At the captain's words, the pirates moved without hesitation.Steel flashed. One by one, the surviving sailors were cut down where they stood. The captain lowered himself into a crouch atop his python's broad coils, resting an elbow on his knee like a man watching a stage play.
"You—loot the cabins," he said, pointing lazily.
Several pirates broke away, rummaging through barrels, tearing up planks, and smashing open crates. They didn't even glance at Solomon or Pinhas.
Did they forget about us? The thought flickered through Solomon's mind. His eyes dropped to the blood-slick deck. If they're not looking… maybe I can—
"Captain!"
A voice boomed in front of him, cutting through his thoughts. A stocky pirate stood there, staring down at Solomon and Pinhas. "What about these two?"
Solomon lifted his head slowly, meeting the pirate's gaze. His grip on the small knife was slick with sweat.
The captain barely looked at them. "Kill them. We'll get nothing worth keeping from those two."
The words froze Solomon's blood.
Pinhas straightened, his face twisting into rage. "Do you know who I am? I'm a noble of Zarifa! If you dare to—"
BANG.
The noble's head snapped forward, a hole punched clean through his skull. Blood dripped from his slack mouth as his body pitched to the deck beside Solomon.
I'm going to die…
Solomon staggered back, heart hammering, when the gunman spoke, casually blowing smoke from his pistol. "He was fucking annoying. Talking back to the captain like that—"
The words broke into Solomon's thoughts, replacing fear with something desesperate.
Before the man could finish, Solomon lunged. The small knife plunged into the pirate's gut. The man grunted, eyes wide, and spat a single word—"Bastard"—before collapsing to one knee.
Solomon didn't wait. He spun and saw the chaos working in his favor. Most of the pirates were still in Pinhas's cabin, shouting over the loot. The deck ahead was clear.
He bolted. Behind the stern, he knew there was a small emergency dinghy—the kind meant for nobles if disaster struck. Gunshots cracked behind him. Splinters bit into his arms. Bullets tore past, grazing his side and shoulder.
Then the silence...
Did they give up? he thought, his breath ragged. Reaching the dinghy, he fumbled with the knots. His fingers shook, slipping on the wet rope. Three… two… one—
The final knot came loose. The dinghy dropped into the sea with a splash. Solomon turned to jump—
A hand clamped around his arm, yanking him back.
It was the wounded pirate. Blood darkened his shirt, the hilt of Solomon's knife still jutting from his gut. His face was twisted with rage.
"You think you can get away from me?" the man growled, shoving Solomon hard against the railing. "I'm gonna rip you into pieces."
Solomon's muscles locked. His mind raced.
Then he saw it—the knife. Still lodged in the pirate's body.
If I can grab it… I can finish this.
The pirate's breath was hot and reeking of blood and rum. His grip on Solomon's arm was iron, nails digging into skin. Every instinct screamed run, but there was nowhere to go—only the drop into the sea below and the man blocking his way.
Solomon's eyes flicked once more to the hilt protruding from the pirate's abdomen. Now or never.
He threw his free hand up toward the pirate's face. The man flinched, his head jerking back just enough for Solomon to twist, drive his shoulder forward, and grab the knife's hilt.
The pirate snarled, swinging his pistol toward Solomon's ribs. Solomon yanked the blade free in a single, wet sound. Before the man could pull the trigger, Solomon eyes glow and he see himself lay on the deck with blood flooding out his ribs.
As he came back to him without knowing what happened to him he rammed the knife upward, straight beneath the jaw.
The pirate's eyes went wide, mouth working silently. His pistol fired—a deafening blast that went wild, shattering the railing inches from Solomon's hip.
Blood sprayed hot across Solomon's face. The man crumpled, his body folding over the railing before sliding into the churning sea below.
Solomon staggered back, chest heaving, knife still clenched in his hand. The deck around him swayed, slick with blood and seawater. Shouts were growing louder from Pinhas's cabin—the looters were returning.
He turned, vaulted over the railing, and dropped into the waiting dinghy.
