Chapter 1: Chapter 1

I remember the egg's warmth pressed against my chest as I surveyed the glittering waves below. I stood at the edge of a sheer drop, hundreds of feet above the cove. It only took one step before I was falling, the blue of the sky and sea blurring together before it all faded to black.

I shift, just enough to test what still works, and sharp, bruising pain flares low in my back. My dagger. Or rather, the absence of it. The sheath at my lower back is empty, but the deep ache tells me it was there when I hit the water. The impact must have driven it into me. Now it’s gone.

The sky is stark and bright as I blink up at it. My lungs burn. My limbs feel distant, foreign. But I am here. And I am not alone. There’s movement in the water.

A figure comes into view, dragging a longboat by a rope with one hand, swimming with the other, their strokes smooth and powerful. The boat follows obediently, bobbing in the water, no more resistance than driftwood caught in a current.

They reach the shallows and plant their feet, rising with a slow, unshakable grace, as if they were never fighting the sea at all. Water streams from their long, matted braids as they adjust a dark red bandana, snug against a sharp brow and sun-darkened skin.

Reaching into the boat, they lift out a thick leather belt and holster, slip the rig over one shoulder, and let a sheathed blade come to rest at their hip with practiced precision. A movement so easy, so instinctive, it might as well be breathing. I stay still, watching their movements closely, measuring them to decide my own.

The breadth of their shoulders, the strength in their arms. Something about it pricks at the edges of my memory. I almost remember being dragged through the surf, salt stinging my throat, too weak to resist. Hands gripping under my arms, hauling me onto the rocks. Was it them?

I look around the small alcove and to the jagged cliffs on either side. No one else is here. No one should be here with me. This entire side of the island is desolate, abandoned even by the desperate. The beaches are narrow and sharp with rock, the cliffs near-impossible to scale, and the tides unpredictable. It’s the worst place to land, the last place anyone would try. Which means whoever this is... they didn’t come by accident. They’re not lost. They came for something. Maybe for me.

I’m not safe here or anywhere. There are people who want me dead. And maybe there are others who want me alive. I don’t know which is worse.

They haul the boat onto the shore effortlessly, as if it’s nothing more than muscle memory. And although I should be focused on the fact that I’m cornered and out armed, my mind betrays me, my eyes lingering on the torn, sleeveless linen shirt, its frayed edges curling with wear, the fabric slipping off one shoulder, nearly translucent where it clings to skin. On their cut-off pants, soaked through, stretched taut over strong thighs, the wet fabric molding to every shift of muscle as their bare feet grip the slick rocks.

Only then do they turn their gaze to me, and I know they’ve caught me staring as they reach for the blade. The saber slides free, its polished steel catching the light, cared for and lethal, just like the physique of the one wielding it.

I force my breathing to steady, keeping tabs on every inhale, every exhale, keeping myself from slipping into the kind of fear that settles in the body before the mind can reason it away. The kind that overrides training, that tightens muscles and quickens the pulse no matter how many times I’ve faced danger before. It can be controlled, if I control it. They haven’t moved toward me yet, haven’t spoken, but they are standing there, watching, assessing.

It’s not just the danger I register: their slow, calculated movements, every gesture stripped to its purpose, the confidence in their stance. The way they seem shaped by wind and will, like nothing in the world could make them yield. My pulse stumbles, and I tell myself it’s just survival instinct, nothing more. A fight-or-flight response. But I know better. It’s in the way my breath catches, in the warmth that curls low in my stomach, stubborn and wanting, even now.

I should be focusing on my next move, on how to get to my feet without showing weakness, but instead, I am stuck in this moment, caught between my own vulnerability and the undeniable presence of the person standing before me.

Then they start walking. There’s no urgency, no tension, just the quiet patience of a predator who knows exactly where their prey is.

Deliberate. Unhurried. The saber hangs loosely at their side, water still dripping from their skin, but their focus is only on me.

A rush of awareness grips me, sharp and startling. I don’t know who they are. But I do know this: I am very, very awake.

The surge of adrenaline sharpens my senses, forcing me to take in more than just the immediate threat. My gaze flickers past them to the open sea, where an enormous ship looms in the distance, something out of a book, nothing like the ships I’ve seen before.

Then back to the figure closing in, their features sharpening with each step. It all feels familiar in a way that makes my skin prickle. I stare harder, trying to place them.

It had to be them who pulled me from the water. I must’ve drifted in and out, barely conscious, but something in me remembers. Muscle. Nerve. Instinct. My mind might be unsure, but the rest of me knows.

