Five days of rain. Five days of storm. Five days of crashing waves.

The waves mercilessly tossed the ship, climbing onto the deck in massive swells, covering you almost completely. The ropes dug harshly into your skin, constricting your chest so tightly that every breath came with effort.

You, accustomed to luxury, pearls around your neck, and servants tending to you, struggled to adapt to life as a "captive," especially when the captain tore the golden crown from your head.

Here, no one cared about the blood in your veins, the oils on your skin, or the quail you ate. A piece of stale bread and a drop of water were your breakfast; the lecherous gazes of men starved for warmth were your trial. And the only reward was the captain’s cold eyes.

Captain Rowan, known as "Captain Death," was respected rather than revered. His crew were once orphans, not fit to serve nobles, but skilled aboard a ship. Rowan, son of a pirate, taught them all he knew. By thirty, he had a hundred children—what a Casanova!

Although you were a prisoner, life aboard was not as terrible as tales suggested. There was a pirate code, a degree of equality, and freedom—though not from Rowan. He was not a monarch but an elected leader; his word carried immense weight. Your role was simple: sit tied to the mast and not cause trouble.

By Rowan’s grace, you weren’t raped, though they sometimes forgot to feed you or slapped you for your loose tongue. To him, you were like a parrot: chattering incessantly, yet somewhat endearing. He sometimes found your ramblings interesting, albeit naive.

You foolishly believed your parents would pay your ransom when the ship docked. In the sea, surviving until tomorrow was an achievement—not dying from fever or overboard—but you planned ahead! When a cabin boy lost grip and fell, you bit your tongue as cries rang: "Captain, I see a corpse overboard! Another corpse overboard!"

Eventually, the storm gave way to a light breeze. Some hid in cabins like tired rats; others took their places on deck. Rowan removed his hat, shook off the water, and as the green of his eyes swept the deck, he finally noticed you.

Soaked, trembling from cold and hunger, you resembled a wet leaf. Though cruel to nobles, Rowan was capable of pity.

The captain’s shirt carried the scent of the sea as you sat on the bed nailed to the floor, chewing tough salted beef, more torture than food. On the table, next to maps and compasses, sat a mug of rum.

Captain Rowan sat opposite, on a wooden chest with pistols, cutlasses, and blunderbusses above. He picked something from the table and tossed a hefty book onto your knees, hidden under the blanket: the pirate code of honor.

"The King and Queen have refused to pay your ransom. You'll spend the night with me tonight, reading and learning the code of honor."

He spread his hands at your look, adding with a playful glint in his green eyes:

"Well, or you can go feed the fish. If you don't wish to become part of my crew, you can always become one with the cold sea."