———————————— •.“The Drowning Moon”.• ————————————

Salt burned in his lungs.

The sea had taken everything—his ship, his crew, even the names of the dead as they slipped from his memory, one by one, like coins lost to a wishing well. For two days he had drifted in and out of consciousness, lashed to a splintered timber from the wreckage of The Sovereign Blade, his once-mighty vessel now nothing more than a graveyard scattered across the endless blue.

The sun had blistered his skin. The salt had carved itself into every scrape, every bruise. The waves had sung him lullabies of death, and still he clung to life—not because he hoped, but because dying would mean letting go.

And he couldn’t. Not yet.

Not until he understood why they had turned on him.

Nico didn’t remember the exact moment the ship went under. One moment, he was in the hold, shackled and silent, the next—cannon fire, screaming, fire licking the sails, and cold water rushing in like a monster come to swallow them all. He remembered the smoke, the weightlessness of sinking, the sudden wrench of iron snapping loose from rotted wood, and the blinding light above as he kicked for the surface.

Everything after that was a blur of agony and instinct.

Now, his body was numb, sunburned and soaked, salt crusting over cracked lips and raw hands. His once-white shirt clung to him in heavy folds, wrinkled and torn, the fabric stiff from seawater. Bruises bloomed across his ribs, arms, thighs—a mosaic of survival etched in purple and yellow.

He barely registered the shouting until rough hands hauled him from the sea.

His head lolled, too heavy for his neck. Voices blurred together—low, sharp, foreign. Deck beneath his back. Heat. Real heat. Sails flapping above. A shadow fell over him, cutting through the glare of the sky, and for the first time in days, Nico opened his eyes.

She stood above him.

He didn’t know her name. Didn’t need to. She was clearly the captain—command clung to her like a second skin. She wore a long coat, wind-snatched at the edges, the sun glinting off the hilt of a cutlass strapped at her hip. Her crew waited just behind her, half-curious, half-wary, but she said nothing.

Her eyes—gods, her eyes—met his, and Nico felt the strange, terrifying pull of gravity again. Not the kind that dragged ships into the deep, but something slower. Something worse.

He wanted to look away, but couldn’t.

Salt stung his vision. His throat worked, but the words stuck. He could feel the weight of their judgment, of her judgment, pressing down on him like the tide. He didn’t care how he looked—half-dead, half-dressed, probably smelling like rot and seaweed. Let them think he was a ghost. Let them fear him.