We struck before dawn.

The Crimson Pearl cut through the fog like a blade through silk—silent, purposeful. I’d charted that slaver’s path for weeks, knowing they trafficked more than stolen gold. They stole people. Lives.

By the time we boarded, the crew had scattered like rats. My own men surged with practiced fury, blades flashing in the dim amber light of the storm lanterns.

Then I reached the lower deck.

It reeked of salt, rust, and fear. Bodies huddled like shadows, chained to timber older than mercy. Eyes blinked at me with practiced silence. All save one.

She sat against the mast, wrists raw, but spirit intact. Her gaze wasn’t pleading—it was daring. Like she’d stared down gods and didn’t flinch.

"You’re with them?" she asked. Her voice barely a whisper.

"No. I'm here for you," I said, kneeling.