It might have been a day or a week later when the bolt was drawn again. Time had become a formless, murky thing in the darkness of her cell. Annamaria had learned to measure it by the meager meals shoved through a slot at the bottom of the door—usually a piece of hardtack and a tin cup of brackish water. She’d learned the rhythm of the ship, the creaks and groans that meant a change in the wind, the distant shouts that signaled a change of the watch.

This time, the door swung fully open, and it was not Giorgio who stood there. The man was older, his face a landscape of sun-weathered lines, with a neatly trimmed grey beard that stood in stark contrast to the unkempt facial hair of the other pirates she’d glimpsed. He wasn’t as broad as the captain, but he carried himself with a quiet authority.

“The captain wants you on deck,” he said. His voice was level, without the captain’s mocking undertone or the crew’s brutish growl. It was a simple statement of fact.

Annamaria got to her feet, her legs stiff. She had expected to be dragged, but the man simply waited, his expression patient. He gestured for her to precede him into the narrow passageway. Suspicious but desperate for fresh air and light, she complied, walking past him. He fell into step a few paces behind her, a silent, watchful shadow. He didn't touch her. This small lack of physical aggression was so different from her capture that it felt like a courtesy.

He led her up a steep, narrow ladder. As her head emerged into the open, she was hit by a wall of sensory information. The blinding sun made her eyes water, and she threw a hand up to shield them. The wind whipped strands of her filthy, matted hair across her face, carrying the overwhelming stench of tar, brine, stale sweat, and cooking grease.

When her vision cleared, she took in the scene before her. The deck of The Sea Serpent was a hive of chaotic activity. Men were everywhere, their bodies lean and hard with muscle, their skin baked dark by the sun and caked with grime. They mended black sails with thick needles, coiled heavy ropes, and sharpened knives with whetstones, the scrape of steel on stone setting her teeth on edge. A group of them were crouched in a circle, gambling with dice made of bone, their voices raised in crude jests and curses. One man, burly and bald, laughed so hard he spat a glob of phlegm onto the deck, not even bothering to wipe his mouth.

They were exactly as she had imagined: a pack of uncivilized brutes. Their clothes were a motley collection of stolen finery and patched rags. Tattoos of skulls, serpents, and lewd women snaked across their arms and necks. They moved with a predatory looseness, their eyes constantly scanning their surroundings. Several of them stopped their work to stare at her, their gazes ranging from simple curiosity to open, hungry assessment. She felt their eyes on her like a physical touch, dirty and unwanted, and instinctively wrapped her arms around herself. Her guard, the man with the grey beard, shifted slightly, and the men looked away, returning to their tasks.

Her gaze drifted toward the galley, a small, smoky structure near the main mast. A stout man with a greasy apron tied around his thick middle was hacking at a side of meat with a cleaver, bringing the blade down with unnecessary, violent force. His face was fleshy and flushed, his small eyes mean. He screamed at a young boy—so young he couldn't have been more than twelve or thirteen—who was struggling to scrub a large, blackened pot.

“Put your back into it, you useless whelp!” the cook bellowed, his voice a phlegmy roar. “Or you’ll get the back of my hand instead of supper!”

The boy flinched but kept scrubbing, his small shoulders hunched. The cook let out a grimy chuckle and wiped his greasy hands on his already-filthy apron. Annamaria stared, appalled. This was their law: the strong tormented the weak, and no one batted an eye. She saw the cruelty in the man’s face, a casual viciousness that seemed to be for his own amusement. He was the ugliest of them all, the embodiment of the rot at the core of this lawless life.

She felt a wave of revulsion so strong it was almost dizzying. This was Giorgio’s world. This filth, this noise, this casual brutality. He was the master of it, the one they all obeyed. The thought hardened her resolve. She could not simply endure this. She could not be a passive piece of cargo in their disgusting game. She was a princess, and she would not be cowed by a pack of animals and their cruel cook. She scanned the deck, her eyes searching for the one man responsible for her being here.

She found him then. He stood alone on the quarterdeck, elevated above the squalor, his back to her. One booted foot was propped on the rail, and he stared out at the endless expanse of blue water, a solitary figure of command amidst the chaos he ruled. He was the source of her misery, the architect of this floating hell. A cold fury, pure and sharp, cut through her fear.

