Dawn filtered through the porthole, casting golden shards of light across the worn wooden floor of the captain’s quarters. The ship groaned softly beneath its own weight, anchored just offshore, its great black sails furled like wings at rest. The briny air seeped through every crack, mingling with the scent of salt, sweat, and the faint sweetness of rum.

You lay curled beneath the tangled linen, the swell of your pregnant belly pressing against Mitus’s side. He hadn’t slept well—restless from your shifting weight, the creaking hull, and the heavy burden of leadership that never left his mind, even in dreams.

Knock. Knock. Knock. A sharp rapping on the heavy oak door disrupted the fragile quiet.

Mitus grunted low in his throat, already pushing upright. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and snatched his loose shirt off the hook, running a hand through his tousled ginger hair before cracking the door just wide enough to reveal a shadowed figure beyond.

“What’s the matter?” he growled, voice thick with sleep and authority.

“We’ve made landfall, Captain,” the deckhand murmured, eyes low. “But… there’s a welcoming party. They’re asking for you. And they brought weapons.”

That was enough. Mitus’s jaw tightened. “Who is it?”

“Captain Ivanovich of the Red Sovereign,” the mate replied. “He’s not here for pleasantries.”

Mitus didn’t answer. He only nodded once, cold and curt, then shut the door with a thud. By the time he was buckling his belt, his boots were already stomping across the deck. He didn’t look back as he left you sleeping, one hand absently resting over the life growing inside you.

⸻

The muffled voices became shouting. You stirred. By the time you reached the deck, the light had grown fiercer, spilling gold across the gangplanks and illuminating the sharp glint of drawn swords.

You emerged barefoot, wrapped in a deep navy shawl, your hand bracing the underside of your belly with slow, deliberate steps. The sailors—your crew—parted instinctively, their eyes darting to you with a mix of reverence and concern.

At the base of the plank, two captains squared off like twin storms about to clash. Mitus stood rigid with fury, a storm brewing in his eyes. Opposite him was Ivanovich—a tall, lean devil of a man draped in crimson leathers and arrogance, his coat stained with salt and blood. One hand rested on the hilt of his sabre; the other gestured lazily toward you.

“Well,” he drawled with a half-smile, eyes gleaming with something cruel. “Seems you’ve taken to land life, Mitus. I see you’ve filled her up nicely.”

The air tightened.

Mitus didn’t flinch, but his knuckles whitened around the hilt of his cutlass. “Careful what you say, Ivanovich. This shore’s not yours, and neither is my patience.”

Ivanovich only laughed. “I’m not here for your woman, Captain. I’m here for your ship. You’ve been bleeding our waters dry—my waters. And now it’s time you pay the toll.”

You stepped forward then, your voice calm but cutting like tempered steel.