. Jason followed. A punch to the gut, then a sweep of the leg that sent the fighter sprawling.

Jason didn't hesitate. He stepped in, foot on the man's chest, and raised a hand.

The crowd tensed, expecting the killing blow.

But Jason stopped.

His palm hovered inches from the man's face.

"I don't need to kill him," Jason said, voice low but clear.

The pitmaster stood again. "You don't. But it earns you more."

"I didn't come for more," Jason replied.

He stepped back.

The crowd was dead silent. Then, slowly, a few voices began to cheer—not loud or wild, but tense, respectful. The kind that said *we saw something real*.

Sable grinned at the edge of the pit.

"You just made a very strong impression," he said as Jason walked out.

Jason rolled his shoulder, barely winded. "Good. Because I'm done here."

Sable nodded. "Then it's time you met the captain of *The Dalyla*."

They didn't speak as they left the cistern.

Sable led Jason through twisting alleys, past shuttered windows and oil lamps burning low. The sea was close now—he could smell the salt, hear the creak of moored ships and the low groan of wood in the tide.

At the far end of the harbor, *The Dalyla* waited.

She was unlike the other ships. Sleek and dark, built low to the waterline like a predator. No pennants, no colors, no markings—just black sails furled tight and a figurehead carved in the shape of a woman whose face had been worn smooth by storms.

"She doesn't look like much," Jason said.

Sable smirked. "She doesn't have to."

They crossed the gangplank. Jason noticed the way the crew watched him—quiet, wary. Most of them were armed, even here on deck. He didn't miss the tension in their posture. This wasn't a merchant vessel. This was a ship that expected trouble.

At the far end of the deck, near the helm, stood the captain.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, with dark hair tied back in a low knot. His face was rugged, scarred from a life spent facing the elements—and worse. His coat was long, weathered from years on the open sea. When he turned toward them, his eyes were cold and sharp, like a blade drawn in the dark.

"You're the one who left the pit without killing," the captain said.

Jason stopped a few paces away. "I didn't need to."

"No, you didn't." The captain's voice was gravelly, but measured. "That's either strength or arrogance. I'm still deciding."

Jason met his gaze evenly. "I don't care what you decide. I need a place on your ship."

The captain studied him, his eyes scanning Jason's posture, the way he carried himself. He stepped closer, each movement deliberate, like he was measuring Jason in ways words couldn't describe.

"What's your name?" the captain asked.

"Jason."

"Where are you from?"

Jason didn't flinch. "Not here."

A slow, approving smile tugged at the captain's lips. "Good. I don't take men who belong anywhere."

He turned and walked toward the wheel, gesturing for Jason to follow.

"I don't carry passengers. I carry people who fight, bleed, and work. If you want to sail on *The Dalyla*, you follow orders. You pull your weight. And if you get in my way, I throw you overboard."

Jason nodded once. "Understood."

The captain paused, turning back to face him. "We sail in two nights. If you're not on deck by then, I won't wait."

He gave a short, sharp nod. "Welcome aboard."

The crew of The Dalyla was a hardened group, moving with the rhythm of experience, but there was something that stood out among them. Something different.

Jason first noticed them when he passed the lower deck. Three women, their faces partially hidden by a heavy curtain. They weren't like the rest of the crew.

The first woman had long, flowing brown hair and warm, brown eyes. Her figure was voluptuous, and she exuded a quiet beauty that commanded attention. She carried herself with an air of confidence, but there was something serene about her, like she was waiting for something—or someone. He recognized her from somewhere.

The second woman was taller, with a pixie cut that framed her face perfectly. Her eyes and hair were the same color as the first woman's, but her posture was different—graceful, almost ethereal, as though she were lighter than air. She moved with purpose, her elegance almost making the air around her shimmer.

The third woman was shorter, with a petite build, but there was a strength in the way she held herself. Her chest was modest, but her presence was undeniable—there was fire in her gaze, a quiet confidence that came from knowing her own worth. She was the kind of woman who wouldn't back down from anything.

