The ship that approached them was smaller than King’s Sentinel by a longshot. It was bold. If they had caught sight of Samson walking back to port, they may have assumed that the crew would be weakened if the captain was injured and lost in a fight without his leadership. It wasn’t a terrible assumption to make. Plenty of ships were nothing without their captains. However much Samson believed his crew respected and appreciated him, though, they were not lost puppies in his absence.

Natalia had things perfectly in order. Those ready to fight were already preparing to board the smaller ship, and as Samson entered the deck, Cheng passed him a sword. It wasn’t his, but it would do. His own blade must have been somewhere, likely being cleaned of the blood that had stained it only hours ago.

“I’ll go ahead,” Samson said. The words felt strange in his throat. The vibration of speech was always uncomfortable after too long without. It wouldn’t last long, he was sure. Words always seemed to fail him when he was on an enemy ship.

“Yes, Captain. We’ll be right behind you. I suspect they saw His Highness boarding and are attempting to kill or capture him. They aren’t flying under the royal flag, so I doubt they’re from Kremal.” Natalia spoke calmly as she floated around the fray, passing weapons to those who weren’t already armed.

“Then offer no peace.”

She turned, blinking. “Captain–”

Samson was unsurprised by the reaction. If it could be avoided at all, he preferred not to fight. If there was a deal to be made, he would make it. That had worked perfectly with Karim, and it had been how he approached any sort of attack since. To fight in offense any more than necessary was not something he enjoyed. It was one thing to protect the crown or his crew. It was another to take part in a slaughter.

“If they intend to harm His Highness and they continue an attack when we’ve boarded, then I don’t offer them my mercy. If anyone here does not wish to fight, I will handle it myself.” Samson gripped his sword. The numbers of the other ship weren’t too many– Samson’s crew could take care of it well enough.

“Captain?”

Samson turned, finding Cheng leaning against the post of the mast.

“Are you really well enough to fight after what happened?” It was an innocent question. From anyone else it would have been kind. But the way the words dripped from their lips left Samson feeling ill. It wasn’t a question brought forth by concern, but rather, Samson was certain, a lack of confidence.

Samson nodded. “I am fine.”

A shout cut through the air, and Samson whipped around, finding several men already aboard the ship. That was too fast– how had it happened so quickly? No matter. It would be fine. This was always fine.

Attacks like this were often the same. His crew would board an enemy’s ship, or an enemy’s crew would board theirs. There would be screaming and a handful of halfhearted attacks, and then they would lay eyes on Samson and it was done. Usually.

A man could only take life-threatening injuries without dying so many times before rumors spread. Samson Graves did not lose fights. He did not die when he should. Sure, a rather bold woman had managed to sever his leg some years ago, but that was the most anyone had ever done and even that was not widely known. Though he was not one to cause trouble and it was known that he would rather make an elaborate compromise with a fellow captain than spill blood, his reputation also included unnatural proficiency with a sword and a haunting tolerance for injury. Nothing out of the realm of what could be considered possible, but more than a man ought to be able to do.

The moment Samson withdrew the sword that had been handed to him, it went as every fight went. Enemies stepped back, a brave few charged. A blade was an extension of the body. To move it was as easy as breathing.

“Find the prince!”

Samson turned, watching as a man tried the door to his quarters. For a moment, his blood ran cold. Elias had locked the door. He had heard it. He had seen the turning of the lock. But he hadn’t checked it with his own hands. He should have checked it. He should have– his feet moved before he could think, and the blade of the sword met flesh without resistance. A piercing cry rang out as a hand clattered to the wood of the deck. It was good that there was no view from the captain’s quarters to the outside. Elias shouldn’t see something like that.

Samson opened his mouth, and found his throat closed once again. He had expected it, but it remained as frustrating as ever. It wasn’t as though the man who crumbled on the ground before him, grasping at the place where a hand had once been, would understand if he attempted to sign in the dark.

“State your purpose.” Natalia’s voice came from behind, calm and steady as ever. She was always the picture of ease when facing even the most dire of circumstances. Receiving no response, Samson tipped the blade beneath the man’s throat, and Natalia spoke again. “Why are you here?”

