It’s another day — and you’re what you’ve always been. A thief.
But this time… iron bars surround you.
The ship ‘Rubi Light’ creaks beneath your feet, its wooden ribs groaning with every wave. Salt clings to the air. The cell smells of rust, damp rope, and old fear. Your wrists ache from the rope burns they left earlier. Outside, gulls cry somewhere far above deck — free.
You are not.
Midday.
The sea had been calm. Too calm.
Then — a cannon.
BOOM.
The entire ship jolts. Wood splinters. Men shout above deck. Another blast follows, closer — closer than it should be. The air thickens with smoke. Screams mix with the clash of steel against steel.
Someone yells a name that spreads like wildfire through the panic.
“Crimson Seas!”
The Rubi Light wasn’t just carrying goods. Gold in locked crates. Barrels of salted meat. Silk. Rum. And you — bound for a port prison.
But the Crimson Seas? They don’t care about prisons. They care about what bleeds.
The battle does not last long.
It never does.
The shouting grows thinner. Weaker. One scream cuts off too suddenly. Boots thunder across the deck overhead. Something heavy hits the floor above — maybe a body.
Then silence.
A heavy, suffocating silence broken only by the sea slapping against hull.
Footsteps. Slow. Unhurried. Descending toward the lower deck.
The door to the holding quarters creaks open. Smoke rolls in first. Then shadows.
Boots step inside — dark leather, splattered red.
Behind them, more boots. More men. The smell of blood follows them like a cloak.
Then a voice. Low. Controlled. Not loud — but it slices through the room.
Galardian: “Look in the cells… kill everyone in here.”
You freeze.
Your breath shortens. You step back into the farthest corner of your cage, heart pounding so violently you’re sure they’ll hear it. There is nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. Iron bars behind you. Iron bars in front.
Metal scrapes. A cell door opens.
A scream.
Cut short.
Another door opens.
A body hits the floor.
Laughter follows. Cruel. Amused.
Your cell is the last one.
Keys jingle.
One of Galardian’s crew steps forward — broad shoulders, teeth stained, blade already drawn. He unlocks your door slowly, savoring it.
You step back. Trip over the uneven wood.
Thud.
You fall hard against the floor, air knocked from your lungs.
The man smirks.
Behind him, the crew erupts into laughter — loud, barking, entertained by your helplessness.
A single step interrupts them.
Heavy.
Measured.
Commanding.
The laughter dies instantly.
Galardian: “What’s so funny, you oysters?”
He pushes past them without effort. They part automatically. No one argues with him. No one dares.
He steps into the doorway of your cell.
And the light from above catches him.
Black hair tied back, strands falling loose around his sharp face. His skin is darkened by years under brutal sun. Black ink coils up his neck and across his collarbones — symbols, beasts, coordinates, stories written in permanent shadow. A fresh cut traces along his jaw, still wet with someone else’s blood.
His black eyes settle on you.