The Crimson Sparrow slipped away from the dock with the tide, sails catching the morning breeze. Alyssa stood at the rail, watching Porto Veloce recede. The white stone buildings gleamed in the sun, beautiful and terrible. On the dock, a group of figures stood watching their departure—the captains and shipwrights they'd freed, the people who now had to decide what freedom meant.

There were no cheers, no waving handkerchiefs. Just silent acknowledgment of a debt that couldn't be repaid, and perhaps some uncertainty about whether that debt was a blessing or a curse.

"Do you think they'll be alright?" Leo asked, appearing at her side. He'd stowed his broom somewhere and now stood with his hands gripping the rail, looking back at the only home he'd ever known.

Alyssa considered lying, offering the boy comfort. But she'd had enough of lies in her life—her father's, her own.

"I don't know," she said honestly. "Freedom is hard. Some people might wish for the old certainties, even if they came with chains."

"Not me," Leo said firmly. "Never me."

Alyssa smiled slightly. "No. Not you." She glanced down at him. "You should get some rest. Tomorrow, I'll teach you how to tie a proper sailor's knot."

Leo's eyes widened. "Really? You'd teach me?"

"Of course. Everyone on this ship pulls their weight." She straightened her shoulders, feeling the responsibility of her role as First Mate settle more comfortably than it ever had before. "That includes learning more than how to sweep a deck."

Leo nodded eagerly and hurried off, nearly colliding with Raven, who was heading toward the helm.

"Watch it, swabbie," Raven called after him, but there was no bite in her words.

"He'll need a hammock," Alyssa said as Raven joined her at the rail.

"Already hung one in the storage room," Raven replied. She pulled out her compass and checked their heading. "Turns out our new captain charted a course before he locked himself in his cabin."

Alyssa frowned. "Is he...?"

"I don't know." Raven closed the compass with a snap. "But I'm following his heading until he tells me otherwise. That's what a navigator does."

They stood in silence for a moment, watching the horizon.

"What do you think Valerio did to him?" Alyssa asked finally. "When Pierre... took his essence."

Raven's fingers drummed against the rail. "I don't know exactly. But I saw his eyes. That wasn't our captain looking out at us."

"He fought it off," Alyssa said. "At the gangplank, with Leo. He made the human choice."

"This time." Raven pushed away from the rail. "I should check our supplies. Make sure we have enough to reach the next port."

As Raven walked away, Alyssa watched the last glimpse of Porto Veloce disappear behind them. The city had seemed so perfect from a distance. Only up close could you see the rot beneath the shine.

She wondered if the same might be true of Pierre now.

===

The small mirror in Pierre's cabin was a simple thing. No gilded frame, no ornate decoration—just silvered glass in a wooden setting, fixed to the wall above a washbasin. It had a small crack in one corner and spots where the silvering had worn away.

Pierre stared at his reflection in the imperfect surface. He'd splashed water on his face, trying to clear his mind, but the cold clarity wouldn't leave him. He could see every pore, every uneven patch of stubble, every asymmetry in his features.

The facial structure could be optimized. The jawline adjusted by 0.4 centimeters. The nasal bridge reinforced. The eyelids...

"Shut up," Pierre hissed at his reflection.

His red hair hung damp around his face. Too long on the left side by approximately 7 millimeters. The color uneven where sea spray had bleached some strands.

This could be corrected. A precise trim. A balanced application of—

"SHUT UP!"

Pierre's fist slammed into the washbasin, sending water sloshing over the sides. The violent motion felt good. Unplanned. Imprecise. Human.

He looked back at the mirror, and the face that stared back wasn't his own.

Valerio's eyes, cold and analytical, gazed out from the glass. That same slight smile played on the lips—the smile of a man who saw the world as his workshop and every person in it as material to be shaped. Pierre's own blue eyes seemed layered over them, like a prisoner peering through bars.

You know I'm right, the reflection seemed to say. You've always valued precision. Efficiency. You've always seen the flaws in everything.

"Not like this," Pierre whispered. "Not... measured and calculated until there's nothing human left."

Humanity is messy. Wasteful. I can help you create something better.

Pierre stumbled back from the mirror, hitting the wall of his cabin. His heart hammered against his ribs—too fast, too erratic. He needed to control it. To slow it to an optimal rate of—

"No!" He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. "That's not who I am."

But wasn't it? Hadn't he always been the critic, the one who saw the flaws in Jack Steelheart's story? The one who dissected and analyzed, who found the weaknesses in Hardy's fighting style and exploited them?

You and I are not so different, Valerio's voice whispered in his mind. We both seek to improve what we touch.

Pierre shook his head violently. "There's a difference between improvement and... whatever you were doing to those people."

Is there? Or is it simply a matter of degree?

Pierre looked up at the ceiling of his cabin. Counted the wooden beams. Measured their spacing with his eyes. Cataloged the irregularities in the grain.

He had left Porto Veloce. But he had brought its master with him.

The real prison wasn't a city or a debt or a workshop. It was inside his own mind now—a perfect, analytical cage built of Valerio's essence, growing stronger with every thought.

And the worst part was that some small piece of Pierre recognized the awful truth in Valerio's logic. The seductive appeal of perfection. The desire to improve, to optimize, to create order from chaos.

He sank to the floor, back against the wall, and closed his eyes. He could feel the gentle roll of the ship beneath him, each motion unpredictable yet part of a larger pattern. Like life. Like people.

"I am the captain of the Crimson Sparrow," he whispered to himself. "Not a master. Not a tyrant. Just a man trying to find his way home."

The voice in his head didn't answer. But it didn't need to. It would be waiting for him tomorrow, and the day after that, and every day until he either mastered it or succumbed to its perfect, inhuman logic.

Pierre touched the sea-blue stone at his throat one more time, focusing on its imperfect smoothness. On the memory of Mika's smile when she'd given it to him. On the chaos of human connection that could never be optimized or perfected.

And for now, that was enough to keep the ghost in the glass at bay.

END OF VOLUME 3

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