Some men are born to the sea.Others are thrown to it.
Solomon was both.
Zarifa Isle burned under a cruel sun — the kind that made sand sting and chains boil. The work gangs shuffled through the dunes under armed watch, their bare feet sinking into scorching grit. Solomon had long learned to work through pain. The heat didn't bother him anymore.
He stood at the crest of a dune, shovel in hand, staring at a shimmer on the horizon. At first glance, it looked like a puddle of water, but Solomon knew better. The desert here was full of mirages. The sea was miles away — but each time the wind shifted, he could smell it. Salt and life, faint but unmistakable.
When the breeze touched his face, he stopped working. Not to rest, but to listen.
The old slaves whispered it at night, when the guards were drunk or asleep:The sea calls the chained.
Solomon heard it every day.
He had never left Zarifa. Never tasted salt air except on the wind. Never sailed a day in his life. But he dreamed — of black-sailed ships that danced on storms, of crews who laughed in the face of cannon fire, of a freedom so wide it swallowed the horizon.
Dreams were dangerous here. On Zarifa, the nobles owned your labor, your breath, and even your thoughts if you let them.
That night, after the evening rations — a thin stew served in dented tin bowls — his master summoned him. The noble sat in his shaded veranda, the breeze from the coast stirring his silk robe. He was already drunk, eyes glassy, words slow.
"Boy," he said, swirling the wine in his goblet. "You're coming aboard tomorrow. I need someone to serve me on the crossing. The last one got seasick and get threw over the ship."
Solomon kept his head down, "Yes, master." inside, his pulse hammered. A ship. I'll see the sea.
The next morning, the noble's entourage descended to Zarifa's southern docks — white stone piers that jutted into turquoise water. The noble's private vessel waited there, sleek and narrow, with a painted figurehead of a golden mermaid. Its sails were crisp white, the ropes neatly coiled. Everything about it spoke of money.
The noble's sailors were tanned and lean, their eyes sharp. Solomon recognized the type: men who'd spent too long on the water and liked to take out their boredom on whoever couldn't fight back.
The dock bustled with workers — fishmongers shouting prices, merchants bargaining, guards watching for pickpockets. Beyond the harbor, the sea stretched into a vast blue infinity. Solomon had to stop himself from staring.
They set sail under a hot sun, the wind filling the sails, the smell of brine heavy in the air. Solomon did as he was told: scrubbing decks until his knuckles bled, carrying crates, pouring wine for his master. Every glimpse of the rolling horizon made his chest ache with something like longing.
By evening, the noble sat drinking on deck, watching the waves with the detached interest of a man who had seen it all before. Solomon was polishing a railing when he heard it.
Boom.
At first, it was so distant he thought it might be thunder. But the sky was clear.
Boom. Louder this time. The sailors stiffened.
From the starboard side, black sails appeared on the horizon — two ships, low and fast, bearing a flags with the skull of a serpent.
"Pirates!" someone shouted.
Chaos erupted. Orders were barked. Cannons swung into position. The noble cursed and stumbled toward his cabin taking Solomon with him.
The noble's cabin was nothing like anything Solomon had ever seen. The walls were paneled with polished teak, the corners inlaid with gold trim that glinted in the lamplight. A crystal decanter of wine swayed gently with the motion of the ship, its liquid casting ruby shadows. Everything here was meant to impress — and to remind any visitor how far above them the owner stood.
Solomon stood just inside the doorway, staring despite himself. In the corner sat a bed large enough to fit three men, piled high with embroidered cushions. On Zarifa, a slave's bed was the floor. Here, even the floor gleamed.
A sharp blow landed between his shoulders. He stumbled forward, catching himself on the edge of a gilded table.
"Where do you think you're looking with those filthy eyes?" The voice was low, cold, and far more sober than Solomon expected. He turned to see his master, Pinhas, silk robe swaying as he stepped closer.
Solomon lowered his gaze at once. "Forgive me, master."
Pinhas didn't reply. Instead, he reached into his robe and drew something from within — a small, curved blade, no longer than a man's hand. Its edge was freshly whetted.
For one wild moment, Solomon's mind went blank. Did he want me to take my own life cause i stare too much...
He had heard whispers of story like that happens to slave who's purpose was to satisfies the noble, he remember of his predecessor who got thrown overboard for vomiting on deck.
Pinhas's lips curled in a humorless smile, as if reading his thoughts. "Take this. Protect me with your life."
The knife's handle was warm from Pinhas's grip. Solomon took it, the weight unfamiliar yet strangely comforting in his hand. "Yes, master."
Without another word, Pinhas pushed past him and stepped back onto the deck. Solomon followed, the taste of salt thick in his mouth, the roar of approaching cannon fire shaking the planks beneath his feet.
The crew scrambled to their stations — a half-dozen men at the ship's few cannons, the rest armed with cutlasses, belaying pins, or anything else that could kill in close quarters.
The pirate ships closed in, their hulls looming over the water like predators breaking the surface. Grappling hooks flew, biting into the noble's vessel. Wood groaned under the strain as the first black-clad raiders swung aboard.
The battle for the ship had begun.
The first pirate ship was driven back, its boarding party pushed into the sea with steel and fury. For a heartbeat, Solomon dared to think they might win.
Then the second ship drew alongside.
Hooks bit into the rail, ropes snaked over the sides, and the deck erupted in chaos once more. This time the pirates came fast and brutal, blades flashing in the sunlight. Solomon stood frozen, the screams and clash of steel washing over him. Sailors he had scrubbed decks beside only hours ago crumpled and bled out on the planks. Bodies tumbled overboard like discarded cargo.
His grip on the small knife tightened until his knuckles ached. Sweat slicked his palm. Am I going to die? The thought rang through his skull with every heartbeat.
And then—silence.
It was sudden, unnatural, like the air itself had been sucked away. Solomon looked up. The surviving sailors had dropped their weapons, letting them clatter to the deck. They stood, breathing hard, eyes fixed on the pirates.
"You rats!" Pinhas's voice cracked with fury. His face was red, the veins in his neck bulging. "Fight for me! You dare surrender to pirates in front of your master?"
One of the sailors turned, his expression a mix of exhaustion and contempt. "Shut up. We won't die for you."
For a moment, Pinhas simply stared, his mouth working soundlessly. Solomon realized it might be the first time in his life that anyone had spoken to the man without fear. Pinhas's jaw clenched, teeth grinding—
BANG.
The sailor's head snapped back, a spray of red mist catching the light. He crumpled, lifeless, to the deck. The silence deepened.
A man strode forward from the pirate ranks. He wore a great black coat that flared with each step, the long hem whispering across the boards. His boots rang against the planks with the slow, deliberate rhythm of someone who feared nothing.
Beside him slithered a python longer than a man was tall — its dark coils sliding over the deck, its golden eyes fixed on the survivors.
Solomon's breath caught. His fear grew with every step the pair took.
The man stopped in the center of the deck, scanning the faces before him. His voice, when he spoke, was low but carried easily over the dead-calm air.
"There are still people alive on this ship."