Scene 1

  The Morning’s Promise was alive with motion. Men dashed across the deck, boots slamming against the wooden planks, voices raised in eager anticipation. Salt and sweat filled the air, blending with the scent of burning oil from the lanterns swaying overhead.

  “Hoist the colors lads! Let ‘em see what’s comin’!”

  “Load the cannons! Powder dry and fuses ready!”

  “Bring ‘er broadside!’ Let’s carve ‘em open like a feast-day whale!”

  Shouts came from all over the ship.

  Ropes snapped taut as the crew hauled on the lines, sails billowing wide to catch the wind. Metal clanked, cutlasses unsheathing, bows being strung and quivers slung across backs. The Promise wasn’t your standard pirate ship—it was a beast about to pounce, every man abroad grinning like he already had his cut of spoils.

  And Will?

  Will was late.

  All because of a bloody chicken.

  It wasn’t his fault, really. He had been minding his own business below deck, swiping an extra piece of hardtack from the stores, when the damn bird had decided to escape from its cage. One moment, Will was chewing his stolen snack in peace; the next, there were feathers in his mouth, talons in his hair, and a lot of undignified yelping as he tried to wrestle the little demon back into the coop.

  And, of course, the moment he got it under control, the bloody battle horns blew.

  Now, his bare feet thudded against the damp planks as he tore across the lower deck, tying his kerchief - his short, twisted locks bouncing with each movement.

  Above, the poop deck waited—the best place to see the action unfold, the place where he needed to be.

  He smirked, breathless, as he scrambled up the ladder.

  No one was going to make him miss this. The excitement made him run even faster.

  As he reached the top deck, the full sight of their prize came into view.

  Opposite the Morning’s Promise was a vessel far larger than the usual prey—a proper ship, not some pitiful skiff or desperate trader’s barge. It bore the color of a white sabertooth, its limbs proudly fluttering in the wind. Its sails were broad, but there were no visible gunport, no armored hull, no sign that it was prepared for a fight.

  What in the name of The Sunken was a ship like this doing in these treacherous waters? Completely unready for pirates?

  Will didn’t know. Didn’t care much, either.

  Perfect.

  This was his chance. The moment he could finally prove himself—to the crew, to the captain, to the damn sea itself.

  His fingers curled around the hilt of his sword, eager to draw steel. He could feel the weight of it, the thrill running up his spine, the rush of battle about to begin—

  A firm hand landed gently on his shoulder.

  “Not today, Will.”

  It was a calm, but certain voice. One that he knew well. He froze, scowling, before turning his head.

  Standing behind him, towering like a figure carved from salt and stone, was Captain Valerik. Like every true Orixian, his hair was pure white, thick and braided back, though strands had come loose from the sea wind. His beard was full, peppered with silver at the ends, framing a mouth that more often smiled than scowled—though when it did, men listened.

  His violet eyes, sharp but steady, held Will in place. His tone was calm, but carried quiet command.

  Valerik reached into his coat and checked a small gold pocket watch, its surface etched with a compass rose. He clicked it shut before speaking again.

  “You’re still green,” his words rising clearly above the crew’s shouting without needed force. “And besides…” He let out a breath, his grip on Will’s shoulder tightening slightly. “I made a promise to yer parents.”

  Will’s brow furrowed. Parents… Right… That old excuse again.

  Captain Valerik lifted his chin and called out, “Raevor!”

  The Promise’s quartermaster was already close by, watching the crew, yelling out orders - he was a man who had spent more years at sea than on land.

  Raevor was a tower of a man, even by Orixian standards. His white hair was cut short, practical, unlike the braids of the captain. He wore no beard, just a sharp jaw. His skin was as dark as it could be, stretched over a frame built like a mast—broad, unshakable, solid as the ship itself.

  At Valerik’s call, Raevor stepped forward, without hesitation.

  “Aye, Captain.”

  ‘Take ‘im to my cabin, and lock the doors.’

  Will barely had time to process what was happening before the large man’s heavy hand clamped around his arm.

  “Come on, pup.” Raevor’s voice was rough, measured, but not giving room for argument.

  Will grunted, but he didn’t fight it. There wasn’t much point—not against the quartermaster, whose grip was like iron shackles, dragging him away from the action and toward the steps leading up to the higher deck.

  It wasn’t fair.

  He got it—Valerik cared about him, he looked out for him. But still.

