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.

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.

The next few days passed in a haze of grueling work and simmering resentment. Annamaria followed Landon’s advice, keeping her head down and her mouth shut. She scrubbed, hauled, and coiled ropes until her hands were raw and her muscles screamed in protest. She ignored Malcock’s sneers and the crew’s lingering contempt, building a wall of cold silence around herself. The small kindness from Landon was not repeated, and she began to wonder if she had imagined it, a desperate hallucination in the dark. The ship sailed on under a hot, unforgiving sun, the mood of the crew growing restless, a predatory energy coiling just beneath the surface of their boredom.

It happened on the fourth day. The lookout’s cry sliced through the muggy air, sharp and clear. “Sail ho! Off the starboard bow!”

The effect was instantaneous. The lazy, sprawling figures of the crew snapped into motion as if a single nerve connected them all. The lethargy vanished, replaced by a chilling, unified purpose. Men scrambled up the rigging, others ran to stations Annamaria didn’t know existed. Ropes were hauled, sails were adjusted, and the deck became a whirlwind of efficient, practiced activity.

At the center of it all was Giorgio. He stood on the quarterdeck, a spyglass to his eye, his body tense. “What colors does she fly?” he called out, his voice cutting effortlessly through the rising din.

“None, Captain! She’s a merchant, heavy in the water! Looks like a fat pig ready for slaughter!” the lookout roared back, a savage glee in his tone that made Annamaria’s stomach clench.

Giorgio lowered the spyglass, a grim finality in his posture. “Beat to quarters,” he commanded, his voice low but carrying to every corner of the ship. “Load the cannons with chain shot first. I want her mast, not her hull.”

Annamaria stood frozen near the mainmast, a filthy rag clutched in her hand. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage of bone. She could see the other vessel now, a squat, broad-beamed ship moving slowly, oblivious to the predator that was rapidly closing on it. It was just a merchant ship. Filled with ordinary men, earning a living, trying to get home.

Before she could process the horror of what was about to unfold, a hard hand gripped her arm. It was one of the crewmen she didn’t know, his face grim. “Captain’s orders. You’re to be locked below.”

“No,” she breathed, trying to pull away, a useless gesture against his iron grip. “Please, don’t.”

He ignored her plea, dragging her unceremoniously toward the hatch that led to her cabin. The deck was a blur of grim-faced pirates checking pistols and sharpening cutlasses. The air tasted of salt and impending violence. She was shoved roughly down the short companionway, and a moment later, the door to her small prison was thrown open. He pushed her inside, and the heavy bolt slammed shut, plunging her into familiar darkness.

She threw herself against the door, pounding on the rough wood with her fists. “Let me out! You can’t do this!” Her cries were swallowed by the thundering of dozens of bare feet on the deck above her. The ship lurched as it changed course, picking up speed, the groan of the timbers a low moan of anticipation.

Then came the first cannon shot.

The sound was a physical blow, a deafening explosion that vibrated through the very planks she stood on. It was so loud it felt like the world was tearing itself apart. She stumbled back, pressing her hands over her ears, but it did nothing to muffle the sound that seemed to come from inside her own skull. A distant, muffled crack followed—the sound of their shot hitting its mark.

A moment of tense silence, and then an answering boom, this one farther away. A tremendous splash erupted somewhere off the port side, and the ship shuddered from the impact of the wave. They were firing back. They were fighting.

The Sea Serpent’s cannons roared again, a volley of three this time, one after another, shaking the ship to its core. This time, the sounds that followed were different. There was a horrifying, splintering crash, a sound of immense destruction, followed by human screams. Faint at first, carried on the wind, but undeniably the sound of men in agony.

Annamaria slid down the wall, curling into a tight ball on the floor. She squeezed her eyes shut, but the darkness behind her eyelids was filled with images her mind created against her will. She saw the heavy mast of the merchant ship cracking, splintering into a thousand deadly shards of wood, raining down on the men below. She saw the terror on their faces, the confusion turning to pain as their ship was crippled.

The sounds grew closer. The scrape and thud of grappling hooks catching hold, biting into the wood of the other vessel. And then a new sound, a primal roar from the men above her, the sound of a wolf pack closing in for the kill.

