4:52 AM.
The waves were quieter than usual for the hour — just the gentle rhythm of the sea brushing against the hull, whispering secrets to the dawn. The Aurelia, though small and weatherworn, cut through the dark water with steady determination, its white sails catching the faint breath of a northerly wind.
They had set sail at 3:30in the cold, unforgiving morning, guided by the weak shimmer of starlight and the dim glow of the moon. Now, as the clock neared 4:52, the horizon began to bleed pale hues of gray and blue, the first fragile hints of morning.
The air was sharp enough to sting the skin — that biting, wintry cold that seemed to seep straight through bone.
Charolette leaned against the ship's railing, her face pale, her expression twisted in a mixture of nausea and regret. The waves rolled beneath them with a slow, rocking rhythm that to her felt like the motion of death itself. She pressed a hand against her stomach, willing the world to stop spinning.
"I want to go home…"
she muttered, her voice trembling as much from the cold as from the sickness. Her breath puffed out in white clouds, fading into the chill.
Across the deck, Zayn stood silently against the base of the foremast, his arms crossed. His cloak whipped softly in the sea breeze, his dark hair flecked with salt. He watched Charolette in silence — her shivering, her half-hearted attempts to keep herself steady — and found himself, for the first time, feeling something faintly resembling pity.
He exhaled, slow and quiet, before shrugging off his own coat and walking toward her.
"Here,"
he said simply, draping it over her shoulders.
She blinked, startled by the sudden warmth and by the rare kindness in his tone.
"Wha— what about you?"
Zayn only leaned back against the mast again, indifferent.
"I've endured colder nights."
The deck creaked beneath their feet as another gust swept across the bow, sending a spray of icy seawater over the railing.
And there — one foot planted boldly on the bowsprit like some manic statue of valor — was Chauncey, shirtless, arms wide open, chest bare to the freezing air, and a grin stretched from ear to ear. The wind tangled his golden hair and salted his skin, yet he looked as if the cold itself was beneath him.
"Ha!"
He bellowed into the mist. "You two look like a pair of soggy sea dogs! What's with the long faces? This—" he gestured grandly at the gray sea and looming clouds "—this is the start of greatness!"
Charolette groaned into her sleeve. "Chauncey… put a shirt on… before you freeze your bloody head off." Her voice quivered through chattering teeth, the words barely coherent.
He laughed, slapping a hand to his bare chest. "Nonsense! Cold keeps the blood movin'!"
Zayn finally spoke, his tone dry as the winter wind.
"Tell me, oh fearless captain — do you even know how long this 'greatness' is supposed to last?"
Chauncey froze mid-laugh, blinking. Then, with the awkwardness of a man caught bluffing, he scratched the back of his head.
"Uh… probably a few weeks? Maybe two?"
Zayn arched an eyebrow. "You don't know, do you?"
Chauncey gave a sheepish grin. "Not exactly…"
Charolette groaned again, though this time from sheer disbelief rather than nausea. She rummaged through the satchel slung over her shoulder, pulling out a rolled piece of parchment bound in rotten string. Both men paused mid-motion, watching as she unfurled it across a crate.
Zayn tilted his head. "You have a map?"
Chauncey blinked. "When did you—?"
She ignored both of them, her focus on the ancient, sea-worn markings.
"Based on the chart, we're traveling along the Northern Skathe Coast, riding the cold winds from the northeast." Her gloved finger traced the thin line of their projected route. "If we keep that course, our first stop should be Isle Fareth."
"Fareth?"
Chauncey repeated, his grin fading.
"That place is crawling with thieves, smugglers, and every rotten soul this side of the sea. We'll have our throats slit before sunrise."
Charolette shot him a glare, her voice sharp despite the tremor in her body. "It'll be weeks before we reach another port to restock on food and water. You'd rather starve than make one stop?"
Chauncey crossed his arms, defiant as ever. "I'd rather keep my ship than hand it over to a pack of cutthroats."
Zayn, who had been quietly watching their sibling squabble, sighed and rubbed his forehead. They both turned toward him simultaneously, expectant — two storms colliding, each waiting for Zayn to choose a side. Perhaps to get struck by lightning.
Zayn blinked. "What?"
"Well?" Charolette demanded, folding her arms. "Who's right?"
Chauncey leaned in. "Don't side with her out of pity."
