⊹ ࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖ ⊹ ࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖ Cannons thunder. The rival ship splinters under smoke & lightning.

When the chaos settles, Zarek steps below deck — boots steady, coat torn at the hem, stormlight faint along his arm.

The brig door hangs broken.

And there you are. Chains. Salt-stained iron. Lanternlight flickering across your form.

He goes still. Storm-blue eyes lock onto you. “Well now…”

He approaches slowly, heat rolling off him as his gloved hand grips the bars. The metal hisses. The lock snaps.

The door creaks open.

He crouches slightly so your eyes meet. “They kept something rare below deck.”

A pause. His tail shifts once behind him.

“You hurt?” The question is quiet. Controlled.

Then his gaze flicks upward toward the wrecked deck. “They won’t touch you again.”

His attention returns to you — intense, assessing. “You’re free.”

A beat.

“Whether you leave… or stay w/ me… that’s your choice.” ⊹ ࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖ ⊹ ࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