The combat began. The sharp, ringing clash of steel on steel was a constant, frantic rhythm. It was punctuated by guttural shouts, grunts of pain, and the wet, sickening sound of blades finding flesh. A man screamed directly above her cabin, a high, piercing sound that was cut off with a horrifying gurgle. Bile rose in Annamaria’s throat. These weren’t distant sounds of battle anymore. This was the sound of men being butchered, just feet away. She could hear them dying. Each cry, each thud of a falling body, was a fresh wave of terror that washed over her. She was trapped in the belly of the beast while it fed, forced to listen to every moment of its gruesome work.

The cacophony slowly subsided, replaced by a silence that was somehow more terrifying. The screams had faded, the clash of steel had ceased. All that remained was the creaking of the two ships, now bound together, and the low, triumphant murmurs of the pirates on deck. The battle was over. They had won.

Annamaria remained on the floor, trembling, every muscle locked tight. She waited, listening to the heavy footsteps moving back and forth above her, the sounds of orders being given. An eternity seemed to pass before the bolt on her door was thrown back with a loud clank. The sudden light made her flinch.

Landon Jones stood in the doorway, his expression unreadable. A fresh cut ran along his cheekbone, and a dark splatter of blood stained the front of his shirt. It wasn't his. “On deck,” he said, his voice flat. “Captain’s orders.”

She wanted to refuse, to stay in the relative safety of her cell, but the look in his eyes told her it wasn’t a request. She got to her feet on shaky legs, her body feeling disconnected from her mind. He didn’t grab her this time, simply waited for her to precede him up the companionway.

The scene that greeted her was one of pure carnage. The air was thick with the coppery smell of blood and the acrid scent of gunpowder smoke. The deck was slick and treacherous in places, stained with dark pools she refused to look at directly. Splintered wood and discarded ropes littered the planks. Lashed alongside the Sea Serpent was the merchant ship, its main mast a jagged stump, its rigging hanging in useless tatters. It looked like a wounded animal, broken and subdued.

But it was the men who drew her gaze, who made her stomach heave. About a dozen of them were huddled together near the foremast, bound at the wrists and forced to their knees. They were not soldiers. They were merchants, fishermen, ordinary sailors. Their faces were pale with shock and streaked with grime and tears. Some were wounded, their shirts soaked with blood, their gazes vacant with terror. One young man, no older than Henry, was openly weeping, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs. Another, an older man with a grey beard, was muttering a prayer under his breath, his eyes squeezed shut. They were defeated, terrified, and utterly at the mercy of their captors.

The pirates moved around them with a casual brutality, gathering plunder, laughing and shoving each other. They paid the captured men no more mind than they would a pile of cargo, stepping over their bound legs without a second glance.

And then she saw Giorgio.

He stood before the captives, legs braced apart, his hands resting on his hips. His cutlass was sheathed, but the leather of his baldric and the sleeve of his right arm were darkened with blood. He was untouched, unharmed, radiating an aura of absolute and lethal authority. He surveyed the kneeling men not with rage or triumph, but with a cold, detached assessment, like a butcher inspecting livestock.

“Who is the captain?” Giorgio’s voice was calm, yet it silenced the remaining chatter on deck. Every eye, pirate and prisoner alike, turned to him.

For a long moment, none of the merchants moved. They huddled closer, their fear a palpable thing in the air. Then, one man pushed himself forward. He was older than the rest, with a weathered face and eyes that, unlike the others, burned not with fear, but with a deep, defiant hatred. His clothes were of a finer cut, though now torn and stained.

He got to his feet slowly, his bound hands held in front of him. He was not as tall as Giorgio, but he stood with a straight-backed pride that seemed to infuriate the pirate captain.

“I am Captain Valerius of the Windswept Drifter,” he said, his voice shaking with barely controlled rage. “And you are a murdering dog.”

A few of Giorgio’s men laughed. Giorgio himself did not. He took a step closer, his eyes narrowing. “Your ship is mine, Valerius. Your cargo is mine. Your lives are mine. Tell me what you are carrying, and where you were bound. Your cooperation may convince me to spare your crew.”