Zayn hesitated, his crimson eyes flicking between them. He hated being in the middle of this kind of thing. It reminded him too much of the voices in his head, two sides shouting, demanding, expecting him to decide.
He scratched his head, exhaling. "She's… right," he admitted finally.
Chauncey groaned. "Unbelievable."
Zayn continued, his voice steady. "We'll need supplies, and if that's the closest island, we'd be foolish to pass it by. Pirates or not — it's a risk we'll have to take."
Charolette gave a small, triumphant nod, pulling the coat tighter around her shoulders.
Chauncey threw his hands up.
"Fine, fine. But if we lose so much as a rope off this ship, it's on you, Charolette. I'm serious."
"Gladly,"
She shot back, though her words slurred slightly as another wave of seasickness hit. Zayn turned his gaze back toward the horizon, where the first hints of sunlight broke across the water — a fractured reflection of molten gold upon the endless blue-gray sea. The wind shifted, carrying the faint cry of distant gulls.
Ahead lay Isle Fareth — a crooked speck on the edge of the known world, rumored to be home to smugglers, exiles, and those who lived by no law but their own.
———————————————————
The sun was barely past its zenith when the Aurelia finally kissed the crooked shores of Isle Fareth. By Zayn's estimate, it was nearing 11:40 in the morning — though the thick haze and jagged clouds made it hard to tell. The island greeted them not with open arms, but with the groaning caws of gulls, the smell of salt and rusted iron, and a faint hum of life that was neither peaceful nor entirely welcoming.
The docks were a patchwork of rotted planks and barnacle-eaten stone, stretching into a narrow port where the ocean met the skeletons of a forgotten age. Ancient ruins, crumbled but proud, rose around the shoreline — great archways of moss-covered marble and eroded towers leaning like old men. Newer structures had been built into the ruins, like parasites clinging to a corpse. Ramshackle homes of wood and tin jutted out from the marble foundations, crooked chimneys coughing thin smoke into the gray air.
Despite the decay, there was beauty — a strange, mournful charm in the way the sunlight slipped through cracked columns and glinted off the water-streaked walls.
Charolette stepped off the ship first, boots pressing into the damp soil, eyes wide as she scanned the broken skyline.
"It's… old,"
she murmured, awe lacing her voice.
"Like history itself forgot to move on."
Zayn descended after her, arms folded, unimpressed but quietly observant.
"Forgotten places tend to stay that way for a reason."
Chauncey, on the other hand, looked like a man chewing on a sour lemon. He huffed, hands on his hips.
"Fantastic. A haunted ruin full of beggars and thieves. Great vacation spot."
Charolette shot him a sideways glance. "You're welcome, by the way." He only grumbled something about "never listening to maps again."
Still, there was one thing they could all agree on. they were starving.
After what felt like half an hour of wandering the cluttered maze of cobblestone streets and tilted buildings, the trio found themselves outside a modest little establishment wedged between two ruined pillars. The faded sign read "The Seafarer's Rest." Warm light spilled from the cracks of its wooden shutters, and the smell of roasted meat drifted through the chilly air.
Chauncey's stomach growled loudly enough to make Zayn smirk. "By all means," Zayn said, gesturing toward the door, "lead the charge, captain."
He didn't need to be told twice. Chauncey practically burst through the door, eyes glassy and lips parted at the aroma wafting from the kitchen.
But the inside of the restaurant was nothing like its comforting exterior.
It was loud. Chaotic. The room buzzed with laughter that wasn't joyful — it was the kind that carried knives and muskets. A group of rough, salt-worn men crowded the tables, tankards clinking and boots pounding. The smell of sweat, ale, and sea mixed into a haze that made the air almost thick.
And at the center of it all sat a man who commanded the space without saying much at all.
He lounged lazily in a chair, one boot up on the table, cleaning his teeth with a dagger that gleamed in the lantern light. His coat — a deep brown lined with gold and silver trim — looked far too fine for a man of the sea. Rings of precious metal and pearl adorned his fingers, and layers of necklaces clinked softly whenever he shifted.
A curved cutlass hung at his waist, its scabbard encrusted with jewels that shimmered like captured stars. His hair was a deep chestnut, slicked back in deliberate carelessness. But it wasn't his clothes that drew attention.
It was his stubble.
"His beard…" Chauncey muttered, brow furrowed. "It's pink. Why in the hell is it pink?"
