❛the ends justify the means.❜
( part two of deadwater kings )
The board is set and Shabina chose her side. The better world she dreamed of is finally within her grasp, but she struggles when the path to victory seems to be paved in blood. The long...
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Lin didn't want anything to do with the kings or politics. She never had. She didn't like them on principle and had seen nothing in her time as a hunter to change her mind. Janus didn't count. She'd liked him—never wanted to be a part of his world, though. In fact, being close to him and hearing of his death had just fed her distaste for them all.
Razo knew this.
So that begged the question of why the fuck he'd inserted himself into the political mess that was Queen Shabina's rise to power.
Honestly, Lin wouldn't have cared if Yelena had taken over the world. Sure, she was a Machiavellian warmonger and a slaver, but was that any of Lin's business? No.
She gave absolutely no fucks.
Zero fucks. None at all.
The only thing she did give a fuck about was Razo's life, which would probably end up fucking her in the end. So, fuck.
Half the time it took her to get to Razo's last known location was spent working on various uses of the word 'fuck' as it applied to her situation. She'd successfully entertained herself on the merchant ship with that, between bouts of giving Queen Shabina's blue and white flag the stink-eye and growling at sailors.
He wasn't at the Citadel. Apparently, the golden fortress had been abandoned after the mirrors stopped working. She'd checked the trade stops and markets on every route he could have taken.
He'd best be at the Library or she'd stab him once she inevitably found him.
The water surrounding the island choked with ships. The ports were so crammed full that newcomers had to lower planks onto nearby boats and carefully climb from one deck to another just to get to land.
Lin's legs wobbled on the wood plank, breath catching in her throat.
The deadwater lapped innocently beneath her, bits of white froth floating over reddish-brown water.
It was barely five steps. She could have hopped it if she still had her sigils. Without her sigils, she was just as weak and feeble as any other human. She shuffled in half-steps, crouching to lower her center of gravity. A gruff-looking sailor with big sausage fingers took her arm from the other side to help her down. He didn't recognize her. He looked bored, actually. To him, she was just another traveler with shit sea-legs.
She clenched her jaw so tight that tears threatened to spark in her eyes. She kept them downcast as she settled her feet on the other ship's deck and gripped the strap on her bag.
"Keep it moving," the sailor said.
She sped up, her boots against the metal ship's deck drowned out by the sound of heavier men marching across.
