Lowtide never slept. It merely rotted in shifts.
It was a forgotten point between routes, where the sea arrived weary and departed without longing. Houses piled atop crooked stilts, groaning with every tide, and the streets were too narrow for light. The docks moaned beneath the weight of footsteps, like old men dying slowly.
The navy rarely came near. It hardly mattered that the flame of justice never reached the rats' den, Lowtide was considered a dead place, a permanent mourning between maps and rumors.
But that night, Lowtide breathed.
The harbor bars overflowed with noise and bodies. Barrels rolled across the floor, mugs shattered against filthy walls, laughter cut the air like gunshots. Improvised flags fluttered from broken masts, and a single symbol repeated itself on torn cloth and ragged pennants.
A skull torn open by the wind.
The Wind Breakers had arrived.
— I'm telling you, captain, the bastard cried!
A large man laughed loudly, slamming his mug against the table. The scar splitting his nose stretched with his grin, and his massive body, a wall of muscle and fat, seemed to take up half the bar. Chains wrapped around his arms clinked, hooks swaying with every laugh.
— The proudest corsair in the east… — he wiped a tear of laughter — cried like a damn child!
Rook Ironjaw - Heavy Combatant.
— Bullshit! — cut in a dark-haired girl, laughing as she wiped her eyes. Small, dressed in black, she nearly blended into the shadows. — He begged first. Crying came after.
Nyx Lowveil - Infiltrator.
— You're both wrong.
A woman with long silver hair rested her boots on the table with casual disregard. Her curvy figure, adorned with silver jewelry, looked as sharp as the wind before a storm.
— He begged, cried… and even tried to bargain with his own crew.
Maeve Windfall - First Mate.
The absolute seriousness of her tone only made it funnier.
The table erupted in laughter.
At the center of the chaos, seated as if the world were nothing more than another deck beneath his feet, was a man far too happy for his reputation. Too young for his rank. Dark red hair fell messily over his eyes, and his easy smile clashed with the name beginning to echo across the seas.
One arm lounged over the back of the chair. The other raised a nearly empty bottle.
Nero Ashlake, captain of the Wind Breakers.
— You're all wrong, — he said, with theatrical calm.
The laughter died down. Eyes turned toward him.
Nero smiled.
— He didn't cry. He didn't beg.
A pause.
— He pissed his pants.
Silence held for half a second.
Then the bar nearly collapsed.
— CAPTAIN! — someone shouted through laughter.
— That's a lie even for you! — protested the shadowed girl.
Nero clutched his chest, offended.
— A lie? Me? — he scoffed. — Do you really think I need to lie?
Several "yes" came at once.
— You're cruel… — he sighed, before breaking into an even wider grin. — You want to know what real exaggeration is?
He stood up, already swaying.
— Exaggeration was when I defeated that twenty-meter dragon.
— Here we go…— someone muttered.
— A colossal monster! — Nero spread his arms wide. — It burned entire cities! Flames swallowed towers, walls… dreams!
— Captain, you can't even reach twenty meters from a paid tab, — the dark-haired girl teased, wearing an ironic smile.
— SILENCE! — Nero raised a finger.
A small flame bloomed at its tip, alive, dancing red like his hair.
— I looked the beast in the eyes…— he said, mouth full of alcohol, — …and blew hell right back at it!
He blew.
The fire erupted through the bar, tearing the air with a roaring blaze.
— CAPTAIN! — someone screamed.
The flame died almost as quickly as it appeared, but not before licking an entire lock of red hair.
— AAAAAH! MY HAIR! — Nero panicked, spinning in place. — PUT IT OUT! PUT IT OUT!
He slammed his head against the table, knocked over a stool, tripped over someone and rolled across the floor, trying to smother the fire with his hands.
The entire bar collapsed into laughter.
— The dragon won in the end! — the shadowed girl mocked.
Then a burst of silvery wind exploded into the air, wrapping around the improvised fire and snuffing it out instantly.
— Nero, haven't I told you not to use that shit indoors? — Maeve grumbled, like someone scolding a child. Small currents of wind still swirled around her.
Nero stood, hair singed and expression defeated.
Then he smiled.
— See? — he said, raising the bottle once more. — True stories always leave marks.
The laughter continued.
The Wind Breakers celebrated a victory too large for Lowtide. They had taken down a famous eastern corsair, seized his route, and sunk his ship with their own hands. The news was already spreading through the archipelago.
And Lowtide, as always, was nothing more than the cheap stage for the party.
Sometime deep into the night, Nero rose unsteadily.
— I'm gonna get some air, — he announced, grabbing a half-full bottle. — If anyone starts a fight without me, I'll kill them later."
— Captain, don't disappear! — shouted the man with the chains, raising his cup.
— If you do something stupid, I'll kill you myself, — Maeve said over thin-framed glasses, never lifting her eyes from her book.
Nero merely waved, already walking out.
The door closed behind him with a tired creak.
Outside, the smell changed.
Less alcohol.