Ignoring the stares and muttered comments of the crew, Annamaria marched toward the ladder to the quarterdeck. The man with the grey beard—the first mate, she presumed—took a step to block her path.
“The captain is not to be disturbed, Princess,” he said, his voice still even but with a new firmness.

“He is the one who brought me here,” she snapped, her voice trembling with a rage she refused to suppress. “I will have words with him.”

She pushed past the man’s half-extended arm, her desperation giving her a strength she didn't know she possessed. She placed a hand on the ladder and began to climb, her movements clumsy in the long, tattered remains of her gown. When she reached the top, she stood on the same elevated deck as Giorgio, the wind whipping at her more fiercely here. He didn't turn around. He knew she was there; she could feel it. The sheer arrogance of his stillness made her blood boil.

“Captain,” she said, forcing the title out. It tasted like poison.

He remained silent for a long moment, making her wait. Finally, he took his foot off the rail and turned slowly, his expression unreadable. His eyes, the color of a stormy sea, swept over her, taking in her disheveled state with an infuriating lack of concern.

“You wished to speak with me,” he stated, not a question but a flat acknowledgment.

“I demand to know your intentions,” she said, lifting her chin. “What is your plan? Are you to keep me locked in that lightless hole until my father pays you? How long? What are your terms?”

He gave a soft, humorless laugh that didn't reach his eyes. “You are in no position to demand anything. You seem to have forgotten our last conversation.”

“I have forgotten nothing,” she insisted, taking a step closer. “But even a pirate must have a plan. You called me a prize, a key to a vault. A key is useless if it is never used. So I am asking you, what is the price for my life? What is the ransom?”

He watched her, a flicker of something—was it amusement? contempt?—in his gaze. He ignored her questions completely, as if she hadn't spoken. His eyes drifted past her, down to the main deck where the young cabin boy, Henry, was still struggling with the pot under the cook’s baleful glare.

“On my ship,” Giorgio said, his voice calm and low, “there are no passengers. Every soul aboard has a function. Every hand works. It is the only law that matters here.”

Annamaria stared at him, confused. “What does that have to do with anything?”

His gaze returned to her, sharp and direct. “It has everything to do with you. You wish to be out of your cabin? You wish to feel the sun and breathe the air? Then you will earn it. You will not be a coddled prize waiting for rescue. You will be useful.”

A cold dread began to seep into her bones, chilling her far more than the sea spray. “Useful? What are you talking about?”

He gestured with his chin toward the main deck. “You see the boy, Henry? He is our cabin boy. His duties are many, and he could use assistance.”

The meaning of his words crashed down on her with the force of a physical blow. She felt the blood drain from her face, her rage turning to stunned disbelief. “You cannot be serious,” she whispered. “You want me… a princess of the realm… to perform menial labor?”

“I want a prisoner to earn her rations,” he corrected her, his tone sharpening. “You will help him. You will swab the filth from these decks. You will polish the brass until it shines. You will mend sails, fetch water, and do anything else he requires of you. His orders will be my orders. You will learn what it means to work, Princess.”

It was the ultimate humiliation. More than the capture, more than the cell, more than the threats. He was not just holding her for ransom; he was systematically dismantling her identity, stripping away every last vestige of who she was and replacing it with something she could not even comprehend. A servant. A deckhand.

“No,” she said, the word barely audible. “I will not.”

Giorgio took a step toward her, his shadow falling over her. His voice was dangerously soft. “You will. Or you will be returned to the dark. And this time, the meals will stop. You will learn that defiance has a cost. The choice is yours.”

He held her gaze for a long, heavy moment, letting the weight of his ultimatum sink in. There was no negotiation in his eyes, no room for appeal. There was only his unbending will and the stark reality of her powerlessness. He had given her a choice that was no choice at all. Work or starve in the dark.

Without another word, he turned his back on her once more and resumed his watch over the sea, his dismissal absolute. She was left standing there, shaking, the cruel laughter of the gamblers below mixing with the cook’s shouts. She was no longer just a prisoner. She was a slave.

Humiliation burned hotter than any anger. Annamaria descended the ladder from the quarterdeck on trembling legs, each step a surrender. The first mate, Landon, met her at the bottom, his expression carefully neutral. He simply nodded toward the young boy, Henry, who had finished his pot and was now coiling a length of rope.