Annamaria held her breath. It was a chance. A sliver of hope. If the captain just told him, maybe his men would live.

Captain Valerius looked from Giorgio to his own terrified crew, then back again. A muscle worked in his jaw. “We carry wool and grain to the southern isles,” he said through gritted teeth. “Food and cloth for honest men. Not that a parasite like you would understand the concept.”

Giorgio’s face remained a mask of stone. “Is that all? My lookout seemed to think you were riding heavy in the water for a cargo of wool.”

“Then your lookout is a fool,” Valerius spat.

Giorgio tilted his head, a gesture that was deceptively casual. “Search the hold,” he ordered two of his men, never taking his eyes off the defiant captain. “Be thorough.” He turned his attention back to Valerius. “I am giving you one chance to tell me what else is in your hold. A hidden compartment. A false bottom. Tell me now.”

Captain Valerius stared at him, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Annamaria could see the conflict in his eyes—the desire to protect his men versus his absolute refusal to bow to this monster. The silence stretched, thick and heavy.

Then, with a look of pure contempt, Captain Valerius drew in a breath and spat. A thick glob of saliva flew through the air and struck Giorgio square on the cheek.

The deck fell into a dead, ringing silence. Even the victorious pirates stopped their work, their eyes wide, watching their captain. Annamaria’s heart leaped into her throat, a cold dread seizing her. She expected an explosion of rage, a brutal beating, a guttural roar of fury.

Giorgio did not move. He stood perfectly still for a count of three, the glob of saliva sliding slowly down his stubbled cheek. Then, with an unnerving calm, he raised his leather-gloved hand and wiped the spittle away. His eyes, cold and dark as the deep ocean, never left Captain Valerius’s face. There was no anger in them. There was nothing. It was the blank, assessing gaze of a man looking at an object that had ceased to be useful.

Without a word, Giorgio’s hand moved from his face to his hip. The motion was fluid, economical, and terrifyingly precise. He did not draw his cutlass. Instead, his fingers wrapped around the carved wooden grip of the flintlock pistol tucked into his belt. He pulled it free with a soft scrape of leather. The heavy, dark metal of the barrel seemed to absorb the light around it.

Captain Valerius saw the weapon, and for the first time, his defiant posture faltered. A flicker of raw, animal fear crossed his features, a sudden understanding of his fatal miscalculation. His gaze darted to his weeping crewmen, then back to the unmoving pirate captain. His mouth opened, perhaps to plead, perhaps to curse one last time, but no sound came out.

Giorgio raised the pistol, aiming it directly at the center of Captain Valerius’s chest. He did not speak. He did not offer a final warning or a grim pronouncement. He simply acted.

The explosion was deafening in the sudden stillness, a sharp, violent crack that was entirely different from the roar of the cannons. It was personal. Annamaria flinched violently, her eyes squeezed shut for a split second. A puff of grey smoke billowed from the pistol’s muzzle, thick with the acrid smell of burnt powder.

When she opened her eyes, Captain Valerius was still on his feet, a look of stunned surprise on his face. A small, dark hole had appeared on the front of his fine shirt. Then, a much larger circle of crimson began to bloom rapidly around it, soaking the fabric in a sickening tide of red. His knees buckled. He collapsed backward onto the deck, not with a cry, but with a heavy, final thud, like a sack of grain being dropped. He was dead before his head hit the planks.

A collective gasp went through the captured merchants. The young boy’s weeping turned into a choked, horrified wail. One of the older men vomited onto the deck. They stared at the body of their captain, then at Giorgio, their faces masks of pure terror.

Annamaria felt nothing and everything all at once. The world seemed to tilt on its axis. The sounds around her became muffled, distant. All she could see was the still form of the merchant captain lying in a rapidly spreading pool of his own blood. It wasn’t a death in the chaos of battle. It was an execution. A cold-blooded murder performed for the crime of defiance. There was no trial, no justice, no honor. There was only a man with a gun and the absolute power to use it.

She looked at Giorgio. He stood over the body, the smoking pistol still held loosely in his hand. His expression had not changed. He was not triumphant, not regretful, not even satisfied. He was completely, utterly blank. He had just extinguished a man’s life, and it had affected him no more than swatting a fly.

