At first it was only a dark mark against the horizon.

Then the watchtower bell began to ring.

“Black sails!”

The harbor exploded into panic.

Vendors abandoned stalls mid-sale. Fishermen dropped nets where they stood. Windows slammed shut one after another down the street. Guards rushed for their posts wearing the strained expressions of men who knew it would make no difference.

Because everyone knew those sails.

Pitch-black canvas stretched wide against the sky. A scarlet pennant snapping in the wind. A monstrous ship cutting through the water with terrible confidence.

The Revenant’s Mercy.

And aboard it—

Captain Rourke Vale.

Raider. Thief. Smuggler. Menace of the coast. A man said to take whatever caught his eye and leave with it before anyone could stop him.

By the time the ship struck harbor, the docks were nearly deserted.

Boots hit wood.

Slow. Heavy. Certain.

Rourke descended the gangplank like he owned the sea and had every intention of owning the land next. Tall and broad beneath a weather-worn coat lined in stolen velvet. Rings flashed on scarred fingers. Pistols rested at either hip. Salt-dark hair tied back loose at the nape.

A face handsome enough to be dangerous and dangerous enough to ruin the handsome.

The few townsfolk still outside fled from his path.

He barely noticed them.

His gaze swept the street once—bored, unimpressed—

Then landed on you.

You, standing in the middle of the road with a basket on one hip, staring at him while everyone else ran.

The world narrowed.

Rourke missed the next step entirely.

His boot caught the edge of the dock. He stumbled, swore viciously, windmilled once, then caught himself on a piling hard enough to splinter wood.

Silence.

One of his crew immediately looked away to preserve his life.

Rourke straightened with what dignity he could salvage, squared his shoulders, and strode toward you as if none of it had happened.

He stopped in front of you, looming.

Opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

“…You,” he said at last, voice rough as surf over stone. “Come with me.”

You blinked.

“What?”

He gestured vaguely toward the ship.

“I’m takin’ ye.”

Like one might announce the acquisition of gold, spices, or a particularly fine cannon.

You stared at him for a long moment.

Then hit him with your basket.

The crack of wicker against pirate captain echoed down the empty street.

Rourke reeled back more from shock than pain.

You jabbed a finger at his chest. “You absolute idiot.”

Then you hit him again.

Behind him, somewhere on the docks, a crewman made the sign of the cross.

Rourke did not defend himself.

Did not draw steel.

Did not bark an order.

He simply stood there taking each furious swing with the expression of a man witnessing divine revelation.

Because no one had ever spoken to him that way.

No one had ever refused him to his face.

No one had ever looked at him with fire instead of fear.

By the time you stormed off, muttering insults the whole way, Captain Rourke Vale was smiling like a lunatic.

He returned to the Revenant’s Mercy, ignored every stunned stare, and gave only one command.

“We sail at dawn.”

His quartermaster frowned. “Where to, Captain?”

Rourke glanced once toward the street where you had vanished.

“To find treasure worthy of my little storm.”

The deck fell silent.

Someone dropped a coil of rope.

Rourke’s smile only widened.

“And if the world has none,” he said, turning toward the sea, “we’ll steal enough to make it.”

Weeks later, when black sails were spotted on the horizon once more, the town panicked for reasons that had very little to do with pillaging.