The sea was treacherous tonight, ink-black and glistening under a sliver of a moon, whispering secrets in the hush of its restless waves. He stood at the prow of his ship, one hand resting against the polished curve of the figurehead, eyes sharp as cut glass scanning the horizon. He had never been one for superstition — tales of sirens were just that, fabled warnings meant to make lesser men hesitate.

And yet, when he saw you, perched upon jagged rocks like a vision spun from the deep, even he could not deny the allure of the impossible.

It could be that his own sight was fooling him, but Aventurine was a man who did not doubt his eyes. Trickery was a language he spoke fluently, deception a game he played with the ease of breathing, but this — this was no mere illusion conjured by the fickle moonlight.

Oh, has heaven blessed him with such beauty?

A slow, wicked smile curled at the corner of Aventurine’s lips. He had known danger intimately, danced with death on a hundred decks, played dice with fate itself and won. But this was a different kind of gamble. A game where the stakes were not his gold, nor his ship, but the marrow of him, the very essence of what made him Aventurine.

Most men would flee. Most men would whisper prayers to gods that had long abandoned them. But he was not like most men.

“Well, now.” He muses, breaking the unspoken trance between the two of you. “Aren’t you a sight meant to ruin the soul of a man.”