I push myself to my feet, slow and wary, keeping my weight evenly distributed in case I need to move. I don’t reach for anything; I don’t have anything to reach for, but I square my stance just enough to show I’m not helpless. They’re armed. I’m not. But I have questions.

"Who are you?" They don’t answer. Just keep coming.

"Stay where you are," I say, sharper this time, hoping the edge in my voice can make up for the lack of one in my hand. "Don’t come any closer."

Amusement flickers across their face as they step even closer, resting the tip of their saber on my sternum.

"I mean it," I start, but the blade flicks upward, now resting just under my chin with exquisitely accurate pressure, cold enough to send a chill down my spine.

"That’s no way to make friends with a pirate, love." They laugh, a low, knowing sound, circling behind me.

The saber moves with them, tracing along my collarbone before sliding around my throat, the cold metal kissing the hot skin of my earlobe for just a moment before settling at an angle from ear to chest, close enough to tease, to threaten.

"So first you drag me out of the water, and now you’ve got a sword to my throat. Is that just how a pirate says hello?"

I can't see them now, only feel them. The slow, deliberate movements. The visceral pull of their presence behind me. The heat of their breath too close.

"Pirate Captain, actually" they murmur, voice thick with something elusive. “Don’t make me regret it,”

“Tell me what you want from me or put down your steel and make this a fair fight.” I demand.

"I saved your life," they confirm, circling once more, the tip of the blade never losing contact. “A thank you would be nice."

The pirate makes a show of playful, provoking touches with the tip of the blade, letting it graze over my sleeve, skim the bare skin of my arm, tap lightly against my ribs. Not deep enough to draw blood, just enough to remind me I am at their mercy.

"A name would be nice. Who am I thanking?"

The blade drags lightly down, pausing at the hollow of my throat before moving lower still. A delicate shift, a faint tug against my skin, then the sudden bite of cool air where warmth had been. That familiar sensation when something wet is lifted away, leaving a patch of exposed skin colder than the rest.

I glance down just as the tip of the saber hooks a slick strand of seagrass from my chest, lifting it effortlessly before flicking it aside. A practiced motion, careless in the way only someone utterly in control can afford to be.

Their upper lip curls, stretching into something between a smirk and a grin, more teeth than I'd expect from a pirate, one of them gleaming brighter than the rest. Gold, with a ruby so big it seems to dare anyone not to notice it, like some absurd imperial treasure.

"The Fearsome Captain Roberts, pleased to make your acquaintance." Their tone is serious, despite the smirk that still lingers. I laugh at that.

"I know what you must be thinking," they continue, lips curling at the corners. "She’s too handsome to be the Fearsome Captain Roberts. Go on, take it all in. I know it’s a lot." Then, as if to drive the point home, she makes a show of running her tongue over the jeweled tooth.

She’s attractive, I’ll give her that. But it's too damn much. She’s too indifferent and at ease with her own charm. That devil-may-care swagger, that effortless mischief is infuriating. I can’t stand people who move through the world as if it’s already theirs, who smirk like they know exactly what effect they have.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

And maybe part of me resents that I don’t have that easy confidence and untouchable presence. Maybe part of me wants to be her. But right now, I mostly just want to wipe that smug look off her face.

"But don’t be fooled," She flashes a sinister grin, revealing the curved lines of gold underlining all her upper teeth, framing the ruby. "I can make your day significantly worse…or better, depending on your taste."

As she speaks, a beam of sunlight cuts into the alcove, striking the jewel and setting it ablaze. It gleams like something stolen from a royal crown. It’s ostentatious, ridiculous, completely unnecessary, and I can’t stop staring at it.

"Actually, I was thinking I’m pretty sure that name is taken."  The Fearsome Captain Roberts is a legend old enough to have been in my bedtime stories.

"It is," she replies, unnaturally calm. "By me."

"Please," I scoff. "Captain Roberts has sailed these oceans for at least forty years. What are you, twenty-four?"

"Watch yourself, love." her voice dips lower, a warning. Her stance widens slightly, grip firming on the saber. “You’re awfully arrogant for someone in your position.”

“And what position is that?” I force myself to hold her gaze. “You still haven’t explained why you pulled a stranger from the water without being asked.”

“The way I see it, I did you a favor,” she says. “And you look like someone who can’t afford to be picky.”

The stubborn crease of her brows tells me I’m not going to get anywhere with that line of questioning, so I pivot.

