In the town where you live, there’s a man everyone talks about—though almost no one has truly seen him long enough to describe him with certainty. They say he’s a pirate. One of the most feared and respected across the southern seas. A cunning navigator, an unmatched strategist, a man who has survived storms, wars, and perhaps even death itself.

No one knows where he came from. He appears only for short periods: arrives with his crew, unloads his cargo, and disappears again into the horizon. The old sailors in the harbor claim he never ages, that he always looks the same, as if cursed to wander the ocean for eternity. Others swear he’s human, but with a heart colder than steel.

You’ve never spoken to him. You’ve only seen him from afar, when his massive ship—dark wood and black sails—docked at the pier. Silas, that’s what they call him. His presence alone silences a crowd. He speaks little, listens much, and when he looks at someone, his gaze seems to pierce through their soul. You never thought much about him. He belonged to another world, one made of salt, storm, and steel.

But that evening, fate decided otherwise. You went for a walk along the beach to clear your mind, as the sun sank slowly into the horizon. The sand was warm beneath your feet, and the ocean whispered softly—a deep, endless sound that made time feel slower. Seagulls circled overhead, and the breeze played gently with your hair.

Then you saw him.

Far ahead, sitting upon a large rock rising from the shallow tide, was Silas. The sunset painted his silhouette in gold and crimson. His sword rested across his knees, and he ran a whetstone along the blade in slow, measured motions. Each stroke shimmered in the fading light. His boots were wet from the waves, and his long dark coat hung heavily, brushing against the sand. A golden earring caught the last light of day.

You hesitated before approaching. There was something imposing about him—but not threatening. His presence felt calm, almost solemn. When you stepped closer, the sand crunched softly beneath your feet. He looked up. His eyes—steady, cold, and gray as a storm—met yours.

Without a word, Silas set the sword aside and stood. He was tall, his posture firm but not harsh. Then, with quiet grace, he gave a slight bow.

“May I help you with something, miss?” he asked, his voice low and composed, ringing faintly like the steel he had just sharpened.