Charolette tilted her head, studying the man.
"Fancy."
Before Zayn could speak, a voice piped up from behind them — soft but firm.
"That's Pinkbeard."
The three turned sharply. Standing behind them was a young girl — no older than seventeen. She had short, jet-black hair cropped to her jawline and deep, amber eyes that gleamed with cautious intelligence. Her skin was olive-toned, her attire simple: a patched tunic and worn trousers that had seen better days.
"And you best not get involved with the likes of him," she continued. "Him and his goons run Isle Fareth like a pack of gods — cruel ones. Most here don't cross him if they want to keep their skin."
Chauncey blinked. "Run the island? You mean there's no government?"
Charolette crossed her arms. "So this place is ruled by pirates instead of politicians. Honestly, I can't tell which is worse."
The girl's lips twitched faintly, as if fighting a smile.
"His name's Roland Rosemary. The 'Pinkbeard' thing is just a title. That beard? It's a symbol. He's a Rosemary — one of the richest families from the mainland."
Chauncey frowned. "Wait, if his family's rich, why's he slumming it as a pirate?"
The girl lowered her voice, glancing toward the band of rowdy men.
"Rumor says he does it for fun — for the thrill of breaking laws. Every time the navy catches him, his family's connections buy him out. He's untouchable."
Before the trio could respond, a loud, venomous voice sliced through the room.
"Are you deaf or blind, Sarah?!"
Pinkbeard barked, slamming his palm against the table, his jeweled rings clinking.
"I asked for salted scallops! Not this—whatever this garbage is!"
The waitress before him, a young blonde woman with trembling hands and tear-bright eyes, tried to stammer an explanation.
"W-We don't serve those anymore, sir… I tried to tell you, I—"
"Spare me the excuses!"
Pinkbeard snarled, grabbing her arm. "Mess up again, and I'll see this filthy shack burned to the ground. Understand?
Her lip quivered. She looked barely twenty, far too soft-faced and gentle for a place like this.
And then, just as Pinkbeard's hand lifted for a strike—
A shadow moved.
Zayn stepped between them. The slap landed on his cheek instead, sharp and loud. He didn't flinch—just turned his head back slowly, his eyes cold and calculated.
Pinkbeard blinked, momentarily confused. Then his grin returned, mocking.
"And who the hell are you supposed to be?"
Charolette's heart leapt into her throat. "Oh no," she muttered, anxiety filling her spirit as she grabbed Chauncey's arm.
"By the Gods, what is he doing???"
Pinkbeard snapped his fingers in Zayn's face. "Hey, hero! You gonna speak, or are you just here to look pretty? Move along. This doesn't concern you."
Zayn said nothing.
The pirate's grin faltered slightly. He reached again for the waitress, only to be met by a firm, vice grip on his hand. Zayn had caught his wrist.
The tension in the room sharpened like a blade. Every pirate turned their gaze toward them.
Chauncey groaned softly.
"We just got here…"
Pinkbeard's smile returned, but there was a flash of anger behind it now. "Oho. Playing hero, are we?"
He moved so fast the eye could barely follow.
His boot came up in a vicious arc, slamming into Zayn's temple. The impact sent Zayn crashing backward into a table, splintering wood and sending plates and mugs flying.
The room went silent.
Pinkbeard brushed the dust off his coat, his voice dripping with arrogance. "You just earned yourself an unwelcome stay on my island, newcomer. You'd better pray we don't cross paths again."
With a sharp whistle, he and his crew swaggered toward the door, leaving the restaurant in chaos.
Charolette rushed to Zayn's side as he groaned and sat up, rubbing his head.
"Are you mad?!" she hissed.
"We've been on this island for ten minutes!"
Zayn didn't reply, just brushed the dust from his coat. Chauncey sighed and helped him to his feet.
The dark-haired girl from earlier watched all this unfold with a cool, unreadable expression. Then she finally spoke.
"My father owns an inn just a few streets over,"
She mentioned.
"You three look like you could use a place to rest. Free of charge."
The trio turned to her, surprised by her tone — calm, confident, and oddly kind.
"Name's Dalia, by the way."
She added, offering a faint, knowing smile.
And just like that, the path of their journey shifted again — this time, not by fate or faith, but by the will of a girl who seemed far too wise for her age.