“Your ship is quite a ways out. How is it you managed to be in the right place at the right time?”

She tilts her head, considering me. Her lower lip pushes up, pressing her mouth into a tight line, but the slow, absentminded glide of her tongue past the ruby stud under her lip tells me she’s taking her time with this answer.

“I’m sure time flies when you’re preparing to die,” she muses, “but you stood up there long enough for me to get comfortable.”

That uneasy feeling you get when you find out someone has been watching you settles over me.

She shrugs. “Seemed obvious you were going to jump. Didn’t expect you to survive it, but you had something big and shiny around your neck.” A slow, sharp smile. “I like shiny.”

My pulse jumps “Shiny…right. And did you find it?,” I say carefully.

“No.”

“I see. Then what interest do you have in me?”

She hums, eyes dragging over me like she’s assessing a piece of cargo, or maybe something more interesting.

“You’ve got guts.” She flicks a glance at the cliff, then back at me. “And you did something impossible. No one survives a fall from that height.”

She steps closer, lowering her voice just enough that I feel it before I hear it. “And I don’t like leaving empty-handed.”

A chill prickles over my skin. I swallow, thinking fast. Whether she means to claim me as a prize, a curiosity, or something else entirely, I can’t tell. Her next words land so precisely, it’s like she’s pulling them straight from my head.

“You must be in some deep shit to throw yourself off that cliff,” she says, voice low and steady. “Either you’ve got a death wish…” She pauses, watching me. Her eyes search my face, waiting, calculating. “Or you’re running from something.”

I try not to react, but it’s too late. I flinch, giving myself away.

“I thought so.” The smirk that follows is slow and self-satisfied. “I’ll make you a deal. Impress me, and I’ll give you sanctuary on my ship. Fail…”

Her elbow sweeps out, then back in a slow flourish, like she’s easing into the threat, letting the blade punctuate the offer.

“…and I’ll leave you here. To starve. Or be found by whoever’s chasing you.” Her gaze flicks toward the cliffs, then back to me.

“I’ll take my chances,” I say, blinking hard as another knife of pain slices through my skull. My throat aches, bone-dry. I try to swallow, but all I manage is a rasp of breath and the taste of salt.

She steps back, watching me like a puzzle she’s halfway through solving. I can almost hear the judgment forming.

“You sure?” she says at last. “You’re in a bad way. Stranded. No food, no water. Days on foot from anywhere worth reaching…if you can even make it over those cliffs.” Her eyes sweep over me, cool and certain. “You’re on the run. I’d bet my ship you’ve got nowhere left to go.”

The more she talks, the more she fits the part of a nosey, greedy, bloodthirsty pirate. But none of that scares me as much as being hunted by someone who knows what I am. And she’s right that I’ve got no way off this beach in my condition.

She steps to the side and sheathes her saber, then ducks out of her shoulder belt just urgently enough to make me wonder if she’s excited. If she’s been waiting for this.

I don’t hesitate to lower my stance and lunge at her legs, toppling her. I’m slightly disappointed that she lets me. She may not be the Fearsome Captain Roberts, but I’d expect more from any pirate. Not that I’ve fought any pirates in my time on this side of the walls.

That thought quickly fades as she sits up faster than I can get on top of her. While I still hold her legs pinned, her hands are free. She punches me in the throat and then in the nose, which seems like overkill to me, but to each their own. I’m really pissed at the throat shot and mildly annoyed at the bloody nose. I release her legs and stumble backward over rocks to regain my footing.

She lingers a moment to revel in the sight of me, blood streaming down my chin, then hops up in one fluid motion. I’d like to see some blood on her face right about now.

I get my wish with a spinning back kick that lands the heel of my waterlogged boot square in her mouth. It doesn’t dislodge her gold mouthpiece, but she makes sure it’s still there, licking over it with her tongue before spitting blood at her feet.

I take her pause as an opportunity to fit in a wordy jab. “Bet you wish you took off your jewelry first.”

Roberts, or whoever she is retorts, “You like it?” Then she busts my eye socket with an overhand punch, not without taking an uppercut from me at the same time.

That jeweled tooth, now completely red, is just too fun to target. It’s still intact as she grins at me, dark red oozing from her nose. My knuckles are throbbing, and one of my fingers might be broken. I guess the ruby fought back. Totally worth it, though.

“I think you’ve made your point.”

She eases back, crouching to reclaim her belt, eyes locked on mine the whole time. Just like that, the upper hand is hers again.

