Attacked

It had been a week since the attack.

The ship had barely survived the Spaniards — splintered, scorched, and grounded on the edge of the island like a fallen giant. But the crew hadn't given up. They worked day after day, sweat and ash mixing under the sun, salvaging every board and bolt they could find. Now, after days of graft, the battered vessel stood upright once more — not perfect, but seaworthy.

The men knew it, but they laughed anyway. Roasting wild boar over the fire. Mock sword-fighting with carved sticks. They joked because they were breathing — and because they had survived what should have killed them all.Sawyer stood on a high ledge, overlooking the half-built ship below. His injuries were healing slowly, his movements still stiff. But his mind was restless.

Behind him, Syrena stirred the flames under the spit, watching the meat rotate slowly. She didn't speak for a while, just watched the fire and the dark line of the sea in the distance

Eventually, she stood and walked over to him.

"You're thinking about the Spaniards," she said, not asking.

"Always," he muttered. "They took everything. If we sail without food or defense, we won't last two days. That's not a risk — that's suicide."

"I know," she said. Her voice was calm. Measured.

He turned to look at her. "Then what do you suggest?"

She paused, considering her words. "I have… an idea. But it's risky. You won't like it."

Sawyer narrowed his eyes. "Try me."

"We head toward the Southern Narrows. There's an old trading post there — semi-abandoned, but sometimes used by smugglers. If we're lucky, someone will be passing through. They'll have supplies. Maybe even weapons. And if not... we take what we need."

"There are… things I haven't told you yet. Not because I didn't want to. Just... not yet."

That put him on edge.

Syrena stepped closer, lowering her voice. "All I ask is you trust me. When the moment comes, don't question it. Just follow my lead."

Sawyer didn't speak right away. His eyes flicked over her face, searching for something — a lie, a weakness, a reason not to believe her.

But all he saw was resolve.

"I don't like being kept in the dark," he said gruffly.

"Neither do I," she said. "But sometimes it's safer there."

A long silence passed between them, heavy but not cold.

--------‐-------------------

The smuggler's outpost was little more than a cluster of crumbling wooden huts tucked between the cliffs and the cove, abandoned save for the birds that had claimed the rooftops.

Syrena and Sawyer crouched behind an old barrel, looking out at the anchored ship — a squat, unimpressive pirate sloop. Small crew. A few cannons. Definitely not Spanish. Just the kind of desperate vessel that might have extra weapons and rum to spare.

"They look soft," Sawyer whispered, peering through a spyglass. "We can take 'em. Quick and loud."

Syrena rolled her eyes. "Loud is the last thing we want, Captain Biceps."

"Excuse me?" he turned to her.

She smirked. "Your whole strategy is basically 'charge in swinging and hope no one notices the man yelling battle cries.'"

I don't yell—" he paused. "Okay, maybe I grunt a little. But that's intimidation."

"It sounds like a creaky boat...sweetheart."

He blinked, clearly not expecting that.

She continued. "If we go in quiet, take the captain first, the rest will panic. They're small-timers. No loyalty."

Sawyer scowled, then exhaled. "Fine. We'll do it your way. But if I get stabbed, I'm blaming your sarcasm."

"No promises," she said with a grin.

They crept onto the ship after nightfall, moving like shadows over the deck. Syrena pointed to a door.

"Captain's quarters. He's probably inside—alone."

Sawyer smirked. "That's the dream, isn't it?"

"I swear if you say one more thing that sounds vaguely perverted—"

"I wasn't! I just meant—never mind," he grumbled, flushing a little as they slinked toward the door.

Inside, the smuggler captain was passed out over a map, snoring and drooling into his own chart of the southern trade routes.

"One man's treasure," Sawyer whispered, "is another man's pillow."

Syrena lifted a nearby bottle and raised a brow. "Rum. Expensive. I say we knock him out, loot the ship, and leave a thank you note."

"Or I punch him," Sawyer offered.

She nodded. "Romantic."

Without further warning, Sawyer swung the door open and clocked the captain square in the jaw.

He dropped like a sack of turnips.

They moved in perfect rhythm — one ducked, the other struck, like some messy, chaotic dance choreographed by instinct and adrenaline. The fight didn't last long. Most of the smuggler crew fled without a second look.

One tripped and fell trying to jump into a dinghy.

Sawyer whistled. "Graceful."

When the last man scurried away, Syrena leaned against the mast, catching her breath.

Sawyer looked at her, a mixture of awe and amusement on his face.

"You were having fun," she said.

"I was not," he denied too quickly.

"You smiled."

"It was a grimace."

"You laughed."

"I choked on dust."

Syrena stepped closer and whispered with a wicked smile, "Next time, try not to stare at my backside the whole fight."

Sawyer turned red. "I—was checking for injuries."