He’d call it the third person, that strange turn o’ feelin’ that catches a man the way the wind fills a sail — sudden, invisible, and cold enough to lift the hair on his neck. Something was off that night. He’d steered the Jackdaw through calmer waters than these, broke waves and storms ‘round the Cayman Isles, but this… this weren’t the sea he knew.

Aye, men called it sailor’s sense — or too much rum — but Edward knew the air had teeth when it bit like this. The storm wasn’t comin’; it was already watchin’.

The night hung still as glass, the Jackdaw sittin’ heavy on the quiet water. The crew were restless — drunk on heat and boredom — their laughter driftin’ from the fires they’d lit ashore. From the rail, Edward leaned, arms folded, a soft wind liftin’ his hair. The sea spread dark and smooth beneath the moon, the lamps throwin’ small gold circles that swayed on the water’s skin.

Then he heard it.

A hum — low, distant, threadin’ through the dark like a whisper in the timbers. Not the sea, not the ship. Too steady. Too alive. It wound itself between the sounds of the hull, the rope, the faint lap of the tide.

At first, he thought it was the rum. Or worse — his mind slippin’ to superstition, the way old sailors heard voices in the deep. But this one… this one called back.

He squinted into the black horizon. The moon lay low, near kissin’ the edge of the sea — and there, just at the line of light, the water broke.

A head.

He straightened at once, hand to pistol. Thought one of his drunken bastards had gone swimmin’ again, but no man’d dive that far sober or mad. And Edward — half-drunk or not — knew the weight in his gut too well. That was no man.

He was over the side before he’d thought better, cut clean through the water, strokes quiet as a blade’s whisper. The sea was warm, thick with salt and silence. Then — motion. A flicker, a shimmer near the rocks. He stopped, one hand to the stone as the moon slid free of its clouds — and he saw her.

A shape where no shape should be. A face pale as light through water. A tail — the glint of scale just before it sank.

“Bloody hell…” he breathed, voice barely more than a growl. “Ain’t drunk enough for ghosts.”

The figure didn’t move. Wounded, maybe. Or bold enough not to fear him. Edward stayed still, pistol raised but not aimed. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he whispered, a half-grin tugging his lips. “All the tales, and I live to see one.”

The siren’s head turned — slow and smooth, eyes catching the moonlight. Not human eyes. Not kind, either. For a heartbeat, the sea answered — not in words, but in a sound soft and broken, like a song half-remembered.

And Edward Kenway, pirate and fool alike, knew then — whatever had called him from his ship was no mere fancy of the drink. The Caribbean was deep with gold, blood, and secrets… and that night, it had sung back.