“Henry,” Landon said, his voice even. “The captain says the princess will be assisting you. Show her her duties.”

The boy looked up, his eyes wide for a moment as they took in Annamaria. He was small for his age, with a thin face smudged with soot and a mop of unruly brown hair. He quickly masked his surprise, his expression settling into one of solemn duty. He gave a short, jerky nod. “Aye, First Mate.”

Without a word to Annamaria, Henry walked over to a stack of supplies near the forecastle and returned with a heavy wooden bucket and a mop made of frayed, knotted rope. He shoved them into her hands. The rough wood of the mop handle was splintered, and the bucket, half-filled with seawater, was heavier than she’d expected.

“Start here,” he said, pointing to a patch of deck stained with something dark. “Scrub until the stain is gone. Then do the next one. When you’re done with this section, dump the dirty water over the side and get fresh. Don’t spill it.”

He demonstrated the motion, putting his slight weight into a vigorous back-and-forth scrub with an imaginary mop. It looked simple enough. But when Annamaria tried to imitate it, she felt a sharp pain in her lower back. The muscles in her arms, accustomed to embroidery needles and the weight of a teacup, screamed in protest. The wet ropes of the mop slapped against the deck, splashing grimy water onto the hem of her ruined gown and her bare feet. A few nearby pirates snickered into their hands. She gritted her teeth, her cheeks flushing with shame, and scrubbed harder.

The work was disgusting. The deck was a map of the crew’s filth—spit, spilled grog, fish scales, and other, unidentifiable substances were baked into the wood by the relentless sun. The smell of the foul water and the grime made her stomach churn. After fifteen minutes, her back was aching, her palms were raw, and sweat was trickling down her temples. She paused to catch her breath, leaning heavily on the mop. Henry worked silently beside her, his movements efficient and practiced. He was just a boy. This was his life.

An idea, born of desperation, took root. He was a child, not one of these hardened brutes. Surely, he possessed a conscience, a sense of right and wrong that hadn't yet been beaten out of him.

“Henry,” she said, her voice softer than she intended.

He glanced at her, not stopping his work. “What?”

“You know who I am, don’t you?” she began, trying to employ the tone she used with nervous servants in the palace. “I am Princess Annamaria. This… this is not work for a lady of the court. It is not right.”

Henry stopped scrubbing and looked at her fully. There was no sympathy in his eyes, only a flat, weary assessment. “The captain said you work. So you work.”

“Your captain is a monster,” she pressed, lowering her voice. “He has stolen me from my home, from my family. He is a criminal. You don’t have to do his bidding. If you help me—just create a distraction, help me find a way to send a message—my father, the king, will reward you. He will give you more gold than you have ever seen. You would never have to scrub another deck for the rest of your life.”

She watched his face, searching for any flicker of greed or compassion. She saw neither. Instead, the boy’s expression hardened. He took a step closer, his voice low and fierce.

“The captain is not a monster,” he said, the words sharp with conviction. “He took me in when I was starving on the streets of Tortuga. He gave me food, a bunk, and a share. He treats me fair. He treats everyone fair. He says we’re all crew, and all crew works for their keep. You’re eating his food, aren’t you? You’re breathing his air. So you’ll work.”

Annamaria stared at him, speechless. This wasn't the fearful obedience she had expected. It was loyalty. Fierce, unshakeable loyalty.

“But he’s a pirate,” she finally managed to say. “A murderer. I saw him kill a man.”

“He’s a captain,” Henry corrected her, his chin jutting out. “He keeps order. That’s his law. It’s better than the laws on land that let boys starve while princesses worry about their soft hands.”

He spat on the deck near her feet, a gesture of such profound contempt that it struck her harder than a slap. He then turned his back on her and resumed his scrubbing with a renewed vigor, his small frame radiating a certainty that she could not comprehend.

Annamaria stood frozen, the heavy mop dangling from her numb fingers. Her world of diplomacy, of carefully chosen words and appeals to station and morality, had just shattered against the unyielding will of a twelve-year-old boy. Here, her title was an insult. Her promises were empty air. There was only one power, one law, and she had just been shown in the clearest possible terms that it was not hers. The chasm between her life and this one was not a gap she could bridge with words; it was an ocean, and she was drowning in it.