  I’m sixteen. I’ve been with him for my whole life. Whole!

  What more did he need to prove? He knew the ship, knew the crew, knew the entire Golden Sea better than most of the green-bellied whelps they pulled aboard. And yet, Valerik still treated him like a child.

  Like he needed protection.

  He scowled as Raevor led him toward the captain’s quarters, crossing his arms as best he could with the large man half-dragging him along.

  “It’s not fair,” he muttered. “I’m old enough to fight. You know I am.”

  “Aye, you are,” the first mate grunted a faint chuckle, pushing open the door to the captain’s quarters. “In time, pup. You’ll get your chance. But not today.”

  Before he could say another word, Raevor gave him a firm shove inside. “Stay in until I come back. And don’t try anything clever.”

  He turned shutting the door behind him with a loud thunk.

  Will stared at it for a long moment, arms still crossed. “‘Don’t try anything clever.’” He mocked under his breath, glancing toward the windows.

  He took in the familiar surroundings. Valerik’s quarters were nothing like cramped, damp, and musky cabins of most pirate captains. No piles of stolen goods tossed carelessly in a corner, no half-eaten meals left to rot at the desk. No, his quarters were… refined.

  Shelves lined the walls, packed tightly with books—actual books, not just ledgers or maps, but thick tomes with worn spines and gold-lettered titles, the kind of things scholars and nobles kept in their studies.

  Will never understood half of them, but they had always been there, ever since he was a child. Valerik read. Learned. Knew more about the world than any pirate had a right to.

  In between the books, maps were stacked high, some nailed to the walls, others rolled up neatly in cases, a few spread out across the long oak desk in the center of the room. They were old, some older than the Morning’s Promise itself, detailing coastlines, not just of Edensburg, but even of the far corners of the world—those unexplored merciless lands, only spoken about in tales in the taverns of Burmar.

  Will slumped into the heavy wooden chair at the long desk, arms in his coat’s pockets, lips pressed into a thin line. Outside the chaos of battle only grew louder.

  Boom! A cannon fired, shaking the Promise down to its bones. He closed his eyes, letting his mind wander beyond the thick walls of Valerik’s quarters, past the books and maps and stupid locked doors.

  He could see it—men swinging from the rigging, ropes coiling in midair before latching onto the enemy’s mast, boots slamming against the unfamiliar decks. The sharp clash of steel filled the air, swords meeting swords, daggers flashing between ribs. Arrows whistled from the high perches of the mainmast, finding their marks with deadly precision.

  “Board ‘er, lads! Take what’s ours!” A voice roared.

  “Aye! For the White Captain!” One screamed.

  “Watch ye right, ye bilge rat!” Another shouted.

  A scream. A splash. The sea was already taking its first victims.

  Will’s fingers tapped impatiently against the desk. He was supposed to just sit here? While the others pillaged and plundered, thrilling themselves in the ravels of battle?

  No.

  He wasn’t waiting this one out. Besides, he had never been good at following orders. So he pushed himself up. His eyes moved towards the locked doors. He jiggled the handle to be sure.

  “Figures…”

  Then he turned to the side—toward the windows.

  Bingo.

  With a quick glance over his shoulder, just in case Raevor suddenly decided to check in, he padded toward the far window. The latch was stiff, the wood swollen from years of decay and moisture, but after a few hard pulls, it gave way… it actually came off the still.

  Oops. Nobody will miss it… Will they?

  A gust of wind rushed in, carrying the sharp tang of gunpowder, blood and resin paste.

  He flashed a grin. “Sorry Valerik. Lock a pirate up, and he’ll find another way out.”

  Will stepped out on the narrow balcony, gripping the railing as the Promise roared with life around him. It was everything he had imagined.

  The scent of sulfur mixed in with the salt, thick and electric. Arrows zipped overhead, finding their marks in the wooden hull and rigging. Men clashed on the the other ship’s deck, steel flashing in the afternoon sun, the chorus of war cries and splintering wood filling the world. The crew moved like a boat on the tide, striking with precision, overwhelming the opposition with swift brutality.

  And the enemy?

  Will’s dark eyes moved toward the other ship—a merchant vessel, not built for war.

  The men on board were exactly what he expected. They gripped their swords with stiff fingers, standing too rigidly, flinching at every clash. These were ordinary traders, fisherman, deckhands who had never seen true battle. Well… neither did Will, but it couldn’t be that hard… could it?

