Venture to Uncertainty (#1)

12 | The Anger of Uncertainty

Today, the Avourienne crew found out about Archer's talent.

It started early in the morning, right after the bridge crew went out on the boats to patch up the ship. While everyone was lazing around in the sun, Silta dragged Tanner over to the beach for training. It was just them at first—him throwing weak punches and her correcting them. It took a mere hour for the rest of the crew to get bored and wander over to watch. Eventually, they'd taken over the training session, starting hand-to-hand matches with each other, Silta mediating and offering insults disguised as advice.

When Rusher challenged him, Archer didn't make some excuse or back down like Farley told him to. He accepted, got off his comfortable spot on the sand, and had the navigator beat in less than two minutes.

Nelson was next, then Jackson. On and on, one after the other. They were no match for him on any day, but today especially. Today, Silta was watching, pretty eyes encoding his every move, forming a profile. She was the only one who hadn't fought anyone yet, and that didn't seem right to him, considering her arrogance.

The clear morning bought sobriety and a sharp mind, but the only emotion it could conjure up was anger. Resentment of what Bardarian accused him of, anger about that pistol to his head, and frustration that he'd been roped into her Siren scheme like everyone else.

He didn't realize he'd held Denver on a choke a few seconds after he tapped. He let go immediately, and his friend rolled away, coughing. He looked over at Archer, getting to his knees.

There was clapping from the watching crew—another win for their minnow—but it wasn't just cheerful or respective, it was wary, too. They only liked the unknown and the unpredictable to a certain extent.

Archer wasn't necessarily better in all aspects; he had the advantage of Farley's knowledge. He knew their weaknesses before ever throwing a punch: Nelson was fast, but his vestibular sense was all off. Rusher was cocky and overconfident. Courtley was too big and too slow. The crew of the Avourienne excelled in mass fights, with weapons, not intimate matches. To win these, someone had to understand the body and its intricacies.

It bothered him greatly that he'd been trained first and foremost in hand-to-hand, for he knew exactly who he'd been primed to take on. Why waste his skill on these crew members when the real challenge was only a few paces away?

Helping Denver up, Archer glanced at Silta. "You next." He kept his face still, kept the frustration controlled and wrapped up.

She glanced up. "Anger looks good on you, love," she said, ever the observant woman. He'd previously assumed flirtation to be a natural part of her personality, but after last night, he wasn't sure if it was harmless or some kind of sick bait.

A few excited whispers made it clear that the crew wanted the fight. They'd only seen Archer win a few matches, but they were as desperate to see her take a loss as he was to win.

He kept calm as he spoke, voice unbothered, "You and me."

"Tell you what, love," she said, spinning a knife, "have a go at Britter. Beat him in two minutes, and you can have me."

Liam Britter, one year Silta's senior but with a whole life of combat under his belt. Farley's extensive profile classified him as either the second or third best on the Avourienne, depending on Bardarian's combat skill, which was widely unknown—why be the one to throw a punch if you had charisma and a champion lover to do it for you? In any case, the strategist was one of the best in the sea, wickedly fast and explosive. All Archer had to do was catch him in a break between those more powerful movements.

Britter laughed as he got to his feet. "Two minutes," he repeated. "Hell of a faith you've got in me."

"Humour me," Silta said.