Jason couldn't help but notice that the crew seemed to give them space. It wasn't just because they were beautiful—though they certainly were—it was something else. An unspoken rule, perhaps.

One of the older sailors, seeing Jason's curiosity, leaned in and whispered, "Don't ask about them. It's... complicated."

Jason frowned, not entirely understanding. "What do you mean?"

The sailor gave him a hard look before lowering his voice further. "It's the sea. The Leviathan. Some say it demands the presence of three virgin women to cross its waters, but no one really knows why."

Jason raised an eyebrow. "The Leviathan?"

The sailor nodded. "Some ships have made the crossing before, carrying three virgin women. It's not like we're offering them as tribute—no one knows what the Leviathan wants with them, but without them... we can't sail. We can't make it across the waters safely."

Jason was about to ask more, but the sailor quickly moved away, blending back into the crew. Jason's mind was left spinning with the strange superstition. The women, who had caught his attention the most, were tied to something bigger than he'd first assumed. Yet, they didn't seem to know any more about it than the crew did.

The three sisters spent most of their time together, away from the rest of the crew. In the quiet of their shared quarters below deck, Ramla often found herself looking out the small, round window, watching the waves churn beneath them. The journey was long, but her heart was set on the future she hoped to create—not just for herself, but for her sisters.

Ramla was the oldest, and she had always carried the weight of responsibility. She loved her sisters fiercely, but it was more than that—she wanted something more for them than this life. For them, crossing the sea was a way to escape the constraints of their lives. She longed for a future where they could be free of the pressures placed on them because of who they were and what the world expected.

She turned to Adea, who was sitting cross-legged on a small cot, her eyes unfocused as she stared at the ceiling. Adea often drifted into her own world, lost in thoughts that no one else could easily follow. It wasn't that she didn't care; it was just that her elven heritage made her different—sometimes distant, almost otherworldly. Adea's gaze was always more attuned to something invisible, as though her thoughts existed in places no one else could reach.

"I know you're thinking of something again," Ramla said softly, smiling at her younger sister. "You always do."

Adea blinked and looked at her with a faraway smile. "I think of the sea," she said, her voice carrying a certain melodic quality. "It's ancient. I can feel it, deep inside me."

Ramla nodded, but there was an edge of concern in her voice. "The sea doesn't care about us, Adea. We have to care about ourselves first."

Adea shrugged, her thoughts already elsewhere, and Ramla sighed, knowing that her sister's attention would be lost again within moments.

But it was Nea who was the most protective. The smallest of them, but often the fiercest. She kept watch, ever-wary of the sailors who occasionally gave them unwanted attention. Nea had a sharp tongue and a sharper glare for anyone who dared linger too long near her or her sisters.

At the moment, Nea was sitting across from them, arms crossed and lips set in a tight pout. Her brown eyes flickered toward the door every few moments, as though she could sense any unwanted attention from the crew, even when it was distant. She didn't like it when men stared, whether it was with admiration or some less innocent gaze.

"Don't you dare look at me like that," Nea muttered under her breath as one of the sailors glanced toward them from across the deck. "I swear, if anyone gets too close, I'll make them regret it."

Ramla laughed softly and reached over to rest a hand on Nea's arm. "You need to relax a little, Nea. Not everyone is out to get us."

Nea scowled, her brows furrowing. "I don't trust them. None of them. Especially the ones with their eyes on us all the time."

"They're just curious," Ramla said gently. "We've never been on a ship like this. It's new to all of us."

Nea didn't look convinced, but she stayed silent, leaning back in her seat and folding her arms tighter. Despite her grumbling, she would never let anything happen to Ramla or Adea. They were all she had.

Adea finally spoke up, her voice distant but filled with quiet wonder. "I think the sea understands us more than we realize."

Ramla smiled warmly, but it was tinged with sadness. "I hope it understands our desire for something better."