  His gaze locked onto a swinging rigging line, swaying in the wind near the aft castle.

  “Just what I was looking for.” Will murmured, a wide smile appearing on his face.

  He climbed swiftly up the back ladder, reaching the highest point of the ship’s stern. The view from the taffrail was exhilarating. The sea churned below, waves crashing against the hulls of both ships.

  No one had seen him.

  Closing his eyes just for a second, he took a deep breath, grabbed the rope, and leapt.

  The wind roared past his ears, his heart hammering in his chest. For a moment, he was weightless—soaring above the battle, above the chaos. Then, with a thud and a roll, he landed on the merchant’s deck.

  Pain shot through his ribs as he hit the hard floor. He gritted his teeth—nothing broken, but he’d definitely feel that later.

  He barely had time to steady himself before two men came barreling toward him, swords raised. Mainlanders, no doubt—the color of their skin was tanned by the sun, the same as Will’s, but not as dark as the sailors’ from the Isles. They moved with more desperation than skill, swinging their weapons wildly rather than with any real technique.

  “Ah, well—“ Will straightened, brushing off his coat, “—this is a bit unfair, don’t you think? Two against one?”

  Neither of them answered. The first man lunged, hacking downward with all the grace of a man splitting firewood. Will sidestepped, the blade missing by inches and slamming into the deck with a loud clank.

  The second man charged, his sword aimed for his gut.

  “Whoa there!”

  Will flung himself backward, nearly tripping—not entirely intentional, but it saved him. The sharp edge whooshed past his stomach, close enough to feel the heat of it. His back hit the deck, and for a split second, he blinked up at the cloudy sky.

  Then—pain. A sharp burn across his shoulder.

  He hissed, hand darting to feel blood. Not deep, but it stung.

  Alright. Maybe this wasn’t going exactly as planned.

  The first man yanked his sword free, cursing under his breath. The second kicked at Will, but he rolled out of the way just in time, scrambling to his feet.

  Think, Will, think!

  The first attacker came again, swinging wide. He ducked—mostly—feeling the swoosh of air as it passed his head. He lashed out, not with his blade, but with his shoulder, slamming it into the man’s chest.

  It wasn’t elegant. It wasn’t powerful. But it was enough.

  The trader stumbled, lost his footing, and with a yelp, tumbled overboard into the sea.

  One down.

  Will turned turned to face the second man, who now looked far less confident.

  “Y-you…” The trader stammered.

  Will’s eyes darted. He grabbed the first thing within reach—an empty bucket—and hurled it. It hit the man square in the face.

  The trader staggered, slipped on the wet planks, and landing flat on his back.

  Will kicked the man’s sword away, then planted his boot on his chest.

  “A pleasure doing business.” A cheeky grin appeared on his face.

  He stepped back from the groaning man, brushing dust from his coat with a satisfied shake of his shoulders. That could’ve been smoother, but hey, a win’s a win. He nudged the sword further away with his foot, just in case, then finally took a proper look around.

  The fight on the deck was dying down—what little fight there had been, anyway. The Promise’s crew had overwhelmed the traders with ease, some of them already hauling crates of goods toward the boarding planks.

  But Will’s attention drifted elsewhere.

  At the far end of the ship, past a couple of men—lying dead—and a few toppled barrels, a heavy door stood slightly ajar—the captain’s room.

  Will interest piqued. Now what treasures are you hiding?

  Glancing around to make sure no one was watching, he strode toward the door, slipping inside without a sound.

  The moment it shut behind him, the noise of the battle faded, leaving only the creak of the ship and the distant cries of gulls.

  The captain’s quarters were far grander then he expected.

  A large wooden desk dominated the center of the room, maps spread across its surface, weighed down by an inkwell and an untouched plate of half-eaten fruit. A few scrolls lay there as well, bearing official seals—probably valuable to someone, but not exactly his kind of prize.

  Then something caught his eye.

  A hidden compartment at the side of the desk.

  Curiosity sparked, he crouched down and forced it open. A sack—a heavy looking one—was sitting there, just waiting to be taken. He pulled it free, loosening the drawstring with nimble fingers. His breath hitched at the sight.

  Golden medallions… lots and lots of them. Shimmering in the dim lantern light.

  “Now,” Will stared at the silvery coins, “what exactly do we do with you?”

  A voice sliced through the quiet like a knife

  “Stop right there!”