“The prince. Give him up and we’ll spare your crew.” It was difficult to take a threat seriously when it came from pained, trembling lips. “He owes us all for what he’s done. A traitor to the people, a–”

Wet gurgling cut off the sentence. Blood spilled from his throat, black in the night against pale skin.

Samson turned to Natalia. He didn’t raise his hands to speak, but his eyes alone must have conveyed his meaning.

“Retreat or be killed.” Her voice was cool, collected, and sharp against the cool air of the night. “There is nothing for you to gain by being here. The Captain does not wish to make a deal.”

There was some hushed murmuring through the harsh sound of metal on metal as blows were exchanged. It took only moments for several people to turn, rushing from the scene. When Samson stepped toward the fray, a handful hurried to leave. A reputation wasn’t everything, especially when littered with half-truths, but there was something to seeing the man that seemed to turn blood to ice. A story was one thing. To see him was another entirely.

There was little Samson needed to do, really. His presence in a fight always brought things to a close much faster than they might otherwise, even if he never drew a weapon, and a skilled crew made everything easier.

A moment of quiet passed, and Samson felt his stomach churn. A sharp whistle passed through the crowd, directionless and unidentifiable. At the sound of it, the intruders– the dozen that were left of them– turned in unison. Heads swiveled slowly, their concentration breaking from their current opponents. Their objectives each were abandoned and in a perfect, unsettling harmony, they moved toward him. None of them hesitated, none of them stopped. If it were a normal attack, Samson could have easily managed that many people. It wasn't uncommon for ten men to rush him. He was the Captain, an easy and valuable target. However, uneasy, he stuttered with his reaction.

Natalia pushed ahead of him, her own broadsword thrashing forward, two men falling to the ground. Not fatal injuries, but incapacitating at the very least. Samson stepped forward, flanking her. A woman before them, with black flowing hair and eyes like coal, charged straight ahead, a knife in hand. Her shriek as she ran was inhuman and unholy. Samson winced as he thrust his blade forward, and then again as he felt the thick, wet heat of blood against his cheek before she stumbled.

A harsh crash into his leg made him stumble, but he caught his weight on the other foot. Turning, he found a sword rammed through the knee joint of his prosthetic. “Shit– what the hell?”

The sound had caught him off guard. He had been careless. Samson spun, and found that his leg would not move with him. He grimaced, meeting the eyes of the startled man before him for just a moment. It must be jarring to not hear a single sound of pain when driving a sword thoroughly through someone’s leg. That surprise was easy to use to his advantage, sending his blade through his chest. The cry was loud, and Samson, for just a moment, felt some pity for the man. It was a terrible wound. At least his death would be faster.

Looking up, he found that there were only two assailants left. Natalia had locked onto one, and as Samson prepared to defend himself, still unable to move properly, from the second, the woman fell to the ground, and arrow’s tail sticking from her back. His eyes traced the path it must have taken, finding Cheng partially concealed by shadow but smiling.

There was a heap of bodies pressed against the deck, some still vaguely grasping to consciousness, most completely still. The scent was the worst of it. More than the groans and choked gasps that rang through the quiet of the air, it was the smell that permeated most. It churned Samson’s stomach. He faced Natalia. Her shoulders heaved as she caught her breath, bracing herself with her hands pressed to her thighs.

“Change course to Verand.” Samson looked down to his leg, attempting to move. The knee was locked, the calf facing the wrong direction entirely. It would be difficult to move at all with the dead weight of the thing.

Natalia looked over her shoulder, her eyes dropping to the blade cutting through his leg. “Good thing it wasn’t your left,” was all she said. “Go take care of that, I’ll handle the cleaning.”

Samson nodded, taking the few steps toward the door to his quarters and knocking gently. There was no response. That was smart. Samson opened his mouth to speak, and got so far as “You–” before it locked up again. He sighed.

Natalia stepped forward, knocking at the door again. “Your Highness, the fight is over. Please let the Captain in.” She spoke calmly, but the frown on her lips when she looked at him was deep set.

There was a click, and then the door opened. Samson stepped in carefully, maneuvering his leg as best as he could. Elias met his eyes, and then his gaze traveled down.

“Could you pull that out please?” Samson asked. “It’s hard to move.” The last thing he wanted was to make one wrong move, fall, and injure himself; or worse, Elias.

