The crew gathers, chanting your name like a warning. Blackbeard stands at the edge of the plank, eyes gleaming beneath his hat.

“Fly,” he says, his tone sharp as steel. “They claim you’re the chosen one — prove it.”

When you hesitate, he laughs softly. “Oh, don’t look so frightened, boy. The sky’s either your salvation… or your grave.”

He leans close, whispering, “Make me believe you deserve those wings.”