“I was just getting started.” I spit blood onto the rocks.

She laughs, casually buckling her belt. “Where’d you learn to kick like that?”

“None of your goddamn business, Roberts.” The more time I’ve had a better look at her, the more familiar she seems, but I can’t place her. Too much blood and smeared charcoal under her eyes stain the involuntary tears still erupting from that last uppercut. A rust-colored head scarf further obscures her appearance.

“Captain Roberts,” She corrects. I’m shocked when she turns her back to me, and even more shocked that I do nothing about it. She walks to the waterline and wades in a few steps, stooping to splash seawater into her mouth, swishing and gargling as she washes her hands and face, then spitting out pinkish brine.

I had my chance to attack her from behind, but I did nothing of the sort. Why I didn’t isn’t nearly as frustratingly difficult to answer as how she knew I wouldn’t.

I might play arrogant when a fight calls for it, but she wears it like a second skin. There’s got to be at least one self-loathing bone in her body. That remains to be seen.

I glance past her, scanning the shore at the base of the crater, the place where I hit the water. The place where I should have seen or felt something. Nothing. No scorch marks, no remnants. No proof of what I was holding.

If it’s at the bottom of the sea, I’ll never know. I can’t swim.

If she stole it, I doubt she’d have stuck around just to see if I was worth claiming as a consolation prize.

"I don’t like returning empty-handed," Her words echo in my mind.

Of everything she’s said in word or action, that’s the one I believe most.

Roberts finishes rinsing off and takes a long swig from the water skin she pulls from the boat. Some spills past her lips, trailing down her chin and neck, but she doesn’t seem to care. She exhales after, low and ragged, almost indecent, then smacks her lips in satisfaction.

She catches me watching. Instead of handing me the water, she holds it just out, like she’s asking if I want it, like she wants to hear me say it. Despite my pride, I reach for it.

"Ah, ah," she tuts, drawing it back. Her fingers curl around the neck of the water skin, loose and easy, except for her index finger, which lifts into a slow, circling motion, drawing attention to the blood trailing down my chin. "You’re a mess."

I take the hint and crouch at the shoreline. The salt stings, fresh pain blooming where the water touches open skin. By the time I stand, she’s right beside me, close enough to feel the heat rolling off her.

She holds the water out again, and this time, I take it.

The first gulp is almost too much. Too cold, too sudden, rushing through my raw throat. I drink greedily, but I never really get to own it. She keeps her hand on the bottom of the skin, steadying it, never fully letting go. Like she’s nourishing me. Like she doesn’t want me to forget whose hand is feeding me relief.

A slow, creeping unease tightens in my chest. Not because of the possessive nature of my company, but because the choice laid out before me is impossible. Leave, and I risk abandoning my purpose. The reason I was willing to risk my life in the first place.

I could wait for a sign. But waiting might be the death of me. And I can’t find out what happened, or what’s supposed to happen next, if I’m dead. Or captured.

Roberts watches me. She notices the way my eyes dart across the beach. “Something wrong?” she asks.

I hesitate. Then, warily, “Did you see anything…strange? A mythical beast that no one has ever seen before, perhaps?”

She tilts her head, like she’s deciding how much to say. Then, with the ease of someone sharing an inconsequential truth, she shrugs.

“What’s strange is that object you were holding,” she says, “it looked like it burst into flames. When you hit the water, it was gone. I dove all over the base of that crater looking for it. There wasn’t a trace.”

Her story checks out. I’ve already noted the sun’s position, estimated I was unconscious for an hour, maybe two. When I woke, she was swimming toward me. So she must have spent all that time searching, just like she said. Diving for any remnants of what I lost.

“Are you going to tell me what it was?” she asks. “Help me help you.”

I don’t buy that line for a second. More like help her, help herself.

I hold her gaze, then shake my head. “No.”

Roberts hums, unconcerned. “Suit yourself.” She turns back to the boat and braces her foot against the rocks, shoving it loose.

I waver. I should stay. I should search again. But if Roberts couldn’t find it, what makes me think I will?

Still, my legs refuse to move. I keep scanning the shoreline, pacing, searching, frantic now. But everything’s wrong. It should be here. It’s not. And I’m tired. My mouth feels like sand mixed with blood, and my limbs ache with every breath.

Roberts doesn’t look up, but she says, “Are you coming?”  The implication is clear: if I don’t leave now, I’m on my own.

When she gestures for me to get in, I do.