The prince inspected the sword for a moment before placing his hands gingerly on the hilt. He gave an experiential twist and pulled. It didn’t move much, and his brow furrowed. Kneeling, he adjusted his grip, and gave another, much more successful, tug. He stumbled back, letting out a soft gasp as he steadied himself.

Samson quickly moved to help the man, attempting to reach forward, but his leg locked. He took a sharp breath, stretching his arms before him to catch himself as he clattered to the ground, his leg contorting unnaturally beneath him. He winced, and looked up, finding himself mere inches from Elias. He scrambled off of him, eyes wide with the realization that he’d nearly collapsed on top of the man. “My apologies, Your Highness.”

Elias swallowed, pushing himself back and rising. Normally, Samson stood a head taller than him, but like this, Elias towered over him. “Do you think you can stand?”

Samson looked at his leg. It had clattered unceremoniously beneath him, still attached, but joints completely mangled. He nodded. This wasn’t something Elias needed to worry about. Hadn’t he told him before that he couldn’t stand to be touched? Asking to be helped up after he had already offered so much aid earlier in the day was too much. It was pathetic. He undid the leather straps keeping the prosthetic in place, and pushed it to the side before gripping the doorway to pull himself up. He gestured forward, toward the crutch that was tucked beside a bookshelf. Elias nodded, and passed it to him. With a sigh, Samson moved to the chair across from his bed.

Elias stood still in his place, his eyes wandering to the prosthetic that lay on the ground before him. “Do you mind if I look at it? I’m certain I can’t fix it, but I might be able to…”

Samson nodded. “You are free to it, Your Highness.” It wasn’t as if it would be of much use now. If it incurred any further damage brought forth from Elias’s tinkering, it could be fixed in Verand.

Elias sat on the edge of the bed, pulling the leg into his lap. His hands moved delicately over the wood, fingertips trailing over the grain of it. As he inspected the joint, his glasses slipped ever so slightly down his nose, only serving to even further enlarge his eyes. His lips fell apart slightly with concentration as he worked. “They broke the metal of the joint completely. It’s snapped, and bent in a way that’s going to make it lock up.” Elias looked up. “Will you be alright without it until it’s fixed?”

Samson nodded. It wouldn’t be the first time he was without his prosthetic for a while– injury and general maintenance needs were inevitable. It would only have been a matter of time until he needed it to be repaired. The only concern he had was the inconvenience to Elias. “We intended to go toward Kremal from here in order to ensure your return is quick once we reach an agreement with your mother. I don’t wish to inconvenience you, but I can’t –”

“It wouldn’t feel very comfortable to seek a royal audience like this.”

Samson nodded. It was bad enough to be seated before Elias in such a vulnerable position. If they were attacked again, he would be of little use. Wielding a sword while handling crutches was a feat even he wasn’t equipped for. Being before the Queen was another thing entirely, however. To step on land, to be back there, to see her, was already going to be difficult. To do it without feeling whole and without complete control of his body was too much.

“It’s been years since I’ve been to Verand. Our nearest neighbor outside the colonies, but I haven’t been sent there since I was in school.” Elias focused his gaze on the prosthetic in his hands. Samson got the feeling that if he were to try to sign, the man wouldn’t look up. “This isn’t how I thought I would go back, but I would like to see it again.” The man was quiet as he sat the leg on the ground, careful with his movements. If it were injured, it would be alright. It could be fixed tomorrow. “Is it alright for me to accompany you? I know you’re concerned about my safety, and I appreciate that, but I’d like to go.”

Samson blinked. The man seemed almost relaxed when he asked. It was like the moment he’d seen him soften during sunrise and when he first looked over his leg. This time, however, that calm interest didn’t disappear when he looked toward Samson. Elias was right. It wouldn’t be the safest– if someone attacked, Samson would be of minimal use as a protector. However,  watching the prince’s calm expression made it impossible to resist. “We will be careful.”

He watched Elias’s face carefully, and for just a moment, the corners of his lips curved delicately upward.

Natalia’s voice called out, and that smile fell in an instant. “Captain, the deck is clear now. If you’re able, please meet me outside.”