In that moment, any flicker of complexity she might have begun to see in him—the concern for Henry, the quiet command—was incinerated. It was a lie. A facade. This was the real Giorgio. A barbarian. A creature who dealt in death as casually as other men dealt in coin. He was a monster wearing a man’s skin.

Giorgio calmly tucked the pistol back into his belt. He stepped over Captain Valerius’s body without a downward glance and faced the remaining, trembling prisoners.

“Now,” he said, his voice level, as if he were merely resuming a tedious conversation. “Does anyone else feel the need to be brave?”

The remaining merchants flinched as if struck, a wave of terror passing through them. One man, his face ashen, began to babble, “No, sir, no, we’ll tell you, we’ll tell you everything.”

But Annamaria barely heard him. The world had narrowed to a sharp, painful point. The acrid tang of gunpowder burned in her nostrils, mixing with the coppery scent of the blood pooling on the deck. A sour, hot bile rose in her throat, and she gagged, pressing a hand to her mouth. The deck seemed to sway beneath her feet, not from the gentle roll of the sea, but from the violent lurching of her own senses.

This wasn't war. This was not battle. It was a spectacle of cruelty, a casual display of power that turned her stomach inside out. The man—Captain Valerius—had been brave. He had been proud. He had died for the crime of spitting at a monster.

And the monster was still standing there, breathing, his heart still beating, while a good man’s blood cooled on the wood.

The fear that had held her rigid and cold for so long suddenly combusted, turning into a white-hot rage that burned through her veins. It was an unfamiliar feeling, this raw, untempered fury. It was nothing like the quiet frustration of the palace or the polite indignation of the court. This was primal. This was a scream building in her chest that demanded to be let out.

She took a staggering step forward, then another. Landon, who had been standing guard nearby, put out a hand to stop her. "Princess, don't—"

She slapped his arm away with a strength she didn't know she possessed, her eyes locked on Giorgio’s back. He was still addressing the merchants, his voice calm and even, as if he hadn’t just committed murder. The sheer, breathtaking arrogance of it broke the last of her restraint.

“You!” The word tore from her throat, a raw, ragged sound.

Giorgio stopped talking. The entire deck fell silent again, but this time, the silence was focused on her. He turned his head slowly, his body remaining angled toward the prisoners. He looked at her, and for a terrifying second, his eyes were completely blank, as if he didn't even recognize her.

“You animal,” she spat, her voice trembling with the force of her rage. She stalked toward him, heedless of the pirates who watched her with wide, curious eyes. She stopped a few feet from him, her hands clenched into fists at her sides, her nails digging into her palms. She pointed a shaking finger at the body of Captain Valerius. “You murdered him. You shot him down in cold blood for nothing! For a moment of pride!”

Giorgio’s gaze drifted from her face down to her pointing finger, then back up. There was no flicker of emotion in his expression. No anger, no defense, not even irritation. It was like shouting at a cliff face.

“He was a better man than you will ever be!” she screamed, the sound raw in the open air. “He had courage! He had honor! Things you know nothing about. You are nothing but a barbarian. A savage who takes and kills and destroys because you are too weak to build anything!”

She was breathing hard, her chest heaving. Tears of pure fury stung her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. She wanted him to see the full force of her hatred. She wanted to crack that cold, stone facade.

“Do you feel powerful now?” she taunted, her voice dripping with scorn. “Does killing an unarmed man make you feel like a captain? You are a coward. A butcher. A monster.”

She ran out of words, her throat raw, her body shaking from the violent outpouring of emotion. She stood there, panting, waiting for his reaction. For the explosion. For the blow. For anything.

Giorgio simply watched her, his head tilted slightly. The silence stretched, amplifying the sound of her ragged breaths and the soft lapping of the waves against the hull. He did not raise his voice. He did not move toward her. He just looked at her, his dark eyes unreadable, unmoved. It was worse than any physical retaliation. It was dismissal. Her righteous fury, her profound horror, meant absolutely nothing to him. She was an insect buzzing in his ear.

Finally, he turned his gaze away from her, shifting his attention to his first mate.

