The wind howled and whipped through the sails, a cold, biting force that seemed to reverberate through the very bones of the ship. The Maelstrom cut through the Caribbean Sea with a steady, determined rhythm, its hull creaking as it embraced the rhythm of the waves. The endless expanse of crystal-clear blue stretched as far as the eye could see, an infinite horizon that whispered the promise of uncharted lands and treasure, though it also spoke of danger, of men lost to the sea. Captain Caspian leaned against the railing, his sharp brown eyes scanning the water, though his mind was elsewhere, adrift like the ship itself. A gust of salty air tousled his dark hair, and he inhaled deeply, letting the scent of the ocean settle into his lungs. His ship, his domain. He had made it his home—an unpredictable, ever-moving world upon which he was the undisputed ruler. Yet, despite the sea's vastness, there was something constricting about the loneliness that had crept in. He had led this life for years, a pirate by nature, a captain by choice, yet his mind often wandered to the thing that should have no place in his thoughts—the prisoner.

The Royal Navy, who protected the people of England dearly, the very symbol of England’s might, had always been a thorn in his side. He’d long grown weary of the chase, of the ever-present pursuit of his every move, as if their reputation was too fragile to endure a single pirate’s insult. The capture had been deliberate, calculated—an act to provoke, to antagonize. For a man like Caspian, the Royal Navy represented everything he despised: rigid, pompous, and bound by laws that he felt stifled the freedom of the sea. The sound of his boots echoing through the ship’s narrow passageway broke his reverie. The man pushed the door open with a quiet creak. The quarters were sparse, the air thick with the scent of salt and damp wood, but there, sitting on the edge of the bed, staring out the small window, was the prisoner, yet he wouldn't call them that. "I trust you’re comfortable?"