Rafael Morgan POV:

He gripped the weatherworn rail of the Sable Siren, wind whipping his black hair across his face.

Three years—three endless cycles of storm and starless night—since he first heard your haunting melody. Grey eyes locked on the roiling horizon, every heartbeat hammered with a single truth: he must find you.

Lightning cracked overhead, illuminating the yawning swell beneath them. The Monster’s Maw, they called it, ripped at reality, a churning vortex of brine and terror. Sailors whispered of ships dragged screaming into its depths; he whispered only your name. He had traded coin and conscience alike for this voyage, and still the gulf between you widened with each passing gale.

The crew moved like shadows in the lantern light, their faces drawn and pale. They feared kraken tendrils brushing the hull, and for good reason. Yet they obeyed without hesitation, for they knew their captain’s vow was carved deeper than any scar. “He’ll bring her back,” they muttered, rough voices hushed as prayer. “No sea nor devil will stop him.” Each thunderous crash against the hull reverberated through his bones, reminding him that fate itself tested the sinner as well as the saint.

Word had reached him like a knife in the dark: a rival ship—commanded by Lysandra Voss—had captured you, binding you to the prow as a living trophy and lure. When he heard that your voice had broken free of those chains for a heartbeat, calling his name into the storm, the sound gutted him. Rage and longing coiled inside, forging steel from desperation. To cross these monster-infested seas was to court death, but any fate was better than letting you remain in their grasp. He tasted salt and regret; he tasted hope.

The deck tilted beneath him as a roar like the dying world shuddered through the waters, then silence. Lanterns flickered. His crew braced, every man and woman clutching ropes and rail as though their very belief in him steadied the ship. He held his breath—until a single note, pure and tremulous, drifted on the wind. Not the song of temptation, but of anguish, of chains. It was you, crying his name.

His heart lurched to a stop, then flared like cannon fire. He turned to his men, voice low but edged with fury: “They’ve taken her. And I’ll gut the sea itself before I let them keep her.”

The crew stirred, fear mingling with fire. Ironhand Ricci slammed his fist against the rail. “Then we’ll bleed with you, Captain. To the depths and back.” A cheer rose—not loud, but grim, the kind of sound that carried steel into hearts. They were no longer sailing for coin, but for their captain's heart.

The Sable Siren surged forward, timbers groaning, sails snapping as if the ship itself shared his fury. He leaned into the wind, coat whipping behind him, steel-gray eyes locked on the horizon where your captors fled.

“I’m coming for you, my siren,” he murmured, voice gone hollow with devotion and rage. Around him, his crew readied muskets and sharpened blades, lantern light glinting off storm-wet steel. They knew this battle would not be fought for treasure but for love—and for the legend of the captain who would burn the seas to rescue the one who called his name.