“Landon,” he said, his voice perfectly level, utterly devoid of emotion. “Take the princess back to her cabin. She is disturbing the crew.”

The words struck her with the force of a physical blow. Disturbing the crew. As if her horror at a man’s murder was a mere inconvenience, a breach of decorum. For a moment, she was too stunned to move, her mind reeling from the casual cruelty of the dismissal. Her rage, which had burned so brightly, was snuffed out, leaving behind a cold, hollow ache.

Landon took her arm gently but with an undeniable firmness. “Come on, Princess.” His voice was low, and she thought she heard a trace of something other than duty in it—pity, perhaps, or warning—but she couldn’t be sure. She didn’t resist. The strength had gone out of her limbs, leaving her trembling and weak. She allowed him to steer her away from the scene, away from Giorgio’s impassive back and the body of the man he had killed.

Her feet felt clumsy on the deck planks, and she stumbled once, catching herself on the railing. Her eyes were fixed on the wood grain, unable to look up, unable to face the leering or indifferent faces of the pirates she passed. Each step was a lifetime. The short walk back to her prison felt like a funeral procession.

The heavy wooden door of her cabin closed behind her with a dull thud, and the sound of the bolt sliding home was a final, damning punctuation mark. She was alone.

The silence in the small room was absolute, a stark contrast to the storm that had just ripped through her. She stood frozen in the center of the cabin for a long moment, listening to the frantic pounding of her own heart. Then, a wave of nausea so powerful it buckled her knees sent her stumbling to the small bucket in the corner. She retched violently, but only sour bile came up, burning her throat. She knelt there, gasping for breath, her body shaking uncontrollably.

The sounds from the deck began to filter through the wood. The scrape of boots, the bark of orders, the heavy thud of cargo being moved from one ship to another. They were looting. They were going about their business as if nothing had happened. A man was dead, his blood still wet on the deck, and his life was worth so little that it did not even pause the day’s work.

Annamaria pushed herself up, her back pressing against the rough, splintery wall, and slid down until she was sitting on the floor. She drew her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around them as if to hold herself together. She closed her eyes, but the image was seared onto the inside of her eyelids: the puff of smoke, the hole in the captain’s shirt, the blossoming stain of red.

She thought of her father’s court. She thought of the Hall of Justice, with its marble floors and high, vaulted ceilings. She remembered sitting beside him, watching petitioners and magistrates debate points of law. It was a world of rules, of order. A world where a man accused of a crime was given a trial. He was allowed to speak in his own defense. Witnesses were called. Evidence was presented. There was process. There was structure. She had often found it tedious, a slow and ponderous machine that stifled the passions of men.

Now, she would have given anything for that ponderous machine.

Even the most corrupt nobleman in her kingdom would have had to create a pretense of justice. He would have forged documents, bribed witnesses, and manipulated the law to achieve his ends. But he would have had to try. He would have had to bow to the idea that a system greater than his own whims existed.

Out here, there was no system. There was only Giorgio. His will was the only law. His mood was the only judge. Defiance was a capital crime, and the sentence was carried out instantly, without appeal. The fairness she had taken for granted, the very bedrock of her civilized world, was a fragile illusion that simply did not exist beyond the reach of her kingdom’s shores.

This wasn't freedom. It was the purest form of tyranny. The tyranny of the strong over the weak, unburdened by conscience or consequence. Giorgio wasn't a rebel fighting an unjust system; he was the unjust system. A walking, breathing embodiment of absolute, brutal power.

The last of her shock gave way to a cold, deep, and settled hatred that felt vastly different from her earlier outburst. That had been hot and fleeting. This was a chill that sank into her bones. It was a quiet, resolute certainty. He was not a man with flaws. He was not a complicated soul driven by some past tragedy. He was a monster. An irredeemable killer who saw other human beings as obstacles or tools.

She rested her forehead on her knees, the rough fabric of her dress scratching her skin. The tears that had threatened earlier were gone, frozen by the coldness inside her. She would not cry for that man, not in this place. She would not give Giorgio the satisfaction of her tears. Instead, she would hold onto this feeling. This pure, clarifying hatred. It was the only thing that made sense in this world of chaos. It was the only armor she had left.