Stung by the boy’s venomous loyalty, Annamaria felt a fresh wave of despair wash over her. There was no ally here. No weakness to exploit. There was only the hard deck, the foul bucket, and the endless, aching work. Her pride, already in tatters, curled up and died somewhere in her chest. With a defeated slump of her shoulders, she picked up the mop again, the wood digging into her blistered palms. She returned to the stain, scrubbing with a mindless, desperate energy, trying to pour all her rage and humiliation into the repetitive motion.

The sun climbed higher, beating down on her head and shoulders. The work was grueling, and the bucket of water was now a thick, brown sludge. Following Henry’s earlier instruction, she hauled the heavy pail toward the ship’s railing, intending to dump the contents overboard. Her muscles trembled with the effort, and her bare feet struggled for purchase on the slightly slick wood.

She was so focused on the task, on not spilling the bucket before she reached the edge, that she didn’t see the cook, Enric Malcock, move from his position by the galley. He was a large, greasy man with a belly that strained the buttons of his dirty shirt and small, cruel eyes that seemed to miss nothing. He had been watching her, a sneer playing on his thick lips. As she passed him, his leg shot out, a deliberate, brutal obstruction in her path.

Her foot caught his ankle. The world tilted violently. Annamaria cried out, a short, sharp gasp as she lost her balance. The bucket flew from her grasp, and she went down hard, her hip and shoulder slamming against the unyielding planks of the deck. For a moment, the air was forced from her lungs. Then the water hit.

It was an icy, disgusting shock. The stinking, gritty liquid cascaded over her, soaking her from her hair down to her ruined dress. It plastered her clothes to her skin, the stench of bilge and old fish filling her nostrils, making her gag. Shards of splintered wood dug into her palms as she tried to push herself up.

A roar of laughter erupted from the crew. It wasn't the quiet snickering from before; it was loud, unrestrained, and cruel. They pointed and jeered, their faces twisted in open mockery.

“Watch where you’re going, Your Highness!” Malcock boomed, his voice dripping with false concern that only amplified the insult. “The deck’s a dangerous place for a clumsy little bird like you.” He nudged the empty bucket with his boot, sending it clattering across the deck.

Shaking with a mixture of pain and profound humiliation, Annamaria pushed her wet hair from her face. Her eyes, burning with unshed tears of fury, instinctively flew to the quarterdeck. He was there. Giorgio. Standing in the exact same spot as before, arms crossed over his chest, watching the entire scene unfold.

She stared at him, a silent, desperate plea in her eyes. Do something. Say something. You are the captain. This is your law. Her heart pounded against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat of hope against reason. He had ordered her to do this work; surely he wouldn't allow her to be tormented while she obeyed.

But his face was a mask of stone. His expression was utterly unreadable, his dark eyes giving away nothing. He didn’t move. He didn’t speak. He simply watched as if she were a distant curiosity, a piece of flotsam being tossed about by his crew. His silence was his answer. It was a verdict. It told every man on that ship that she was nothing, less than nothing. Her humiliation was their entertainment, and he would not interfere.

The laughter of the crew redoubled at their captain’s clear indifference. The last ember of Annamaria’s hope was extinguished, leaving behind a cold, heavy ash in her soul. She was completely, utterly alone. He had not just allowed this; he had sanctioned it with his stillness.

With trembling arms, she forced herself to her knees, then shakily to her feet. The grimy water dripped from her, forming a puddle of filth around her. She did not look at Malcock. She did not look at the jeering faces of the crew. And she refused to look at Giorgio again. To do so would be to break completely.

Her gaze fixed on the deck in front of her, she walked stiffly to the railing, retrieved the empty bucket, and went to draw a fresh one from the sea, her movements jerky and mechanical. Every eye was on her, waiting for her to weep or scream. She would give them neither. She would give them nothing. As she returned to her spot and began to scrub once more, the cold, wet fabric of her dress clinging to her body, she felt something inside her shift, hardening into a sharp, brittle thing. The princess was gone. In her place was only a survivor, trapped in a cage with monsters, and the worst monster of all was the one who held the key.

