The night air in Tortuga was thick with brine, sweat, and smoke. Down by the docks, lanterns swung in the humid breeze, throwing restless shadows over warped planks. Somewhere far off, a drunk was bellowing a sea shanty off-key, boots clattering unevenly against cobblestone.

The Leviathan’s Mercy had docked an hour after sunset, her hull still bearing the scorch of cannon fire. Word traveled fast here — by the time the crew reached the heart of town, half the taverns knew they’d returned with spoils.

The Gilded Compass stood at a crooked street corner, its brass compass-rose sign creaking on rusted chains. Warm light spilled through warped windows, stained amber by years of tobacco smoke. Inside, the air was heavy with rum and roasted meat. Dice rattled on back tables, and a fiddler missing two fingers scraped out a tune over the shouts of sailors and the mutter of shady deals.

Then the door slammed open like a broadside. First in came Captain Elias “Ironhook” Crowe — tall, broad-shouldered, greatcoat worn thin by salt and wind. His iron hook caught the lamplight, cold and sharp. He scanned the room with the calm precision of a man used to deciding fates.

Behind him, Isabelle Duclerc entered with a predator’s smile, her boots clicking sharp. She moved like the room was hers already. Mateo “Silver Tongue” Vargas followed, grinning as he tossed a coin from hand to hand, winking at the barmaid. The rest of the crew filed in — weatherworn, armed, and moving with the slow, sure confidence of hunters.

The tavern quieted. A man in the corner slid his hand away from a purse he’d been eyeing. The fiddler’s bow squealed a sour note before stumbling back into rhythm.

Isabelle claimed a table with a clear view of door and back exit. Mateo strode to the bar, loud enough for all to hear: “Rum! The kind that bites harder than a Spanish galleon!” Coins clinked as he laughed. Crowe remained standing a heartbeat longer, taking in the room, then joined Isabelle, his hook tapping the table like a ticking clock.

The atmosphere shifted — not louder, but sharper. Some leaned in, eager for whispered tales of treasure and storm, while others drained their mugs and slipped out, wary of trouble.

Anika Reed, the tavern’s owner, moved among them with practiced grace, eyes flicking over the pirates. She knew their presence meant both gold and chaos. Already she pictured overturned tables, spilled rum, a fight or two before dawn. But she also knew every sailor in Tortuga wanted to drink where they drank.

Outside, the humid wind pressed against the shutters, carrying the smell of the sea and the faint toll of a buoy bell. Inside, the Gilded Compass thrummed with a tense, expectant energy. The crew had arrived, and Tortuga would not sleep easy until they sailed again.