The days after the ambush were quiet. Too quiet.
The crew made camp along the edge of the jungle-covered island. They'd buried the dead, tended the wounded, and repaired what scraps they could salvage from the wreckage. But no one spoke of Sawyer. No one spoke of Syrena.
It was too raw. Too fresh.
Harrow sat beside the fire, staring at the flames, turning Sawyer's old dagger over in his hand. Around him, the men whispered. Not about giving up — no, never that — but something else. Something bigger.
"I say we build a fleet."
The voice cut through the murmurs. It was Barrett, the broad-shouldered helmsman. His arm was wrapped in bandages, but his voice was steady. "We can't just sit here. If we want to get Sawyer back… if we want to get revenge... we need more than a single ship."
"And more than the sorry few of us left," growled another.
Harrow looked up. "Go on."
Barrett stepped forward. "We go back to the places we swore we'd never return to. Pirate havens, outlaw ports, free islands. We've all got old debts, old crewmates, even enemies who'd jump at a chance to sink a Spanish fleet. We call them in."
Harrow hesitated — then nodded slowly. "We don't just rescue Sawyer."
"We start a war," Barrett finished.
A low, eager rumble went through the men. Something fierce. Something alive. For the first time since they lost their captain, they felt purpose.
"We'll need ships," another said. "Arms. Food."
"We know where to get them," Harrow said, rising to his feet. "Some of us got favors owed. Some of us got grudges to cash in. We'll build something bigger. Stronger."
"A fleet?" a younger pirate asked.
Harrow smirked grimly. "A rebellion."
The men roared their agreement.
That night, the camp came alive with planning. Old maps were unrolled, names whispered — some legends, some nightmares. Crews would split up, recruiting where they could, stealing ships if they had to. They would meet again in three weeks' time… at a place only outlaws knew.
There, they would gather.
There, they would rise.
And somewhere out there, Sawyer Maddox — shackled, bloodied, broken — would learn that his crew hadn't given up on him.
That they were coming.
Not with a ship.
But with a fleet.