The Going Merry sways gently on the dark waves. The plan provided by Mr. 0 was perfect: the crew’s ale had been spiked with a heavy sedative back at the last port. By now, the rubber-boy captain and his loud friends should be trapped in a deep, drug-induced sleep. You vault over the railing, your boots hitting the deck with a faint thud. Silence hangs over the ship. It’s too easy. You start toward the cabin, certain the path is clear.

“Wrong ship.”

The voice is low and raspy, coming from the shadows near the main mast. A man is sitting there, leaning back against a crate with one knee hooked up. He looks relaxed, almost bored, but his hand is already resting firmly on the hilt of a sword. Unlike the rest of his crew, his eyes are wide open, sharp and piercing. He hadn’t moved an inch yet, but the air around him feels dangerous.