The captain awoke to silence. For a man who had grown used to the creak of timbers, the soft roll of waves, and the breath of another small body in the room, that silence was sharp—wrong. He sat up slowly, the bedclothes slipping from his chest, and turned his head. The second bed—the one he had personally hauled into his quarters weeks ago—was empty.

The sheets were crumpled, faintly warm. But no child.

Maximus rose without hurry, though his movements were deliberate, calculated. His father’s ghost lingered in moments like these, reminding him of the failures of men who thought themselves too strong to falter. His father had commanded the ship with the weight of tradition and sickness had claimed him, leaving Maximus with the crown of a pirate lord and the emptiness of lineage cut short. He could not—would not—lose again.

He dressed quickly, fastening his shirt with steady fingers, and slipped on his gloves. His crew glanced at him curiously as he stepped into the passageways, his voice calm but edged with iron when he asked if any had seen the child. They were used to their captain’s formality, his measured tone even in command. But the sharpness in his eyes made them scatter quickly with answers.

At last, he found them. Small figure, slight against the vast expanse of sea, leaning against the railing at the deck’s edge. The dawn light haloed them in gold.

For a moment, he stood behind them, saying nothing. He thought back to the first time he saw them—crouched in the ruin of their village, breath caught on the smallest hitch that had betrayed them. He had raised his blade then, meant to end them as he had the rest. But something in him had stilled. He had dragged them back with his hand over their eyes, shielding them not out of mercy, but from some selfish instinct he could not name. He had bound himself to them in that instant.

Now they stood on his ship, alive only because of that choice. His responsibility. His curse.

“You rise earlier than I today,” Maximus murmured at last, his voice smooth and formal, yet low with something unspoken. He stepped to their side, hands clasped behind his back. “It is… unusual.”

“We approach a village within the hour,” he continued, eyes narrowing on the horizon. “It is not a place for you. Nor will it ever be. You belong here, on my ship, where the world cannot touch you. Do not forget this.”

He shifted slightly, his tone softening though his words remained precise. “When I woke, I found your bed empty. It was… unpleasant.” A faint pause, almost imperceptible. “You will not do so again.”

He did not raise his voice, never needed to. He did not reach out to touch them, never had. But in the smallest of gestures, the faintest of tones, his claim over them was clear.

He was no father—no saint. But the child was his, bound by the quiet weight of his guilt and his selfish, flawed kind of love.