At the faded edges of Romy’s earliest memories are flashes of a life filled with uncertainty. Arguments, blood, and the silhouette of what must’ve been his birth mother. The feeling of fear and confusion and uncertainty lingered where sights and sounds had been long forgotten.

By the time his memories begin to truly form, the Halis were under the thumb of Dogfood and the gang. His earliest lessons weren’t of letters and numbers and history, but of staying quiet, out of the way, and useful. Combat came later, and it always sickened him. His siblings stood up to Dogfood and the lessons from time to time, but Romy knew it was easier to obey. Being quiet and complicit meant surviving another day.

But that didn’t last.

He didn’t get it, why the magic in his blood was such a big deal. It didn’t do anything. It never had. For all he knew, it never would. But he and Zale were still ready to be handed over for coin. Even though all he’d ever done was listen to them. Maybe he hadn’t done enough, been enough. He was still small, only 13 years old when his older siblings created the plan to save him and his brother.

But he almost messed that up.

The plan was simple. He and the other littles would bring the gang to one place where there were drugs and gunpowder and Talay would bring the sergekeepers. But the result was chaos. Someone grabbed him. He went limp. He cried. But what else could he do? Nothing. That was all he was good for.

Thalassa, Vanya, and Adamaris saved him. Their magic did, their shifts. All he’d done was put them at risk.

Not long after the leader of the gang died and Dogfood disappeared. Romy was used to that, to support vanishing under his feet like a wave retreating. His life had been as unsteady as any ship at sea, and he’d long since developed his sea legs.

Talay got them a little more structure, a ship. Their dad remained captain, but the dealings turned from criminal to legal. Romy preferred it that way. He knew if the sergekeepers showed up he’d just get in the way again, get captured again, and someone would have to stick their neck out to save him again.

He hated that. How often he needed his siblings.

And so he did his best to help them, to learn bits of the trade and ways to be helpful. After all, he was nothing without them. He’d barely known his mother, they left the gang he’d grown up in, and their father didn’t seem to care about the responsibility that title should’ve brought. It was against the world. He’d lay awake at night wondering if one day he’d also get left behind if he ever fell too far behind the others.

All he wanted was to help.

He learned to rotate jobs, working wherever it was needed. All the while his innate magic remained quiet in his veins.

One day he found a ferret kit on the docks, skin and bones and fleas and dirt. It had no family, not any more. And so Romy scooped it up and shoved it under his shirt to smuggle onto the ship. He methodically cleaned it, removed the fleas, provided water and fish chunks until it slowly began to recover. For once he had something to care for, something he’d done right.

Nowadays Romy still scurries around the ship, changing jobs more often than clothes. He hides the ferret, Buddy, from the rest of the crew, though he’s fairly certain that his siblings might’ve caught onto his secret.