I Was His Royal Prisoner, But When They Put Him in Chains, I Became a Traitor to Free Him

The clink of silver on porcelain was the only sound that cut through the drone of polite conversation. Princess Annamaria kept a placid smile fixed on her face, a carefully constructed mask she had perfected over twenty years. Her spine was straight, her hands rested gracefully in her lap, and her gaze was attentive, moving from the florid face of one visiting dignitary to the next. Inside, she was suffocating.

The state dining hall was a cavern of gold leaf and crystal, lit by a thousand candles whose heat pressed down on her, mingling with the heavy scent of roasted pheasant and expensive perfume. Her gown, a masterpiece of silk and embroidered pearls, felt like a beautiful cage, its corset cinching her ribs until each breath was a shallow, calculated effort. The diamond necklace her father had gifted her for her betrothal felt less like a jewel and more like a collar, cold and heavy against her skin.

Across the table, her fiancé, Duke Alaric, was explaining the nuances of tax reform in his duchy to a bored-looking baron. Alaric was handsome in the way of statues—flawlessly carved, perfectly proportioned, and utterly devoid of warmth. His hair was the color of spun gold, his eyes a placid blue, and when he spoke, his voice was measured and passionless. He was the perfect match for a princess. A perfect partner in a life sentence of tedious duty. Annamaria had spent the last three months in his company and felt she knew him less than the stable hands she sometimes passed in the courtyard.

He would be a good king, they all said. He was just, fair, and pragmatic. He would never raise his voice. He would never be unpredictable. He would never, she thought with a sudden, sharp pang of despair, make her feel anything at all. Her future stretched before her like this endless dinner: a series of predictable courses served in stifling rooms, each day a perfect copy of the last.

She took a delicate sip of wine, the deep red liquid a stark contrast to the blandness of her thoughts. Her eyes drifted past Alaric’s shoulder to the tall, arched windows that lined the hall. Beyond the manicured palace grounds, she could see the dark, shifting expanse of the sea, the distant lights of ships bobbing on the black water. Her heart gave a painful thud against her ribs.

Out there was a world that wasn't gilded and polished. A world of salt and wind, of uncertainty and danger. A world where people lived and died by their own wits, not by a pre-written script of courtly functions and diplomatic smiles. A desperate, shameful longing rose in her, so sharp and powerful it almost made her gasp. She wanted to feel the spray of the ocean on her face, to stand on a deck that pitched and rolled beneath her feet, to shout into a gale and have the wind steal the words from her mouth. She wanted anything but this silent, orderly, beautiful prison.

Alaric paused in his monologue and looked at her, his pale blue eyes offering a small, proprietary smile. "Are you well, my dear? You've barely touched your food."

The concern in his voice was as practiced as her own etiquette. She returned his smile, the expression feeling brittle on her lips. "I am perfectly well, Your Grace. Just admiring the view."

He glanced at the window, his expression dismissive. "Just the harbor. It will be our harbor, soon enough."

Ours. The word landed like a stone in her stomach. She could not breathe. The heat, the perfume, the endless, meaningless talk—it was all closing in. With a grace that belied her inner panic, she placed her napkin beside her plate.

"If you will all excuse me," she said, her voice a soft murmur that carried across the table. "I find I am in need of some fresh air."

No one tried to stop her. A princess’s whim was a command, even a quiet one. Two of her personal guards, Sir Kaelan and Sir Mathis, fell into step behind her as she swept from the hall, their polished armor gleaming in the torchlight of the corridors. They followed her out of the palace and into the cool night, the heavy oak doors closing behind them with a soft, final thud.

The air on the royal pier was clean and sharp with the scent of salt. It was a welcome shock after the cloying heat of the dining room. A gentle breeze stirred the fine hairs at her temples and she took a deep, shuddering breath, feeling the tight knot in her chest begin to loosen. The pier was long, built of pale, smooth stone, and extended far into the deepwater harbor. At its end, a sleek royal sloop, the Starlight, was moored, its lines neat, its purpose for her own leisurely sails along the coast. It was another beautiful part of her cage.

She walked towards it, her guards maintaining a respectful ten-foot distance. The only sounds were the soft slap of water against the stone pilings and the distant cry of a night bird. The moon was nearly full, casting a silver path across the black, placid water. For a moment, she felt a sliver of peace. This was real. The sea, the sky, the cool stone beneath her silk slippers.

The first sound was wrong. A soft scrape of wood on stone from directly beneath the pier, followed by a muffled splash. Annamaria paused. Sir Kaelan’s hand went to the hilt of his sword. "Your Highness?"

Before he could say more, the world exploded into violence.

