Flames

The ship sailed quietly now, cutting across a glassy sea as if even the water held its breath. The crew moved about with a kind of wary reverence, speaking in hushed tones. The memory of the sirens lingered like a cold mist no sun could burn away.

Below deck, Harrow rested in his bunk. His color was returning, the wound closing cleaner than any surgeon's work. Syrena sat nearby, pretending to busy herself with tending to him, though her eyes often drifted toward the deck above.

Sawyer had posted himself at the wheel since dawn, sleeves rolled, jaw tight. He hadn't said much to anyone. The whole crew noticed. They gave him space, though none dared mention the sirens. Not yet.

Syrena finally climbed to the deck. The sun was high, the breeze gentle. She approached him slowly.

"Captain," she said softly.

He glanced at her, gave a grunt that wasn't quite an answer.

"I wanted to thank you… for helping me. And for helping Harrow," she said, watching him carefully.

"You earned it," Sawyer said roughly, still watching the horizon.

A small smile tugged at her mouth. "You do realize you don't need to act like you don't care."

That earned a sideways look from him. "You should take this more seriously. We've got a fight ahead."

Before she could answer, a lookout's shout broke through the tension:

"Sails! Spaniards to the east!"

In an instant, Sawyer was all command. "To your posts!" he barked. "Prepare the guns! We'll be ready for them!"

Syrena's heart pounded — finally, they were close. She moved to help the crew, adrenaline sharpening her focus.

Below the surface, something else stirred in her — something deep, ancient. The sea called to her in a voice she almost understood.

But there was no time now. The Spaniards were near.

And the battle was about to begin.

They've spotted us," Harrow muttered from the crow's nest. "Three ships. Not cargo. War-ready."

Sawyer didn't flinch. "We stay the course. Load the guns."

The crew obeyed without question.

Then — the thunder came.

A flash lit the horizon, followed by the unmistakable boom of Spanish cannons. Their shots screamed through the air — precise, merciless.

The first ball slammed into the starboard side. Wood exploded in a shower of splinters. One of the gunners was thrown clean across the deck. Blood hit the railing.

"Brace!" Sawyer shouted.

But the second shot came fast — tearing through the sails with a crack like lightning. The mast groaned. Rigging snapped like whips.

The crew scrambled to return fire, but the Spaniards had the high ground and the rhythm. Their ships were in a tight formation, moving in perfect sync. No wasted movement, no panic.

It was clear:

And they had come for blood.

The enemy was faster than expected.

Before Sawyer could even reposition the ship, grappling hooks lashed over the rails, and armored Spaniards swung aboard with brutal precision. The deck erupted into chaos — steel clashed, men screamed, smoke clouded the sails.

Sawyer drew both blades from his belt and met them head-on.

He attacked the first few who came at him with a cry of war. The animal of war within him Growled as he slashed through people. A blade caught his side and for a second he faltered but got back up and started fighting against what seemed like a Horde of people. 

"Captain! We need to back down!" Syrenas voice cut through the Cannons. 

was she mad? He had never given up...

Fires burned across the sails. Blood pooled between the planks. His men were outnumbered, outmatched. They'd all die here — for pride. For nothing. He looked at them

 Men who had given their lives up for him 

His jaw clenched.

This wasn't how it was supposed to end.

He raised his voice over the battle.

"ABANDON SHIP!" he roared.

There was a stunned pause — just a beat — and then movement.

One by one, the crew dropped weapons and leapt into the sea, dragging wounded with them. Syrena hauled Harrow over the rail. Sawyer fought his way to the edge, blood soaking his coat, a knife buried shallow in his side.As he turned to jump — a net lashed out from above.

It wrapped tight around him, yanking him upward. He crashed to the deck hard. The last thing he saw was the burning mast splitting in two, and Syrena's face — eyes wide in horror — before he was dragged across the deck and lost to the flames and smoke.

Behind him, the ship was dying, fire crackling up the sails as the Spaniards withdrew — victorious.