  He froze.

  The voice was firm, sharp—a tone of someone who was very unamused.

  Slowly he turned around.

  A man stood in the doorway, dressed in a crisp, navy-blue coat trimmed with gold, the fabric damp from the sea air. His stance was rigid, controlled—like a person used to command. And in his hand? A sword. Pointed directly at him

  Will’s lips pressed into a flat line.

  Ah. So that’s the captain.

  Will straightened, clearing his throat. “Oh, that’s quite the greeting. I was just—” he gestured vaguely at the sack of treasure, “—doing a little inventory. You know, makin’ sure your coin is all accounted for.” He flashed his most charming grin. “Seems to be in perfect order!”

  The captain’s expression did not waver.

  “Step away.” He ordered, blade steady. “Now!”

  Will kept his hands where the captain could see them. “Look, mate, I think we’ve had a slight misunderstanding. I’m just a humble visitor, takin’ in the sights, admiring the decor—lovely desk, by the way, excellent craftsmanship—” he knocked at the sturdy wood.

  “Enough!” The captain took a step forward, sword tilting slightly.

  Will swallowed. He reached for the hilt of his sword, but when his hand gripped air. Where was his sword?

  Alright. Plan B.

  “I don’t suppose you’d be open to negotiations?” He lifted a finger. “A bribe? No? A favor, perhaps? A deal between—”

  The captain lunged.

  Will barely had time to flinch before—

  A sickening thud echoed through the room.

  The man collapsed, unconscious before he even hit the ground.

  Behind him, Raevor stood, lowering a large staff with a sigh. “Didn’t I tell you to stay put?”

  Will blinked, glancing between the quartermaster and the sprawled-out captain.

  “Right,” he exhaled, stepping carefully over the man’s outstretched arm. “In me defense, I was staying put. And then I wasn’t.” He nodded toward the lying man. “You can see how things got a little complicated.”

  Raevor gave him a flat look.

  Will cleared his throat. “Anyway. Glad you showed up!” He clapped him on the shoulder starting for the door. “Would’ve been an awful shame if I had to fight me way out of this one alone.”

  “The captain is going to kill me.” Raevor grunted.

  “Technically,” Will corrected, already out of the room, “he’s probably goin’ to kill me first.”

  He tossed a coin into the air and caught it. “But let’s not spoil the surprise, eh?”

  Scene 2

  The main deck was roaring with the sounds of celebration. Pirates cheered, sang, clapped each other on the back, and passed around bottles of rum—the best kind of reward in the Golden Sea - as crates of plunder were hauled aboard. Chests spilled over with brass talons, gilded owls, but only one sack of golden medallions—the one he had found. Barrels of provisions were rolled toward the hold, as the former trade ship—its hull breached and taking on water—began its slow descent into deep abyss.

  Five captured sailors knelt near the mast, wrists bound, their expressions ranging from fury to fear. Among them was their captain, his fine coat now tattered and smeared with blood. He looked less like the master of a ship and more like a man who’d just realized the world didn’t play fair.

  “You insane pirates! Do you know who I am?” The ex-captain exclaimed.

  “Someone who’s just lost a ship. Ha, ha, ha.” Answered Valerik to a burst of laughter.

  “I am Captain Edward Maxwell of the—”

  “Well, since your vessel now be a drifting wraith in Mordrick’s depths… I ‘d say the title sank with it.”

  The captain’s lips shut tight, a dreadful expression twisting his features.

  Will, led on the deck by Raevor, immediately blended into the chaos. He threw his arms up and let out a triumphant cheer.

  “Ha! A proper haul, lads!” He clapped a passing crewman on the shoulder. “Drinks’r on me!”

  The pirates around him laughed, but one voice broke through the revelry, sharp and level.

  “Celebrate later. Unless you plan to drink yourselves overboard.”

  Captain Valerik’s voice wasn’t raised, yet it rolled over the deck with effortlessness. The crew fell silent, the cheering fading into the slap of waves against the hull. He stood near the helm, unmoving, his violet gaze locked on Will like a harpoon onto a whale. His white-braided hair barely shifted in the breeze, the set of his jaw speaking volumes.

  “Trim the sails! Ready the ship before the navy smells this wreck!” He ordered, his voice as sharp as the sulphur in the air. “Cargo below. Prisoners to the brig. Move, you worms!”