The sun set, but the heat of her shame lingered. She was eventually dismissed, sent back to the stifling darkness of her cabin. The door was bolted behind her, plunging her into near-total blackness. She didn't move from the spot where she stood. Her dress was still damp, clinging to her skin with a clammy, foul-smelling embrace. Her body ached from the fall and the unaccustomed labor, but the physical pain was a dull throb compared to the sharp, searing wound of her humiliation.

She had been made a spectacle. A fool. And he had watched. Giorgio had stood on his quarterdeck, the absolute master of this floating hell, and he had watched her degradation with an unnerving stillness that was more cruel than any jeer. He had passed judgment with his silence, stripping her of the last vestiges of her dignity in front of his pack of animals. The boy’s loyalty, Malcock’s brutality, the crew’s laughter—it all stemmed from him. He was the root of this poison.

She sank onto the edge of the hard cot, wrapping her arms around herself. A tremor ran through her, a shudder that had nothing to do with the evening chill. It was rage, pure and cold. She hated them. She hated the grime, the smell, the endless motion of the sea, but most of all she hated him. She hated his unreadable eyes, his casual power, the way he had looked right through her as if she were less than human.

Hours later, long after the raucous sounds of the crew’s evening meal had faded, a soft scrape at her door made her flinch. The heavy bolt was drawn back with a quiet thud. Annamaria tensed, her heart leaping into her throat. Was it Malcock? Had he come to torment her further?

The door creaked open a few inches, and a sliver of lantern light cut through the gloom. A figure stepped inside, closing the door quietly behind him. It was Landon Jones, the first mate. In one hand he held a small tin cup, and in the other, a chunk of dark bread.

He said nothing at first, simply set the items on the small crate that served as her table. She stared at him, her body rigid with suspicion. It was a trick. It had to be. Another game designed to break her spirit.

“What is this?” she asked, her voice a low, hostile whisper.

Landon looked at her, his weathered face softened by the dim light. There was a weariness in his eyes she hadn't seen before. “Water. And bread,” he said, his voice even. “You didn’t eat.”

“I’m not hungry,” she lied, though her stomach was a hollow, aching void.

He let out a slow breath, a sound of resignation. “Princess,” he began, and the title didn't sound like a mockery coming from him. “What happened today… it was ugly. Malcock is a swine.” He paused, looking at the floorboards for a moment before meeting her gaze again. “But you have to understand. Out here, showing weakness is an invitation. Crying, pleading… it’s blood in the water. It makes the sharks circle.”

“And your captain is the biggest shark of all,” she shot back, venom lacing her words. “He watched. He did nothing.”

Landon didn’t deny it. He simply nodded. “The captain has one concern: the ship. The crew. He can’t show favor. Not for a prisoner. The moment he does, he’s seen as weak, and that puts every man here in danger. He had to let it play out.”

“He enjoyed it,” she insisted, the image of his stony face burned into her mind.

“No,” Landon said, and the simple certainty in his voice surprised her. “He didn't. But what he enjoys doesn't matter. What matters is control. You defied him. He gave you a task, and you tried to turn his cabin boy against him. He had to let the crew see the consequence of that.” He gestured to the bread. “Eat. Keep your strength up. Do the work they give you without complaint. Keep your head down. It’s the only way you’ll survive this with any piece of yourself left.”

He didn’t wait for a response. With another quiet nod, he turned, unbolted the door, and was gone, leaving her once again in darkness, the scent of fresh bread now hanging in the air.

Annamaria stared at the spot where he had stood. His words echoed in the silence. It wasn't an apology, nor was it a defense of Giorgio’s cruelty. It was a simple, brutal statement of fact. An explanation of the laws of this lawless place.

Her hand trembled as she reached for the bread. It was coarse, but it was substantial. She took a bite, the simple taste overwhelming her senses. She drank the water, and it was clean, not the brackish swill from the barrel on deck. It was a small thing. A piece of bread and a cup of water. But it was also an act of humanity in a place she believed was devoid of it. It was a secret kindness, offered when no one, especially the captain, was looking.

It didn't erase the humiliation. It didn't lessen her hatred for Giorgio. But as she finished the last crumb, a tiny, confusing crack appeared in the solid wall of her conviction. They weren’t all monsters. Or, if they were, one of them had just shown her a sliver of something else, a flicker of decency that had no place here. And that, she realized, was perhaps the most dangerous thing of all.