What is that?"
"Turn the ship. Hard to starboard. Now!"
Mateo Navarro's voice cut through the damp morning air like a whip. The wind shredded the ropes, screaming past ears, and the timbers groaned under the strain. He squinted at the horizon. Dark shapes—English, unmistakable—hung in the misty dawn, their sails pale and ghostly against the gray sky.
The crew moved with deadly precision, seasoned pirates who treated danger like the morning tide. Pierre, the navigator, seized the wheel, muscles taut, hands steady, responding to every jolt of the ship. Ropes shrieked under sailors' grip. Mateo's voice rose again, sharp, urgent, a warning to anyone slow to act.
The ship lurched violently. Mateo slammed into the rail. Around him, bodies toppled, laughing and cursing in equal measure. Lucien, the youngest deckhand, spat saltwater from his lip, grinning. "Better than a quiet morning, eh?"
Old Jacques, coiled like iron, yanked at a stubborn rope, muttering a guttural grunt.
Leaning lazily against the railing, Étienne—the crew's chillest soul—whistled a slow, calm tune. "English fleet, eh? Breakfast with a side of chaos." His ease was contagious; even panic seemed to falter in its presence.
"Ouch… who gave that order?"
From below came a voice, rough with sleep yet edged in iron authority: Armand Duval. His dark hair clung damp to his forehead, eyes half-lidded but sharp enough to cut steel. With a deliberate kick, he swung open the cabin door. The boards shivered beneath the impact.
"Mateo… what madness is this?" His voice was quiet, controlled, every syllable threaded with menace. The deck fell silent; the weight of command pressed down like a tidal wave.
"There is a fleet approaching," Mateo said, deliberate, bitter. "English. And you… you were asleep."
Armand blinked, rubbed at his eyes, then studied the distant ships. A faint sigh escaped him. "English… always a bloody nuisance," he murmured, calm yet cutting. "But even nuisance can be profitable… if you know where to strike."
Mateo's eyes narrowed. "No… they are not coming for us." His hands clenched the spyglass, knuckles pale.
Armand leaned over his shoulder, smirk tugging at his lips. "Oh? Then whom do they seek, Mateo? Your mother?"
Quiet chuckles rippled through the crew. Lucien snorted. Pierre raised a skeptical eyebrow. Jacques muttered, "Fools." Étienne just leaned back, arms crossed, whistling softly, unbothered. Mateo ignored them, scanning every sail, every subtle shift in movement.
"They are heading for an island… roughly four o'clock from our position," he said, calm, measured.
"And how did you deduce that?" Armand asked, curiosity flickering in the dangerous curl of his smirk.
Mateo hesitated, then pointed. "They are weighing anchors. They intend to land."
"Anchors… why make for that isle?" Armand muttered under his breath, eyes narrowing like a hawk.
Mateo's brow furrowed. What should we do? Every subtle shift, every whispered change in course—he watched it all. Something waited there. Treasure? Secrets? Or a trap buried long ago? Rashness would be ruin.
Armand's gaze swept the deck, calculating, cold. "Pierre, steady the wheel. Lucien, check the sails. Jacques, ready the rigging. Étienne…" He smirked faintly. "Try not to nap while the rest of us work." Étienne waved lazily, eyes flicking to the horizon, calm but alert beneath the surface.
Finally, Armand addressed them all, voice firm, unyielding, slicing through the wind. "We sail to that island tonight. Keep a safe distance—veer back slightly, stay out of their line of sight. When darkness falls, we find what lies hidden there."
The crew nodded, murmuring—a symphony of excitement, confident anticipation, and the calm of men who had danced with death before breakfast.
Mateo's gaze lingered on the fleet. Something about those shapes… something deliberately hidden… set his teeth on edge. A thrill, sharp and cold, wound through him.
Night fell. The island loomed ahead, dark and silent beneath the moonlight.
"To the island—now!" Armand's voice cut through the shadows.
The crew stirred instantly. Shouts, commands, and the clatter of boots echoed over the deck. Mateo frowned. "We… we should be careful. We've never faced more than two ships at once."
Armand's smirk was faint in the dim light. "And we've never been this close to opportunity, either."
The anchors were raised with practiced precision. The ship glided silently into the harbor, hull cutting through water like a blade.
Mateo turned to Armand, voice low. "We… we should go, captain?"
"Mm," Armand replied, scanning the shadows. "You're right."
They leapt ashore, boots crunching against sand and cobblestone. The town lay empty, eerie under the silver light of the moon. For an hour, they searched alleyways, docks, and abandoned homes—every nook, every shadow—but found nothing.
Frustration simmered. Mateo shook his head. "It's like the island swallowed it all."
As they retraced their steps toward the ship, Armand suddenly froze, eyes narrowing.
"Armand… what is it?" Mateo whispered, heart hammering.
Armand's gaze swept the harbor, breath hitching. Mateo followed—and froze.
Their ship. Their home. Devoured by flames. Smoke twisted into the moonlit sky, black and furious. British soldiers moved among the wreckage, rifles glinting, boots crunching on charred wood.
Mateo's stomach dropped. "No… this… this can't be…"
Armand's jaw tightened, eyes narrowing to cold steel. "It is," he said, voice low, deadly. "And they were waiting."
Heat licked their faces. The smell of burning tar and splintered timber stung Mateo's nose. Every shadow seemed alive, every crackle of fire a threat.
"We have no choice," Armand said, brushing the hilt of his sword. "We run. Now."
They bolted. Boots splashing through shallow pools of moonlight, hearts hammering in sync with the chaos around them. Mateo's chest felt like it would burst with adrenaline. Behind them, the inferno roared, a living thing that consumed everything they had fought for.
The small boat waited at the edge of the dock, rocking gently in the water. Armand leapt in first, hands steady, eyes scanning the flames. Mateo followed, breath ragged, muscles screaming. Étienne and Lucien clambered aboard with surprising grace. Jacques brought up the rear, a low grunt of effort.
"Row!" Armand barked, voice slicing the night. Silence answered—except for the splash of oars.
The boat cut through dark water, slipping past the burning hull. Mateo's eyes tracked the soldiers. Rifles raised, figures moving like shadows against orange flames. His heart hammered, but he forced himself to focus.
Each stroke of the oars felt like survival itself. Heat from the burning ship scorched the backs of their necks, smoke curling around them, and the night air tasted sharp with fear. Mateo stole a glance at Armand. Calm, unbroken, every movement precise. The man was a storm contained in a human frame.
The island fell behind them. Fire reflected in the rippling water like a dying sun. Mateo swallowed hard, adrenaline still screaming. They had escaped, but nothing was safe anymore. The hunt—their real fight—had only just begun.