  The men snapped into motion, the last echoes of celebrating dissolving into swift, disciplined work.

  While the Captain yelled out orders, Will slowly inched his way to the lower decks, but just as he was starting to descend—

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  Will’s grin twitched. He let out a long sigh, tilting his head toward Raevor.

  “You think if I jump overboard, I can swim to another life?”

  Now in the captain’s quarters, Will shifted from foot to foot, arms folded behind his back as he watched Valerik.

  The old pirate was studying a map spread wide across the desk, candlelight flickering over the worn parchment. He didn’t glance up as he spoke.

  “Quartermaster… set course for Burmar”

  Raevor, standing just beside Will, gave a sharp nod. “Aye, Captain.” Without another word, he turned his heel and strode out, the door shutting behind him.

  Will’s gaze followed the tall man, watching him leave, then turned back to Valerik. “Burmar?” He raised an eyebrow. “Not that I’m complainin’—Burnar’s a hell of a time… but weren’t we headin’ for Kingstide?” Deep down, though, the idea thrilled him.

  Burmar—the pirate heaven—was loud, messy, and full of life. The markets were endless, the gambling halls even worse, and if you weren’t careful, you’d wake up missing half your coin and, occasionally, an organ. His kind of place.

  The captain finally looked up, leveling him with a calm stare.

  “We have cargo to offload, supplies to sell. And we do need to drop off the prisoners. Kingstide’s not a good place for that.”

  Will blinked. “Drop off the—?” He let out a short laugh. “You mean toss ‘em overboard? Right?”

  “No. I mean let them go.”

  “Come again?” Will’s grin faltered.

  The captain exhaled, rolling up the map before setting it aside. He leaned back against the desk, folding his arms over his chest.

  “Burmar’s as far from Croft waters as one can get. There’s no heavy navy presence, and there are a couple of Arcane tables on the isle. If they find coin, they can send word, buy their passage home. If not… well, Burmar has plenty of activities for all kinds of men.”

  Will stared at him. “Right. Or… they could do something smarter, like tell the Croft navy exactly where we are.”

  Valerik didn’t answer immediately. He studied Will, as if weighing something, then opened his mouth.

  “And what would you have me do?”

  “Not letting’ ‘em go would be a good start.” He frowned.

  The captain pushed off the desk, stepping closer. His voice was quieter now, but there was an edge to it—something Will knew meant he should listen.

  “Mercy isn’t about kindness, Will. It’s about wisdom. A man given a chance to walk away is far less dangerous than a man with nothin’ to lose,” he held his gaze. “You put a sword to their throat, you make ‘em desperate. But you let them live? Give them a chance to save themselves? They’ll be too busy runnin’ to come back for revenge.”

  He turned walking toward the window—the broken one—watching the waves.

  “Knowin’ when to kill a man is easy, Will. Knowing when not to—that’s what makes the difference between a man feared… and a man worth following.” He was still gazing across the vast expanse of shifting blues.

  “Any fool can set sail and let the wind guide ‘im, but not many can take the helm and chart the right course. Power’s not in taking a life; it’s in knowin’ you could, and choosing not to.”

  Will pressed his lips into a line, turning that over in his head. Just the sound of the sea, and Valerik’s words, sitting heavy in his chest.

  The Orixian captain exhaled through his nose, shaking his head before turning to face him fully. His arms crossed, his expression one of quiet amusement.

  “Now, off with you,” he said, voice calm but firm. “I hear the lower decks could use a good scrubbin’. Might as well put that energy of yours to proper use.”

  Will’s face fell. “The lower decks?” He scoffed. “You can’t be serious.”

  The captain raised an eyebrow.

  Will gestured broadly. “I fought, I bled—” he indicated to the cut on his shoulders “—yes I tripped once or twice, but I contributed! You saw me!”

  “Aye,” he nodded, “I also saw you disobey a direct order.” The captain let that sink in for a moment before adding. “And you broke me window.” He pointed to the obvious hole where once glass stood.

  Will’s mouth snapped shut.

  “Did you think I wouldn’t notice?” Valerik gave him a pointed look.

  “Well, now that you mention it… I hoped you’d fail to see it…” he scratched the back of his neck.

  The captain sighed, rubbing his temple. “Get going, Will. That bucket and sponge are calling your name.” He set back down, taking out another folded map out of a drawer.

