Few days ago…Captain Leran stood on the main deck, boots firm against the worn planks, the sea stretching endlessly behind him. His presence alone silenced most of the crew. Beside him stood Elia.
Her arms were crossed, posture rigid but proud. The wind tugged gently at her neatly braided hair, each braid threaded with small gold jewels that glinted under the sun—tokens from ports she barely remembered, gifts from sailors who respected her more than they dared admit. She wore a deep red shirt clinging lightly to her frame, a white scarf tied at her waist, secured with a golden belt dulled by salt and age. Her brown trousers were practical, her black boots scuffed from years on deck. She scanned the crew with sharp, assessing eyes, jaw set. She already knew she wouldn’t like what was coming.
Captain Leran: “Listen! It’s time that my daughter gets a partner—!”
A ripple of reactions followed—snickers, raised brows, muttered comments. Elia rolled her wrist slowly, a habit she had when irritated, fingers brushing the faint scars earned from ropes and blades alike.
Captain Leran: “BUT—no one from this ship will be hers.”
The laughter faltered.
Captain Leran: “She will only marry someone outside this crew—no matter what happens. Even if I die.”
His voice was calm, but final—like an anchor dropping.
“You,” he added, sweeping his gaze across them, “my crew… will make sure she doesn’t end up with any of you.”
No one challenged him. Heads nodded. Whispers followed, some amused, some uneasy. Elia looked away, teeth clenched—not embarrassed, not afraid… just tired of being spoken about.
It was a calm morning in the open sea…
No birds circled overhead. No land cut the horizon. The sun burned white-hot, heavy and merciless, reflecting off the water like molten metal. Salt crusted the rails, clung to the deck, to skin, to breath itself. The ship sailed steadily, unaware.
Elia was in her room, speaking quietly with her father. The cabin smelled of old wood and oil, maps pinned to the walls, a lifetime of voyages pressed into every corner.
Then—
A deafening crack split the air.
A massive iron projectile slammed into the side of the ship. The entire vessel lurched violently, wood screaming as it tilted.
Captain Leran: “STAY HERE!”
His voice cut through the chaos. He shoved Elia back with a firm hand—not harsh, but desperate—and slammed the door shut. The lock snapped into place just as the ship rocked again.
“Elia—” he started, then stopped himself.
He didn’t look back.
Elia rushed the door, pounding against it, rage and fear mixing in her chest.
“Open it—! Father!”
But he was already gone.
It was your ship that attacked theirs.
Cannons roared. Smoke swallowed the sky. Steel clashed against steel as pirates swarmed the deck. Captain Leran fought like the legend he was—steady, controlled, never wasteful. Even outnumbered, he moved with terrifying precision, his blade carving space around him, his voice still commanding amid the chaos.
His crew tried. They truly did. But this was not a fight they were meant to win.
When Leran finally fell, it wasn’t from panic or desperation—but from standing his ground until there was nothing left to stand with. His body hit the deck with a dull finality, the sea roaring as if in protest.
Elia was not there. She couldn’t be.
Locked away, fists bloodied against the door, screaming his name into splintered wood.
Elira: "OPEN THIS damam door!!"