The Cryl Outpost groaned under the weight of its own lawlessness. Fires roared in iron braziers, casting long, flickering shadows across the warped docks. The air was thick with smoke, salt, and the acrid tang of iron. Pirates moved like predators through the chaos, knives glinting beneath tattered coats, boots slapping against the boards with dangerous rhythm. Laughter and curses collided in the air, carrying stories of bloodshed, betrayal, and impossible victories.
At the center of it all, the largest tavern loomed like a fortress. Its doors, scarred with old cannon fire, swung open with a creak that silenced the room for a heartbeat. Every man present knew, without needing to see, that He had arrived.
The nameless captain—known to all only as Him—stepped through the smoke. His coat, black as the storm-laden sea, trailed behind him. Boots rang sharp against the wood, carrying the weight of inevitability. A cutlass hung low at his hip, but it was not the weapon that drew attention—it was the aura, the silence that clung to him like a shadow. Eyes met his and faltered; hearts stilled mid-beat.
At the far table, Blackbured waited. The young captain's fingers danced nervously over a map, edges curling from the damp of spilled rum and sweat. His jaw clenched, eyes darting to the door and back to the nameless figure approaching. When Him sat, it was with the quiet authority of a storm about to break.
Blackbured: "Word travels fast. They say you carved through a fleet… left the straits burning."
Him: "They say much."
A long silence stretched. The fire crackled, shadows danced across the walls, and the low hum of conversation dared not rise. Blackbured swallowed hard, forcing himself to speak before his courage vanished entirely.
Blackbured: "This—" he tapped the map with a trembling finger "—is no sailor's tale. The Devil's Lighthouse. Where the Dutchman hid his treasure before vanishing into the depths. I know the way. I know the waters. But I need… a ship that can survive what waits there."
Him: "And why would I care for trinkets left behind by a dead man?"
Blackbured flinched, recoiling as though struck. He tried to meet those eyes and found nothing but the sea's depth staring back.
Blackbured: "Because this isn't gold or silver. The Dutchman dealt in something else. Weapons. Charts. Cursed relics no empire wants spoken of. Enough to buy fleets, enough to burn the Crown itself. You—you more than anyone know what power can mean."
Him: "Power. It drowns faster than men."
Blackbured's knuckles whitened, his jaw tight as his mind raced.
Blackbured: "Then drown me with it. I'd rather sink chasing it than rot in a cage."
Him: "You speak as if the sea bargains. It does not. It takes. Always."
The room seemed to hold its breath. Outside, a storm approached, waves pounding the distant docks as if echoing the tension within. Blackbured pushed the map across the table, trembling but determined.
Blackbured: "Then let it take me. But if you sail with me, even the sea will think twice."
Him placed one gloved hand over the parchment. The shadow of a grin—or nothing at all—crossed his features. His gaze pierced through Blackbured, stripping the younger man bare of pretense, fear, and hope.
Him: "Bring this to my ship at dawn. If you are late, I sail without you."
Him rose. The coat swept behind him like a wave of night, boots striking the floor with a drumbeat of doom. Conversations restarted in whispers. Men parted instinctively, giving the nameless captain a path to the door as though the room itself bent to his will.
Outside, the wind had picked up. Smoke curled over the harbor, flames reflected off the black waters, and the Victoric waited, swaying like a predator, ready to carve a path through the world. Blackbured stayed behind, chest heaving, mind reeling. He had bound himself to a force no map could chart, no man could predict, and no empire could touch: Him, the shadow of the sea, captain of the Victoric.