More old fish, piled garbage, and soaked wood.
Lowtide smelled like a stranded sea.
Nero walked without hurry, the bottle hanging loosely from his hand, whistling a tune no one there knew. His footsteps echoed against the uneven stones as he observed the city with genuine curiosity, crooked alleys, broken windows, faces that vanished the moment they realized who was passing by.
He liked places like this.
Forgotten islands.Ports the navy only visited on ancient maps.Cities where the world was still honest in its misery.
— Nice place… — he murmured to no one. — Horrible, but beautiful.
He turned one corner.Then another.
The alleys grew narrower, darker. The sound of the sea became distant, muffled by damp walls and crooked rooftops. A nearly dead lantern lit a passage too tight for carriages, wide enough only to survive.
That was where he stopped.
Not because he heard something, but because he felt it.
Something was wrong with that silence.
Leaning against the wall, almost fused with the shadows, stood a child.
Too small.Too thin.Too alive for a place like that.
Nero narrowed his eyes, his smile shrinking slightly, not out of suspicion, but interest.
— …well, look at that, — he murmured, like someone finding a rare coin on the ground.
The child didn't run.
Didn't beg.
Didn't flinch.
He only watched.
The eyes drew attention immediately: sea-green, far too clear, like shallow waters before a storm. Eyes that didn't belong in alleys. Nero approached slowly and crouched down, ignoring the cold stone and the grime on his clothes.
— You don't look like a rat, — he said casually.— And you definitely don't look like a ghost.
Silence.
The boy didn't avert his gaze. That amused Nero.
— So what are you doing in a hole like this?— he went on. — Lost? Hiding? Planning a murder?
Nothing.
Nero tilted his head, looking closer. The clothes were torn, patched more than once. Tangled hair. Bronze-toned skin marked by old bruises, not fresh, the scars of someone who'd been beaten for far too long.
— Hm… — he sighed. — Come on, don't be so boring.
The boy shifted, uncomfortable. Then, finally, he spoke, his voice low, barely there.
— I'm waiting.
— Waiting for what?
— Tomorrow…
Nero blinked. Then chuckled softly.
— Terrible idea. Tomorrow usually disappoints.
He took a swig from the bottle and held it out.
— Want a drink?
The boy hesitated. His gaze fell to the amber liquid, then returned to the stranger's face, a man who smelled of alcohol, salt, and trouble.
— Relax,— Nero smiled. — There's no poison. If there were, I'd already be dead.
After a few seconds that stretched too long, the boy accepted.
He drank.
And immediately coughed, doubling over.
— Hahaha!— Nero laughed. — That's it! The sea always burns first!
When the bottle returned to his hand, Nero grew serious for a moment. Just a moment.
— Tell me something, — he said, resting his elbow on his knee as he drank again.
— What do you dream of?
The question landed too heavily for an alley.
The boy didn't have an answer.
— I don't dream…
— Everyone dreams, — Nero replied, without arguing. — Some people just forget how.
The boy thought, brow furrowing.
— Sometimes… I dream about water, I think… — he said. — But I don't know how to swim.
Between hunger, filth, and daily fights, the boy rarely slept. But when he did, the dream was always the same: a black mirror of endless sea, reflecting a dark sky tinted green.
For many, it would be a terrifying vision, like staring into the abyss.
For him, though, it was almost comforting. As if it belonged to him.
Nero let a corner smile form.
— That's the sea for you. It calls you before it teaches you.
He leaned back against the alley wall, gazing up at the invisible sky between rooftops.
— People think pirates chase gold, fame, monsters… — he shrugged. — Nonsense.
He turned back to the boy.
— We chase choices.
A brief pause, followed by another drink.
— But tell me, kid… what's your name?
The boy lowered his eyes, silent for a few seconds.
— …I don't have one.
It was a reality far too common, not just in Lowtide, but in many alleys across the world.
Nero's smile faded.
— That's a serious problem, — he said, with mock gravity. — No one crosses the world without a name. Not even a corpse.
He stepped a little closer and placed a hand on the boy's head with unexpected gentleness, thinking for a few seconds.
— Alright then, — he decided.— Kael.
The boy repeated it, testing the sound.
— …Kael.
— And since this island stubbornly refused to kill you… — Nero smirked.
— Kael Lowtide!
The name lingered in the air.
Far away, the sea roared.
Nero stood and extended his hand.
— I'll be honest,— he said, serious now. — The world out there is worse than this place. There's hunger, pain, people who'll try to use you and kill you. Horrible monsters… and people even worse than them."
Then he smiled again.
— But there's also wind. Horizon. And nights where you get to choose who you want to be. Without owing anything… to anyone."
Green eyes met his.
— So, Kael Lowtide…
— Would you rather bargain with death… or keep being a prisoner to hunger?
The boy's eyes reflected like a mirror of the sea, full of curiosity, and something dangerously close to hope.
In the end…
He took the hand offered to him.
And that night, Lowtide lost more than a street child.
It lost someone the sea had noticed.