A dark shape vaulted over the edge of the pier, landing in a silent crouch. Then another, and another. From the darkness beside the Starlight, a ship materialized, a black silhouette against the moonlit water, its hull scarred and ugly. It was utterly silent, its sails dark, moving without a whisper of wind. Grappling hooks flew through the air, their iron claws biting into the stone and wood of the pier with a series of sickening thuds.

Men swarmed from the shadows and over the ship's railing. They were nothing like the palace guards. They were shadows made flesh, dressed in ragged leather and dark, stained cloth. They moved with a terrifying, fluid purpose, their faces obscured by beards and shadow.

"To the Princess!" Sir Mathis yelled, his sword singing from its scabbard. He and Sir Kaelan formed a wall of gleaming steel in front of her.

The clash of metal was immediate and brutal. The guards were two of the finest swordsmen in the kingdom, their movements a deadly, practiced dance. But the pirates did not fight with honor. They fought to win. A pirate met Sir Kaelan’s precise parry with a heavy, steel-enforced buckler, the impact jarring the knight’s arm. At the same time, another pirate lunged low, not with a sword, but with a short, wicked-looking dagger that he drove deep into the unprotected joint of Kaelan’s thigh.

The knight screamed, a sound of pure agony that was cut short as a third pirate slammed a belaying pin against the side of his head. Sir Kaelan crumpled to the stone without another sound.

Annamaria stared, frozen, her mind unable to process the speed of the violence. This was not the choreographed fighting of the training yard. This was butchery. The air was suddenly thick with the smell of sweat and blood.

Sir Mathis roared with fury, cutting down one of his attackers, but he was surrounded. A heavy net, weighted with lead, flew through the air and enveloped him. He struggled, trapped and helpless, as two men closed in, their cutlasses rising and falling in grim, efficient arcs.

A hand seized Annamaria’s upper arm. The grip was brutal, the fingers digging into her flesh like claws. She cried out, a pathetic gasp, and tried to pull away. The man holding her was enormous, a mountain of muscle who smelled of brine and stale rum. He paid her struggles no mind, simply yanking her forward. Her fine silk slipper caught on an uneven stone and was torn from her foot. The rough pier scraped her skin. He dragged her towards the dark ship, her beautiful gown ripping on a splintered plank.

She was not a princess to him. She was not even a woman. She was cargo. He hauled her to the edge of the pier and onto a swaying gangplank. She looked back for a desperate second and saw the still forms of her guards, sprawled on the pale stone now stained with dark, spreading pools of their own blood. The ordered, predictable world she had so desperately wished to escape had been shattered, and in its place was a chaotic, terrifying reality she could never have imagined.

The deck of the pirate ship was a nightmare of splinters and grime. Annamaria’s bare foot slid on something slick and she choked back a sob of disgust. The air was thick with the stench of unwashed bodies, tar, and something metallic and coppery that turned her stomach: the smell of fresh blood. Men swarmed around her, their faces flushed with victory, shouting in a coarse dialect she could barely understand. They were hoisting sacks of plundered goods from the pier, their laughter loud and cruel.

The giant who held her arm shoved her past a coil of thick, greasy rope and into a small, open space near the mainmast. The pirates milling about fell silent as they noticed her, their leering eyes raking over her torn gown and disheveled hair. Their grins were predatory, filled with missing and blackened teeth. For the first time in her life, Annamaria felt the terrifying vulnerability of being prey. She pulled her shoulders back, forcing her chin up in a pathetic attempt to reclaim some shred of dignity, even as her body trembled uncontrollably.

A path cleared through the crowd. A man walked toward her, and the boisterous energy on the deck immediately subsided into a tense, watchful silence. He moved with a quiet, lethal grace that was far more unnerving than the brutishness of the other men. This had to be the captain.

He was not a giant like her captor, but he commanded the space around him completely. He was tall and leanly muscled, dressed in dark, practical trousers and a simple linen shirt that was open at the collar, revealing tanned skin. His black hair was tied back from a face that was all sharp angles and hard planes, weathered by sun and sea. But it was his eyes that seized her attention. They were a dark, startling grey, the color of a stormy sea, and they held no warmth at all.

His gaze swept over her, not with the lust she saw in the eyes of his crew, but with a cold, detached assessment. It was the look of a merchant inspecting livestock, calculating its worth. It stripped her bare more completely than any physical violation, reducing her from a princess to an object. In one hand, he held a cutlass, its curved blade wicked and sharp. Droplets of crimson clung to the steel, a fresh testament to the fate of her guards. One drop, thick and dark, slid slowly down the metal before falling onto the grimy deck with a soft splash.