The small craft rocked violently on the waves. Solomon scrambled to the oars, cutting the last tether with his stolen knife. The moment the rope snapped, the current caught him, pulling the boat away from the noble's vessel.
Gunshots rang out above. Plumes of water erupted around the dinghy, each one closer than the last. Solomon hunched low, rowing hard, his arms screaming with the effort. The noble's ship loomed behind him, black shapes moving along the rails, shouts echoing over the water.
Then—a sharp crack.
A ball of splintering wood exploded near the stern of the dinghy, sending shards into Solomon's back. He gritted his teeth, kept rowing. The sea was on his side now, the current pulling him faster. The pirates' curses grew faint. Another volley missed wide.
And then… silence.
Solomon dared to glance over his shoulder. The noble's ship was shrinking against the horizon, its white sails torn and stained. The black-sailed pirate ship was already peeling away, perhaps deciding he wasn't worth the chase.
He was alone.
The realization hit like a wave. Alone on a dinghy barely big enough for two, with no crew, no food, and nothing but endless blue in every direction. The heat of the day was fading, replaced by the first sharp chill of evening.
His arms trembled as he laid the oars inside the boat. He stared down at his reflection in the rippling water—crimson eyes, blood smeared across his face, hair plastered to his forehead.
He didn't feel like the boy who had stood on Zarifa's dunes the last days.
The sun dipped lower, staining the waves red. Solomon tore a strip from his shirt and wrapped it clumsily around the graze on his side. Salt stung the wound like fire. He found himself shaking—not from pain, but from the release of fear. His breath came in short, uneven bursts.
Pinhas was dead. The crew was dead. And he'd killed a man.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, tasting iron. "Better him than me," he muttered, though the words felt hollow.
By nightfall, the sky was a vault of stars. The sea was black glass, broken only by the slow rocking of the dinghy. Solomon lay back against the wood, staring upward.
The stories he'd heard on Zarifa came to him now—of men who'd drifted for weeks, drinking rainwater from cupped hands, eating raw fish caught with bent nails. Of others who'd been found bloated and white, their eyes picked out by gulls.
A fine beginning for a life at sea.
His stomach growled. His throat was dry. He forced himself upright, scanning the horizon for lights, sails, anything. Nothing but the steady, endless breathing of the ocean.
Time became a blur. He dozed in short bursts, waking to the sound of the waves slapping the hull. Once, in the dead of night, he thought he heard something moving in the water below—something big, circling. He gripped the knife until the sound faded.
The dawn found him stiff and aching, skin already burned from the previous day. The sun rose like a molten coin over the water, blinding him. He cupped seawater in his hands, swished it in his mouth, and spat it out—he knew enough not to drink it.
The day dragged on. The waves swelled higher, tossing the dinghy like a toy. Spray soaked him to the bone. He tried rowing in the direction he thought was east, but without landmarks, every angle felt the same.
By the second sunset, hunger had become a gnawing, constant pain. He thought of the feasts the nobles used to eat on their shaded verandas, the platters he'd carried to Pinhas without so much as a crumb for himself.
Now he would have killed for a crumb.
That night, a thin sliver of moon hung over the sea. Solomon shivered beneath the damp rags of his shirt, trying to will himself to sleep. But his mind kept replaying the moment the pirate's eyes went wide—the moment the blade went in.
The ocean was quiet tonight. Too quiet.
He thought he saw something vast pass just beneath the surface—an immense shadow gliding in the moonlight. His breath caught. A single eye, the size of a shield, blinked up at him from the depths.
And then it was gone.
By the third day, Solomon's lips were cracked, his eyes gritty with exhaustion. He could barely keep his head up. The knife lay in the bottom of the dinghy, the only real thing he owned now.
He was on the edge of sleep when he spotted it—a big wave coming to him solomon didn't have time to react he just grip himself to the boat but it wasn't enough, solomon is crush by the wave and the boat along with him.
As solomon is getting deeper in the sea he start thinking about his life and how even in his last moment he wasn't free to choose his own death, he close his eyes as he get carried away by the sea.
The ocean was quiet now, almost mocking in its calm.
You got what you wanted, he thought. The sea.
He smile, and then the world went black.