Ambrose released the sharp metal grid of the door and returned to the floor, running a hand through his blue hair and trying to ignore the horror stories of Elias Valenz still flooding his mind. Even if the tales were real, they wouldn’t, they couldn’t apply to him in this moment.

If the captain was going to kill him, he would have simply shot him upon boarding. But instead, Valenz had sent pirates looking for him. He had wanted a potioneer, alive and on his ship. Why? He screwed his eyes shut and tried to recall the commotion on deck. He had seen no other person with a silver armband. No one with vials, no one with a bandolier or belt of potions at the ready.

That was it. The Griffin’s Claw was down a potioneer, and they were looking for a replacement.

Somewhere down the hall, a weak light filtered in, and boots thudded against wood. Ambrose pushed himself to his feet, brushing grime off his coat with shaky fingers. He wasn’t about to brew potions for thieves and murderers. Not unless it was to poison them.

“Ah, here he is,” a smooth voice slid through the cell door. “Uninjured, I hope?” Ambrose pressed his lips into a line and set his shoulders back as the red-coated captain sauntered into the cell. “What’s your name, sailor?”

Ambrose kept silent. He was no sailor, anyway. He and the ocean were not on good terms.

“Hm. Good start,” Valenz said. Now that he was inside the cell, Ambrose had a clear view of him. Heavy scarlet coat flashing with gold buttons and trim, more gold glinting at his ears. Short black hair swept sideways by the ocean breeze, cutting a stark line against his golden skin. The only part of him that rejected the warm tones was the silver cutlass at his side, winking cruelly in the light of the porthole.

There was no blood on it, Ambrose noted.

For now, a part of his mind whispered.

“You realize,” Valenz said, pulling out the cutlass that had drawn Ambrose’s eye, “that it is in your best interest to talk, don’t you?”

He pressed the metal edge to the base of Ambrose’s pale throat. Ambrose swallowed, clasped his trembling hands behind his back, and said nothing. Ships with potioneers were uncommon in these parts, he knew. He had more leeway with his silence than Valenz would ever admit.

The captain knew it, too, for after another moment of silence, his dark gaze flicked downward. “Let’s see who we have here…” Keeping the blade against Ambrose’s neck, he turned down the silver armband to read the stitching on the inside. “A. Beake. A, A…” He rolled around the first initial on his tongue and looked up at the ceiling. “Alexander? Andrew? Antoine? No, you don’t look like an Antoine—“

“Ambrose,” he spat through gritted teeth. Valenz smirked.

“Ambrose Beake,” the captain said, and Ambrose immediately hated the way it sounded in his mouth. “Potioneer First Class, judging by the color of the band. But are you worth your rank? Let’s see…” His fingers flitted over to Ambrose’s bandolier, sliding vials out of the pockets one by one. “Bone-knitting, blood-clotting, underwater breathing…”

Ambrose’s shred of confidence began to fade. Valenz wasn’t looking at the potions like other captains did, or other sailors did, for that matter—mystifying little bottles of something or other that they needed to survive.

No, Valenz was checking their viscosity, running a finger over the expiration dates on the label, tapping the glass to check for reactions. In short, he was looking at them like he understood them.

“Ah.” The captain’s eyes sparked at the next potion, a concoction of yellow and orange swirling together in lazy tendrils. “Fire resistance. Difficult to brew on land, much more so to brew on a ship.” His brown eyes flicked to Ambrose’s face. “Tell me, Mr. Beake, what goes into a fire resistance potion?”

Ambrose set his jaw. In order for the captain to keep him alive, he unfortunately needed to prove he was worth it.

“Fireblade seeds, ice flower essence, and crushed jade,” he said. The metal against his throat vibrated at his words, but he kept going. If the captain wanted his damn potion knowledge, he was going to get it. “Spring water, if available. Seawater requires a desalination process and can be less stable when combined with the ice flower. The fireblade seeds must be dried in sunlight for three days. Less than that, and the magic within them won’t bind to the jade. Overall brewing takes the average potioneer twenty hours. Thirty if you don’t know what you’re doing, fifteen if you do.”

Valenz stepped closer until Ambrose could smell him—iron, rum, sea salt, all sharp on the nose. “And how long does it take you?”

“Ten.” Ambrose kept his voice level. “Twelve in a storm.”

Valenz searched his blue eyes for a lie. When he found none, he stepped away and lowered the cutlass. It took everything in Ambrose not to clutch his own throat in relief.

“First class indeed,” Valenz said, that infuriating smirk back on his face. He casually swung his cutlass as he strolled around the cell. “Now, as much as I’ve enjoyed our chat, I don’t have time for further games. I presume you know why you’re here?” Ambrose nodded. “And I presume you’re going to make some speech about how it’s beneath you to brew for the likes of my crew?”

Ambrose narrowed his gaze, but kept still. Valenz hummed, gave him one last, lingering once-over, and wandered out of the cell. “I encourage you to spend the afternoon thinking on an accord that may be agreeable to you, Mr. Beake. Otherwise,” he closed the door and turned the key with a flourish, “I’ll need to resort to more games.”

And with a wink, he was gone.