Annamaria’s breath caught in her throat. Revulsion, pure and absolute, rose in her like bile. This man was the source of the chaos, the architect of the slaughter on the pier. He was a murderer, a barbarian who dealt in blood and terror. Everything civilized and ordered in her world recoiled from the sight of him. The blood on his blade was Sir Kaelan’s, Sir Mathis’s. Men who had served her faithfully, dead on the cold stone because of this pirate.

The pirate holding her gave her a rough shove forward, and she stumbled, catching herself just before she fell at the captain’s feet. She looked up at him, her fear momentarily eclipsed by a wave of furious hatred.

He didn't offer a hand. He didn't speak. He simply watched her, his expression unreadable, his grey eyes missing nothing—the tear in her gown, the scrape on her foot, the defiance warring with terror in her face. He lifted the cutlass slightly, not in a threatening way, but as if to examine it. He ran a thumb along the flat of the blade, his touch casual, almost intimate, smearing the blood that was still wet. Then his gaze returned to her, and a muscle tightened in his jaw. He seemed to come to a decision, though his expression never changed.

He finally turned his head slightly, his eyes leaving hers to address the man beside her. His voice, when it came, was low and calm, yet it carried across the deck with absolute authority. "Take her below."

The command, so quiet yet absolute, hung in the air. The giant pirate’s hand tightened on her arm, preparing to obey. Annamaria found her voice, a strained, high-pitched sound that was entirely foreign to her.

"You will release me at once," she said, directing her words at the captain. She tried to infuse them with the authority she had wielded her entire life. "I am Princess Annamaria. My father is King Theron. He will hunt you to the ends of the earth for this. He will see you hang."

The captain’s lips curved into something that was not a smile. It was a cold, sharp expression of contempt. He took a step closer, and she instinctively flinched back. He stopped, his grey eyes pinning her in place.

"On this ship," he said, his voice still deceptively calm, "you have no father. You have no title. You are cargo. And cargo does not make demands." He glanced at the blood on his thumb again, then wiped it clean on his trousers. "Now take her below before I grow tired of looking at her."

The finality in his tone extinguished the last spark of her defiance, replacing it with a cold, rushing terror. The giant’s hand clamped down again, and this time she was dragged away without resistance. Her bare feet scraped against the splintered wood of the deck. They passed pirates who jeered and laughed, their faces grotesque in the moonlight. One reached out as if to touch her hair, but a sharp look from the captain made him pull his hand back instantly.

Her captor shoved her toward a dark opening in the deck, leading down a steep, narrow set of stairs. The air that rose from below was foul, a thick mixture of bilge water, mildew, and stale sweat. She gagged, pressing a hand to her mouth as she was forced down into the near-total darkness. The ship's belly was a labyrinth of shadows and creaking wood. He pulled her down a narrow corridor, his bulk filling the space. The only light came from a single, grimy lantern swaying from a low beam, casting long, distorted shadows that danced like specters.

He stopped before a heavy wooden door, bound with thick iron straps. He fumbled with a large iron key, the sound of it scraping in the lock unnaturally loud in the suffocating quiet. He wrenched the door open and shoved her inside with enough force that she stumbled and fell to her knees on the rough floor.

The room—it was more of a cell—was tiny and suffocating. The air was heavy with the smell of salt and rot. There was no window, only the solid, oppressive darkness. A thin, lumpy mattress lay in one corner, stained with things she didn't want to identify. A single bucket sat in the other. That was all.

Annamaria scrambled back to her feet and lunged for the door, but she was too late. It slammed shut, plunging her into absolute blackness. The heavy bolt was thrown on the outside, a loud, definitive thud that echoed the closing of her gilded cage and the opening of this wooden tomb.

She pounded on the door, her fists striking the unyielding wood. "Let me out! You cannot do this!" Her voice was raw, desperate. There was no answer. She screamed until her throat was sore, her pleas swallowed by the thick timbers of the ship.

Eventually, exhausted and trembling, she slid down the door to the floor, wrapping her arms around her knees. The cold of the wood seeped through the torn silk of her gown. Above her, the sounds of the ship began to change. The frantic energy of the raid gave way to celebration. She could hear the heavy thud of boots on the deck above, raucous laughter, and the off-key singing of a sea shanty. A fiddle began to play, a jaunty, manic tune that felt like a personal mockery of her despair.

They were celebrating her capture. They were celebrating the murder of her guards. They were celebrating her complete and utter ruin. Each burst of laughter, each cheer, was a fresh wave of horror washing over her. Here, in the dark belly of The Sea Serpent, she was utterly alone, stripped of her name, her status, her future. She was nothing but cargo, a thing to be sold, and the man with the stormy grey eyes and blood on his sword was her master. The realization settled over her, heavy and cold as a shroud, and for the first time in her life, Princess Annamaria felt true, absolute powerlessness.

