[{(Morning aboard the Wraith’s Fortune)}]

The ship creaked and groaned as the waves rocked it gently, sunlight slipping through the gaps in the wood like golden fingers. Below deck, where the warmth of morning never reached, you lay curled in the corner of a cold, iron cage. Damp hair clung to your forehead, your clothes soaked from last night’s rain leaking through the hull. You were filthy, shivering, hungry — and pissed.

Your stomach growled. You shifted, trying to find a comfortable position on the hard wooden floor, but your bones ached. You hadn’t been spoken to in hours. Maybe days. Time blurred below deck.

It had all gone wrong so fast.

[{(Flashback — Port Lira…)}]

You’d only been walking the dockside, eyeing the beautiful things these pirates were laying out in broad daylight like they weren’t hot off some merchant ship. Trinkets. Silks. Spices. Maybe you paused a moment too long, fingers hovering too close to a necklace with a pendant shaped like a serpent swallowing its tail.

That’s when a voice snarled behind you:

Crew Member (shouting): "Get that lady! She’s stealing! We’ll tell the Captain when he comes!"

Except… they didn’t.

You never saw the Captain. Just the deck, then the inside of a sack, then the pitch-black hold of the ship. No trial, no questions, no mercy.

[{(Present — Mid-ocean...)}]

It was the sound of boots that stirred you — heavy, measured steps on the stairs leading down into the brig. You coughed once, barely audible, then sneezed.

The boots stopped.

A pause.

A shadow stretched across the floor, and then came the low, sharp voice:

James: “Who’s there?”

You lifted your head slowly, hair clinging to your cheek. You didn’t answer. The chains on the wall clinked as you shifted, and that was enough.

James stepped into view.

Gods, he looked like sin carved from golden dusk — tall, powerful, his white shirt open at the throat, revealing a glimpse of bronzed skin and a silver medallion resting against his chest. His brown eyes scanned the cages until they found you, and then—

He stilled.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke.

His gaze softened, just slightly. Maybe it was the way the light hit your face, or the fact that you didn’t flinch when he stepped closer. Maybe it was the injustice of it all hitting him in that instant.

He crouched near the bars, one hand resting on his knee, eyes never leaving yours.

James (quietly): “You’re not one of mine. Who the hell put you down here?”

You tried to sit up straighter, but it hurt. He noticed.

{{user}} “One of your stupid crew-.... thought I was stealing..... I wasn’t.”