The wind tasted like iron that morning. Sharp and cold, it cut through damp rags and salt-stiff hair like it meant to flay skin from bone. The boy didn't flinch. He was used to the sting.
He crouched near the edge of the deck, one bare foot pressed into a coil of rope, the other against warped planks that smelled of fish guts and old blood. Below him, the sea sloshed against the hull, gray and mean. Somewhere in the fog, another ship groaned on its ropes — their prize from two nights past. The crew had named her The Laughing Crab, though no one aboard was laughing when they slit the sailors' throats.
He didn't have a name. Not one from here. The crew called him Salt, and it stuck. He figured it was because he washed up on a reef, skin sunburnt and clothes torn like a drowned rat. They didn't know he wasn't from this world. Truth be told, he barely knew what had happened himself.
He was born again here — a second life, in a place of blood and wind and fire. There were no phones, no cars, no cities, no internet. Just ships, swords, and cruel skies. He didn't know what world this was. He didn't even know if the stars were the same. But he was alive, and that had to count for something.
Salt was fourteen now, lean and quiet, working aboard the Whore's Grin, a pirate skiff that roamed the Stepstones under the command of Captain Brune Morrigar — a broad-shouldered man with braided gray hair and a laugh like gravel. Brune had found him years ago, half-starved and wild-eyed, and rather than slit his throat like the rest of the crew wanted, he'd tossed him a crust of bread and a mop.
"You clean, you eat," the captain had said.
Salt cleaned. And he ate. And he stayed.
There were others aboard he'd come to know.
Kreeg, the massive quartermaster with a broken nose and a soft spot for seabirds. Orla, the captain's first mate, sharp-tongued and quicker with a dagger than most men with a blade. And Bale, a younger sailor with too many teeth and too much to prove, who took every chance to sneer at Salt.
He usually kept to mending sails, scrubbing decks, and fetching grog. But this morning was different.
"Salt!" Kreeg's voice boomed from above. "To arms! Captain says you're comin' this time!"
Salt blinked. "Me?"
"Aye, you. Get your arse moving."
He didn't argue. He climbed up, fingers calloused and sure. When he reached the quarterdeck, Brune stood there, squinting at the horizon.
"You said you wanted to be more than a bilge rat," the captain grunted without looking at him.
Salt nodded.
Brune tossed something at him. He caught it awkwardly — an axe. Not a big one, but sharp. The handle was worn smooth.
"You swing that like it means somethin', and you might just come back."
Salt gripped it tightly. He could feel something in the air — a shift. Not fear exactly, but a pressure. A tension, like the world held its breath. He'd felt that before — when storms were coming, or when sailors got too drunk and the knives came out. But this was heavier. Thicker. Like a wave rising before it breaks.
He didn't know what it was. Just that it was always there. In him. Around him.
---
The target was a merchant vessel — low-slung and richly appointed, sails striped with violet and gold. A Braavosi ship, by the look of it, fat with spices or coin. Brune had called it a "floating purse" when they spotted it drifting a few miles off the straits.
They struck just before dawn. No warning. The Whore's Grin came up fast and silent, cutting through the gray waters like a blade. Salt stood at the center of the boarding party, axe in hand, heart thudding in his ears. The crew moved around him like wolves, grinning, whispering crude bets.
Kreeg grunted beside him. "Don't drop that axe, boy. We only got one spare."
Salt nodded. His breath came steady — too steady. The strange calm was back again, like time thickened around him, like the world hushed.
The Braavosi crew fought. Vicious and fast. Not trained soldiers, but desperate men protecting their ship. Blades rang out, boots slammed against soaked planks, and someone screamed.
Salt hesitated as two pirates clashed ahead of him. One went down — stabbed in the gut — and Salt's path was suddenly open. A Braavosi sailor turned, eyes wide, and charged.
Salt barely moved. He stepped to the side as if he knew the man would lunge, raised the axe, and brought it down across the man's shoulder. He didn't remember deciding to move. His body simply knew.
Another sailor came, swinging wildly. Salt dropped low, ducking under the arc, and slashed across the man's legs. Blood sprayed. The man shrieked.
Salt rose. Turned. Breathed.
Every movement felt... right. Like his limbs remembered something he didn't. Like the world slowed just enough for him to step through it.
When the fight ended, the Braavosi ship was theirs. A few survivors were bound and gagged. The deck ran slick with blood and broken crates.
Salt stood near the mast, axe still in hand, chest heaving.
Brune approached, his boots thudding heavily across the deck. He looked at Salt, then at the bodies.
"You've got red on you," the captain muttered, not unkindly.
Salt said nothing.
"Didn't expect you to hold," Brune went on. "Didn't expect you to fight like that either."
Kreeg joined them, wiping his blade. He looked at Salt, not with suspicion, but something closer to wary respect. "Moves like a cat," he said. "Eyes like a storm."
Brune spat over the side, then clapped Salt hard on the back. "You're a quiet one, but you've got teeth. Welcome to the crew, proper."
Salt only nodded. He didn't know what to say.
But deep down, beneath the blood and sweat and silence, something stirred. Something vast and old and waiting.
He didn't have a name for it.
Not yet.