The mist rolled in thick over the water as Sawyer's rowboat cut silently through the waves. The oars didn't splash. The hulls didn't groan. The only sound was the whisper of sea wind and the distant creak of enemy masts.
He glanced back at his crew — their faces half-hidden by cloth and grime, eyes gleaming with adrenaline. Harrow gave a short nod from the next boat over, his axe already drawn. Syrena was behind him, her eyes locked forward, lips tight. Focused.
Sawyer gave the signal.
They moved.
Like shadows from the deep, Sawyer's men scaled the anchored ships. Hooks bit into wood. Boots hit decks. And in the stillness of the early dawn, the pirates struck.
The first ship was asleep.
Sawyer's blade slid across the throat of the first guard before the man could open his mouth. Another crewmember drove a knife into the ribs of a soldier still rising from his bunk.
"Move!" Sawyer growled, already storming toward the upper deck.
A Spaniard emerged with a musket. Harrow launched his axe. It buried into the man's chest before the shot could fire.
"Ship One is ours!" someone shouted.
Cheers erupted.
Sawyer and his men leapt to the next ship, boarding under the confusion. By then, the alarm was raised. Steel clashed. Pistols fired. The air filled with smoke and blood and fury.
But Sawyer thrived in chaos.
He moved through the fight like he was born to it — ducking, slashing, elbowing a man in the throat and gutting another in the same breath. One Spaniard lunged at him. Sawyer parried, kicked the man's knee backward with a sickening crunch, and drove a dagger into his heart.
"Push to the bridge!" he roared.
His men followed. Harrow fought at his side like a beast unleashed, swinging wildly and laughing between attacks. Syrena danced through the fray, quick-footed and fearless, dropping two men with the same blade.
A third ship was overrun. The Spaniards fell back, scattered, panicked.
For a moment, it looked like the pirates might take all five.
Then it happened.
From the flagship's lower deck came a wave of fresh soldiers — armor-clad, guns raised, their boots pounding the wood like drums of war. The pirates weren't ready.
It was a trap.
"Behind us!" someone shouted — too late.
Sawyer turned, blade already moving. He slashed a musket away from his chest and dove into the thick of them. Around him, the tide of battle twisted. Gunshots cracked louder. Screams rose higher. Blood pooled at his feet.
Still, he fought.
His knuckles were raw. His shoulder burned. A bayonet scraped his ribs, but he kept swinging.
Then he heard her.
"SYRENA!" someone yelled.
He turned — and saw her.
She was fending off two men on the quarterdeck, one sword broken, the other still in her grip. Her hair was soaked in blood and sweat. Her eyes wild. She was cornered but unrelenting.
Sawyer moved to help — but then he saw him.
A Spanish officer — broad, armored, merciless — stepped from the smoke behind her.
Sawyer's shout died in his throat as the officer plunged his sword straight through her back.
She gasped.
The world slowed.
The sword was yanked out.
And she was shoved — limp and lifeless — into the sea.
Her body hit the water with a sickening splash. Red spread across the waves like ink. Then she was gone.
Gone.
Sawyer lost control.
He charged. He screamed her name. But there were too many. A musket butt struck the side of his head. He staggered, then fell.
Harrow shouted for retreat. The crew had no choice.
One by one, they jumped into the sea, grabbing wreckage and swimming away as Spanish soldiers shouted victory.
Sawyer didn't make it to the water.
The last thing he saw was the smoke rising from his ship.
And the blood still churning in the sea.