The air in the port was heavy with the scent of salt, sweat, and rotting wood. Pirate Island was a place untouched by laws, ruled only by greed, fear, and violence. Every corner reeked of desperation, and every face held the look of a man or woman who had seen too much—or done too much to forget.
Vanthelis and Ishlar moved through the crowded dockside like shadows, cloaked in robes that hid their weapons and their intent. Around them, pirates bartered loudly, slapping crates and calling out prices, while prostitutes and beggars lingered near taverns and alleys, hoping for coin or charity. Seagulls cried overhead, pecking at scraps, echoing the chaos below.
As they moved past a tavern—The Leaking Leviathan—a sudden, sharp noise caught Vanthelis's attention. It was a cry. Not drunken laughter, not the sound of a tavern brawl—but the unmistakable, pure sound of a child's grief.
He stopped.
A few feet away, in a small open space between two buildings, a little girl—no older than eight or nine—was sobbing her eyes out, her small frame trembling. Her hair was tangled, her dress torn and covered in grime. Her wrists were bound with rusted shackles too heavy for her size, and a thick iron collar rested on her neck like a cruel trophy.
A large pirate, towering and thick with muscles, was shoving her forward, laughing as she tripped and fell face-first into the dirt.
"Walk faster, damn runt! You'll fetch no price if you cry like a rat!" the pirate barked.
"Hey!" Vanthelis's voice cut through the air like a blade.
The pirate turned with a sneer, eyeing the cloaked figure who dared speak up. "What do you want, stranger?"
Vanthelis stepped forward, eyes burning beneath his hood. "Why is she shackled?"
"She's mine, that's why!" the pirate snapped. "Bought her off a trade ship. Now move along before I—"
"She said you killed her family," Vanthelis cut him off.
The girl had lifted her face. Tears streamed down her cheeks, mixing with dirt and blood. She looked at Vanthelis like he was her last hope. "Th-they came… in the night. Pirates… they burned everything. My mother—my father—" she choked on the words. "Everyone's dead… I was hiding… they found me…"
Her voice was barely more than a whisper, but every word carved into Vanthelis's soul like a knife. It was a mirror of his past—chaos, screams, a world stolen in a single day. He saw not just the girl, but a reflection of the children he failed to save. Of Ishlar. Of his mother. Of himself.
His right hand moved without thought.
In a single motion, he unsheathed his sword. The steel sang for blood.
"Wait, what are you—!" the pirate began, but it was too late.
The blade plunged into his throat, slicing through muscle and windpipe. The pirate staggered, blood spurting from his mouth, a gurgle of confusion in his last breath. He fell with a heavy thud, shaking the ground beneath him.
The crowd around them froze. Silence.
Then—shouts. Steel rang from scabbards as half a dozen pirates nearby drew their blades.
"What the hell did you just do?!"
"He killed Ragan!"
"That bastard's dead!"
Vanthelis didn't move. His sword dripped red onto the dirt.
Ishlar stepped forward quickly, placing himself beside his lord without hesitation. He sighed, shaking his head.
"Well," he muttered, "So much for keeping a low profile."
"You don't have to fight," Vanthelis said, eyes still locked on the forming circle of pirates.
"I will always fight for you," Ishlar replied without pause. "Besides… I was getting bored."
The pirates surrounded them in a loose ring—some grinning, some furious, all eager for blood.
There were at least twelve of them, all armed, all seasoned. None of them looked like they would hesitate to kill. A few stood back, watching carefully, perhaps waiting to see who would fall first.
The girl cowered behind Vanthelis, clutching his leg, unable to speak through her sobs. Her chains rattled with every tremble.
One pirate stepped forward. A wiry man with a scar across his nose and a curved saber in his hand.
"You've made a mistake, traveler," he said. "That man you just killed? He was captain of the Crimson Dog. And we don't let things like this slide."
Vanthelis raised his sword slowly. "Neither do I."
"Last chance," the man growled. "Drop the sword. Leave the girl. Walk away."
Vanthelis didn't move.
Then he whispered, just loud enough for Ishlar to hear.
"No one else touches her."
Ishlar nodded. "Got it."
The pirates closed in.
Steel shimmered in the sunlight. The girl's sobs faded beneath the rising tension. The port that had once buzzed with chaotic life had gone quiet, as though even the island itself waited for blood to spill.
And it would.
Surrounded, outnumbered—but never outmatched.
The battle had not begun, but death had already chosen its side.