  Will huffed, but as he turned for the door, he muttered under his breath, “Scrubbin’ the decks… Heavens have mercy, what kind of barbarism is this?”

  “Think of it as a lesson in consequences.” Valerik smiled not looking up and then added, ‘Oh, and by the way—“ he paused, giving Will a measured look, the kind a father gives a son who’s just learned something the hard way.

  “You weren’t half bad, boy. Reckless as a storm, but you held your own. Next time, if you keep that head of yours screwed on straight, you might just earn your place in the raid proper.”

  The captain smirked. “But until then, best get to scrubbin’. The decks won’t clean themselves. Ha, ha, ha.”

  “Yeah, yeah…”

  Will scrubbed at the wooden boards with all the enthusiasm of a man digging his own grave. The bristles scraped against the planks, dislodging grime so thick he was fairly certain it had become part of the ship. Did anyone ever clean down here? Or had the filth simply made itself at home, setting in like an old sailor who refused to leave port?

  He wrinkled his nose. The damp air barely masked the stench of stale booze, sweat, resin paste, and something that might have once been food but had long since spoiled.

  As he worked his way toward the brig, a voice cut through the dim light.

  “Strange thing, seeing one of our own in these tides… sailing with pirates.”

  Will frowned, pausing mid-scrub. He turned his head slightly, glancing at the man behind the iron bars. The captain sat cross-legged, watching him with sharp, weary eyes.

  “Funny, last I checked you were sailin’ in our waters.” He snorted.

  The captain ignored the remark, his gaze sweeping over Will. He studied him a moment, before speaking again.

  “You don’t look like one of them.”

  “Oh? And what should I look like?”

  The proud man leaned forward slightly, resting his arms on his knees.

  “You know what I mean. No dark skin. No white hair. No violet eyes.” He paused, removing a lock of blond hair from his face. “Bit of a sore thumb, aren’t you?” He smirked.

  Will huffed, setting his brush aside.

  “A sore thumb, you say? Now that’s just rude.” He placed a hand over his chest, feigning insult. “I prefer ‘strikingly unique.’ Or perhaps… ’A fine bottle of wine among barrels of grog,’” he grinned. “More refined. A rare find.”

  The captain chuckled, shaking his head. “That’s why you’re here? A rare find lost among the tide?”

  The words settled uncomfortably against Will’s chest.

  He’d been born with one foot in two worlds—Orixian, at least partly.

  He was raised on the Promise, among Valerik’s crew, sailing under the skull and bone colors. But the rest? That was another story.

  His mother had been a mainlander—one of the wester folk, with dark eyes and brown hair. His father had been from the Isles, or so the story went. Will barely remembered them, only fragments of voices and faces blurred by time. They had died when he was young, casualties of a war he had never fully understood.

  But what did it matter? Parents weren’t much use when they were gone.

  He had Captain Valerik. He had the crew.

  That was enough.

  Just as his thoughts started drifting deeper, a shot rang out from above.

  “Land ho!”

  His head snapped up. Burmar.

  Without a second thought, he flung the bucket aside, the water sloshing onto the already filthy floor. The sponge went sailing after it. Someone else would deal with that. Not his problem.

  Boots pounding against the wooden planks, he dashed up the stairs, taking them two at a time. He barely squeezed past a few sailors hauling crates, jumping over boxes, and burst onto the deck just as the island came into view.

  Scene 3

  The sun hung low in the western sky, casting long streaks of gold and amber across the restless sea. The isle of Burmar sat bathed in that glow, its wooden buildings washed in deep orange hues, like embers smoldering beneath a dying fire.

  It wasn’t the largest of ports, nor the smallest, but it was alive—crowded with weathered structures stacked close together, some tilting at odd angles from years of salty air and reckless construction.

  The docks were built without any single plan—stretching out like crooked fingers, mid-sized but nearly overflowing with ships of all kinds. Sleek corsairs, heavy galleons, and battered sloops rocked side by side, their masts jutting into the sky.

  The colors that hung from them told stories of their own—some bore the sigils of privateer companies, others the faded, tattered remnants of stolen merchant flags, but most were unmarked, flying only the promise of trouble.

  Even from the deck of the Morning’s Promise, Will could hear the roar of Burmar’s infamous streets. Laughter and shouting clashed together, mingling with the distant twang of out-of-tune fiddles and the occasional sharp crack of a bottle against a table. The scent of oil and tar fought against the rich aromas of roasting meat and spilled booze, all of it carried on the breeze like an open invitation.

