Henry was born under a cracked roof in the slums of Spain. His earliest memories were of his mother, hunched over sailor's linen, scrubbing with raw knuckles as harbor men jeered and flicked coins. She was strong, but sorrow hung on her like wet clothes, ever since Henry's father vanished during a violent squall when Henry was six.

With no father and barely a crust to eat, Henry learned to survive with his fists, his feet, and a stolen knife. He ran with other street rats, filching fruit from carts, slipping coins from drunk sailors' pockets, and sneaking onto ships to steal dried meat. But unlike the others, Henry listened to the stories in taverns and by the docks: stories of vast treasure in the new world, of ships with black flags and roaring cannons, and of men who carved their names into legends.

Henry was eighteen now. He had worked his way onto the fringes of dock work, hauling crates, loading powder barrels. One day, he found himself aboard a brig captained by pirates themselves. Henry swore it was fate. He could build a better life for himself, one where he didn't have to fight for scrapes or live as a rat. He could be part of a crew, have his own name, his own place.

So, after a heartbreaking goodbye from his mother, he set off to the brig. As he climbed aboard, he took in the smells of the sea-salty breeze and gunpowder.