Hours passed in the suffocating blackness. Annamaria drifted between a state of panicked wakefulness and a fitful, nightmare-plagued sleep. The jaunty music from the deck above had long since faded, replaced by the rhythmic creak of the ship’s timbers and the distant rush of water against the hull. The Sea Serpent was moving, taking her farther and farther from everything she had ever known. Her initial terror had subsided into a hard, cold knot of fury in her stomach. He had called her cargo. He had thrown her in this hole like an animal. She would not allow it. She was a princess, a daughter of the line of Theron, and she would not be broken by some filthy, blood-soaked pirate.

The sound of the bolt being drawn back was so sudden and loud it made her jolt. The door swung inward, flooding the tiny cell with the dim, grey light of early dawn. A figure filled the doorway, a tall silhouette against the corridor's weak light. It was him. The captain.

He didn’t enter, simply stood on the threshold, his arms crossed over his chest. In the faint light, she could see his face more clearly. It was even harder and more unforgiving than she remembered. His stormy eyes swept the small space, cataloging the pathetic mattress, the bucket, and finally, her. She was huddled on the floor, her gown ruined, her hair a tangled mess. Humiliation burned in her cheeks, but she forced it down, letting her anger fuel her.

Slowly, deliberately, she pushed herself to her feet. She straightened her back, ignoring the ache in her muscles and the splinters in her palms from her earlier assault on the door. She lifted her chin, meeting his cold gaze with one of her own.

"I have had time to think," she began, her voice steadier than she expected. "And I have concluded that you are not a complete fool. You know who I am. You know what I am worth."

He remained silent, his expression unchanging. It was like speaking to a statue carved from rock.

"I demand to be moved to proper quarters," she continued, gaining confidence with each word. "A cabin with a bed and a window. I require clean water and food that is fit for consumption. You will treat me with the respect due to my station. Do this, and when my father pays for my return, I will speak of your civility. It may spare you the gallows." She let the threat hang in the air, a tool she had seen diplomats use a hundred times.

For a long moment, the only sound was the groaning of the ship. Then, a low sound rumbled in his chest. It was not a laugh; it was a dry, dismissive sound of pure derision. He pushed off from the doorframe and took a single step into the cell. The small space seemed to shrink around him, the air growing thick with his presence. He smelled of salt, steel, and something else—something wild and dangerous.

"You have concluded," he repeated, his voice a low murmur that was somehow more menacing than a shout. He looked down at her, a faint, cruel curve to his lips. "You sit in a cage at the bottom of my ship, and you believe you are in a position to make demands?"

"My station is not negated by my location," she retorted, though her heart began to beat a frantic rhythm against her ribs. "I am Princess Annamaria."

"Your station is a fairy tale told to children in a kingdom that no longer exists for you," he said, his voice dropping even lower, forcing her to strain to hear him. "Out here, there are no kings. There are no princesses. There is only the sea, the ships that sail it, and the men strong enough to take what they want. Your father's name is a whisper on a faraway shore. It cannot reach you here."

He took another step, closing the distance between them until she had to crane her neck to look up at him. His grey eyes were like chips of flint, cold and hard.

"Let me explain this to you in terms simple enough for a royal mind to grasp," he said, his tone laced with a brutal condescension. "You are not a guest. You are not a noble lady to be placated. You are a prize. Your only value lies in the gold your father will pay to have you back. You are a key to a vault, nothing more. A ransom." He said the word slowly, as if savoring her reaction to it. "And whether that ransom is for a living, breathing princess or a dead one depends entirely on my mood. But a difficult, demanding princess might fetch a lower price."

The raw, transactional nature of his words struck her with the force of a physical blow. Cargo. A ransom. A number. He saw no humanity in her, only profit. The carefully constructed walls of her identity, built on title and lineage, crumbled into dust.

"You are a monster," she whispered, the word escaping her lips before she could stop it.

His expression didn't change. "I am a pirate," he corrected her, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Monsters are what your father's storytellers will call me. It makes no difference. Now, you will stay in this cabin. You will eat what you are given, if you are given anything at all. And you will learn to be silent."

He turned his back on her then, his dismissal as absolute as a slap in the face. He stepped out into the corridor, pulling the heavy door with him. For a split second before it closed, his gaze met hers one last time, and it was utterly devoid of pity.

The door slammed shut. The bolt slid home. Annamaria was plunged back into darkness, but this time it was a different kind of darkness. It was no longer just the absence of light, but the absence of hope. Her anger was gone, burned away by the cold, hard reality of her situation. She was not a princess in distress. She was an object for sale, her life's value calculated in gold, her fate resting in the hands of a man who saw her as nothing more than a number. She slid down to the floor, the rough wood scraping her skin, and this time, when the tears came, they were silent.