The chaos of the island, the fall of Azan's crew, and the shadow of the Black Mark were two years behind them. In that time, Elhaan, Mikael, and the red-haired girl disappeared from every pirate route—swallowed by peace.
They built their life far from the blood and salt, opening a quiet inn on a green hill high above the cliffs. From the porch, the sea stretched wide and glittering, waves hurling themselves against the rocks far below.
At first, the place was nothing but a creaking shell—a leaky roof, warped floors, and three people trying to forget the world. But little by little, it grew into something more. Among pirates, it became a whisper: a place where a man could drink, tell his stories, and sleep without one eye open.
Elhaan spent his mornings in the grassy yard behind the inn, drilling Mikael until his hands blistered and his legs shook. The mage's hair had gone silver, his back slightly bent, but his voice still cut sharper than steel.
> "Again. Faster. You'll die moving like that."
Mikael grew under that relentless weight. His body hardened, his stance steadied. Every strike was tighter, cleaner—less like a boy swinging and more like a blade in motion.
The red-haired girl changed too. The haunted look in her eyes faded, replaced by quiet confidence. She moved through the inn with sure steps, trading sharp remarks with drunken sailors and carrying trays as though she'd been born in a tavern. Some nights, when a guest pushed his luck, she handled it before Mikael even stood.
They weren't alone for long. A wiry, dark-skinned boy from the village began hanging around—first sweeping floors for a meal, then working for real coin. His hands were clumsy, his balance worse, but his curiosity burned. He peppered Mikael with questions about sword fighting and sea monsters, and never spilled a tray twice.
Season after season passed—training, working, laughing by the fire while the wind howled outside. None of them noticed how quickly the years slipped away.
---
One morning, an old pirate arrived like a storm adrift from nowhere—ragged coat, salt-stiff beard, eyes like weathered glass. His boots left wet marks on the floor. Mikael served him stew and rum, trying not to stare.
When he set the tray down, the man's gaze caught on the silver chain around Mikael's neck. The simple ring hanging there froze him in place. Slowly, he tugged his own chain free—a matching ring, battered and dull.
> "A drifter," he murmured.
Mikael frowned. "What?"
The man tucked it away. "Nothing. Just… keep it close."
With Elhaan gone to visit an old friend, Mikael found himself talking to the old pirate more. He spoke of ships that could outrun storms, of a spring "not from this world," and of a sea so wide it curved into the sky. Sometimes, his words slipped into a strange, alien tongue Mikael didn't recognize.
One quiet morning, Mikael found him in the yard, rolling his shoulders.
> "You've got the look of someone who's never held a blade proper," the pirate said, tossing him a wooden stick. "Show me."
Mikael raised it, awkward but eager. The old man moved without effort, disarming him in a single step. Again and again, Mikael attacked, only to be knocked flat—each strike from the old pirate felt like a wave breaking on the shore. Even holding back, his presence was overwhelming.
The man—Red Roggan—grinned. "You're quick, but you've got no anchor. A strong tide will sweep you away."
Mikael never forgot the weight of that lesson.
---
A week later, sickness took him. By the day Elhaan returned, Roggan could barely rise from bed. Mikael led Elhaan upstairs, only now speaking the name of their guest.
Elhaan stopped cold at the door. The red-bearded man on the bed was thinner, weaker—but the mage recognized him instantly. A century ago, Red Roggan had ruled the seas like no one before or since. Kingdoms had bent the knee to him. His fleet was a phantom no man could match. Then, one day, he vanished, his crew scattering to the winds. Azan had once been a boy aboard his ship.
Now that legend—whose name alone could make empires tremble—lay dying.
Roggan lifted a trembling hand toward Mikael. His voice was a rasp. "You. Come here."
When Mikael approached, Roggan looked past him at Elhaan. "Leave us."
Elhaan had come to offer what treatment he could, but the weight of respect for the most feared man on the sea made him bow and step out.
Roggan pushed a black chest toward Mikael. His grip was fierce, desperate. "Kid… I had a son once. Your age, when I left him. By now… he's gone." His breath rattled. "You told me you want to sail the seas? Then do me a favor. Half my life I spent finding what's in here. The other half… keeping it from them."
He coughed hard, blood flecking his lips.
"You… are a drifter… like me. Inside—you'll find everything. About the Mark. About the Rift." His words tumbled, weaker by the second.
Then his last sentence struck Mikael like a cannon blast. It was about the Mark—the death it brings… and the life it can give.
The light in Roggan's eyes faded. His hand slipped from the chest.
---
Somewhere far away, a man with the same ring as Mikael and Roggan turned the silver band between his fingers. A sharp jaw, a short white beard, and a fading smile.
> "Rest in peace… my friend."
---
Back in the inn, Elhaan entered the room again. Roggan lay still, wearing the expression of a man who had wanted to do one last thing before he died—but could not.
The Black Chest sat at Mikael's feet. And the weight of it was heavier than the sea.
Author here :
Let's say roggan has orange beared ;)
Sorry guys I change it but imagine a dying old man with orange beared damnnnn .
Uhh I .. ignore that sometime I enjoy my story more then anyone hope u like it .