  This was a place for the lawless. A place where men came to drink, gamble, and spend their coins as fast as they earned it—or stole it. It was chaos, but the kind that welcomed you with open arms.

  And Will couldn’t wait to get off the ship.

  As the Promise eased into the crowded docks, the crew moved with efficiently, securing the ship’s moorings while others lowered the gangplank.

  “Bring up the prisoners,” Captain Valerik was descending the steps, his presence steady and commanding, enough to make the crew quiet without a word.

  The bound merchants were yanked to their feet and shoved toward the plank. Confusion across every man’s face. They were expecting the worse. Some muttered prayers, some clenched their jaws, prepared for whatever cruel fate awaited them.

  And then Valerik spoke again, “You’re free.”

  For a moment, there was only silence. The prisoners exchanged wary glances, as if expecting some kind of trick. Even some of the crew hesitated, glancing at each other in disbelief.

  The captain, still bruised from hitting the floor hard when Raevor had knocked him out, furrowed his brow. “You mean to let us go?”

  “Unless you’d rather stay?” Valerik sighed.

  The second the words left his mouth, the men bolted, shoving past one another in their scramble down the gangplank. They hit the docks running, not sparing a single glance back, eager to disappear into Burmar’s maze of taverns and alleyways.

  Will chuckled at the sight, shaking his head in approval.

  “I swear, I’ve seen men face canon fire with less urgency.”

  Valerik turned to him, pulling a small leather sack from his belt and tossing it into Will’s hands. The weight of it was unmistakable—coin. Gilded owls to be precise.

  “Go treat yourself, you did good finding those medallions.” The captain said, though his tone made it clear this wasn’t just a gift—it was permission.

  Will grinned, already tying the pouch to his belt, but as he turned, Valerik’s voice stopped him.

  “While you’re at it,” he added, his sharp gaze flickering toward the docks, “go check for any message at The Crow’s Roost before our good friends—” he nodded at the fleeting merchants “—figure out where it is.”

  Will sighed dramatically. “Ah, yes. Work before pleasure. You truly do spoil me, captain.”

  “If there’s a message, bring it back immediately. If not, be back before the sun kisses the horizon. We’re setting sail at dawn.” Valerik smirked, but his tone remained authoritative.

  He gave him a lazy salute, then turned, already feeling the weight of the coin swinging against his hip—and the pull of Burmar’s chaos waiting just beyond the docks.

  The streets pulsed with life, a cacophony of laughter, music, and drunken shouting filing the air like thunder in a bottle. Lanterns, already burning bright, cast their warm glow over the uneven muddy streets, their light dancing across damp walls and half-rotted wood signs swaying in the breeze.

  Donkeys trudged through the alleys, pulling carts stacked high with barrels of different sorts of liquor, baskets of overripe fruit, crates of dried fish, and boxes of resin paste, their drivers hollering and shoving aside loitering sailors too drunk to move out of the way.

  The heat pressed down like an extra layer of clothing—thick, sticky, and unrelenting. It always was in these parts of the world. So, the people took to the streets, sprawling onto balconies, gathering under awnings, and spilling out of the packed pubs, where the scent of Orixian moonshine, and pipe smoke thickened the air like a curtain.

  Tavern doors flung open and shut with a steady staccato, letting out snatches of song, curses, and roaring laughter.

  At one corner, a cluster of people had gathered around a spectacle—a man, swaying slightly with drunken confidence, was stringing an arrow into a bow. A second man, equally unsteady but somehow trusting, stood several paces away with a pineapple balanced atop his head. Cheers and jeers erupted from the crowd, as an arrow flew and hit its target, knocking the punctured fruit to a wood wall behind.

  There was no law in Burmar. There never had been. Will had heard stories that, before the war, it was like this all across the Orixian isles. Freedom. Fun.

  Not anymore.

  Turning down another alley, he caught sight of yet another crowd gathered in a loose circle. Shouting, laughter, and the occasional pained yelp rose above the noises of the street. A man and a woman - both locals—were standing on a bed of burning embers, their feet bare, their faces deep in concentration as they fought against the instinct to keep moving. The onlookers was betting which one would last the longest, shoving coins into outstretched palms with wild grins and drunken enthusiasm.

  ‘Coal running.’ That’s what they called it.

  Will snorted. Burmar never disappointed.

