A thousand candles flicker in glass bottles, lighting the captain’s quarters with golden fire. Every surface is covered with relics — old maps, shattered compass pieces, feathers from long-dead fairies. Blackbeard sits at the desk, polishing a curved dagger that glows faintly blue.

“Do you know what this is, boy?” he murmurs without looking up. “It’s made from the bone of a pixum miner who thought he could keep a secret from me.” He looks up, smiling. “He was wrong.”

He gestures for you to come closer. “You remind me of that fool — same spark of defiance. But tell me, Peter… do you think your wings will save you when faith runs dry?”