  Finally, he reached The Crow’s Roost—the place where messages came and went, the only spot on this island where one could find an Arcane table. At least one that was functional.

  The building itself looked as though it had been standing since the dawn of piracy, and probably hadn’t been repaired once since. Then again, none of the buildings here looked as they were ever repaired.

  Its wooden beams leaned at odd angles, the roof sagged like a ship too long at sea, and the cracked stone steps at the entrance threatened to give way at the slightest pressure. Every time Will pushed open its warped old door, he half-expected the whole thing to collapse around him.

  Inside, the smell of old parchment, melted wax, and the faintest trace of pipe smoke dominated. Scrolls and letters were piled haphazardly on every available surface, some tied with string, others left in half-opened stacks, as if abandoned mid-read.

  At the back of the room, an old man dozed in a rocking chair, his hat slouched so far forward it nearly covered his face. His beard, long and tangled, pooled into the floor like unkempt curtain, rising and falling slightly with each wheezy breath. The old magistrate—Alfie—was once a proud man, experimenting in all sorts of fields of research. Now, not so much.

  Will grinned mischievously. He wasn’t about to let the old man goat sleep through his grand entrance. He leaned down, took a deep breath, and clapped his hands together with a loud BANG.

  The man jolted upright, letting out a string of curses so creative they could’ve been poetry. His hat nearly toppled off of his head as he flailed for balance, glaring around the room, fists raised as if ready for a fight.

  The man squinted at him, still muttering under his breath, but recognition dawned. His scowl cracked into a toothy smile.

  “Will, ya little rat! Should’ve known it’d be you makin’ a racket.”

  “Sorry Alfie, I tried calling your name, but you didn’t respond…” He smiled widely.

  The old man let out a small chuckle, shaking his head. “What brings you here, this time? Captain finally send you to do something important?”

  Will leaned on the counter, drumming his fingers lazily.

  “Came to check if there was any message.” He said, drawing out the word with exaggerated emphasis.

  Alfie squinted at him, rubbing a pale hand over his wispy beard. “Oh, yes, message! Of course, of course. Let’s go up!”

  The old geezer turned, leading Will up a narrow, cracking staircase to the attic. The room was small, cramped with dust and that scent of old things. It had no windows, only the dim flicker of a single lantern casting long shadows on the slanted wooden beams overhead.

  And there it was—the Arcane table.

  A pedestal of dark wood stood at the room’s center, its surface smoothed by time and use. Resting atop it was an ancient tome, its leather-bound cover cracked and worn, pages yellowed with age. Beside it, a quill sat poised in a small ink jar, the liquid inside shimmering faintly, translucent like morning mist over the sea.

  Alfie shuffled forward, whispering something to himself as he pulled open a small drawer beneath the pedestal. He rummaged for a moment before pulling a tightly rolled scroll, its wax seal stamped with an emblem—a grinning skull with a dagger through its temple.

  He handed it to Will, his pale hands shaking form age.

  “This one’s on the house,” he said smirking. “But remember, if you ever need to send messages to someone… you come to me, ha ha.” He was half-way down the stairs as he finished the sentence. He followed close behind.

  As they descended to the ground level, Will tucked the scroll into his sash and gave Alfie a casual salute.

  “Much appreciated, old-timer. I’ll be sure to send you a message if I ever find meself in need of a miracle.”

  “A miracle’s the only thing keepin’ you alive, boy!” Alfie scuffled, settling back into his creaky rocking chair.

  Will turned to leave, but just as he reached for the handle, the door swung open. He stepped back instinctively, only to come face to face with a familiar figure—Captain Maxwell, still looking a mess.

  The man hesitated in the doorway, eyes widening slightly in surprise. He didn’t move to grab him, didn’t call for help, didn’t even scowl. He just stood there, as if unsure what to do with the boy who had played a part in his misfortune.

  Will tilted his head, taking in the man’s expression. Then, ever so slowly, a grin spread across his face, easy and unbothered, like he’d just run into an old friend. He tipped his fingers to his forehead in a mock salute.

  “Until next time, captain.”

  And he strolled onto the street, whistling to himself.

  That had gone rather well.

  “Now—” holding the scroll in his hand, he regarded it, “—you can’t be that important… can you?”

  He looked toward the path he came from, then, he glanced the other way—the one where all the music and laughter was coming from.

  “Valerik won’t mind if I make a little detour.”