The captain's senses were engulfed by the maelstrom around him. Muffled screams intertwined with the relentless ringing in his ears, a dissonant symphony of agony and chaos. Gunfire crackled through the air, mingling with the final, desperate cries of the dying. His vision blurred, the world around him dissolving into a nightmarish haze.

Struggling to rise, he glanced down to see his left leg twisted at an unnatural angle—dislocated at best, shattered at worst. Yet amid the carnage, he felt nothing. No pain, no fear. Beside him lay one of his men, lifeless eyes staring into oblivion, wooden shrapnel embedded grotesquely in his face. It was a grim miracle that the captain had survived the blast that tore through the door mere moments ago.

The invaders moved through the wreckage like wraiths, their faces painted with sweat and blood. They were more beasts than men, eyes gleaming with savage delight. One of his soldiers had lost all reason, collapsing into a quivering heap as he soiled himself. In the corner, Another rocked back and forth in a fetal position, screaming until his voice gave out, madness consuming him entirely.

The pirates showed no mercy. Axes fell with sickening thuds, cutlasses flashed like silver lightning, and daggers found soft flesh with ruthless precision. Some dispatched their victims with bare hands, snapping necks as effortlessly as one might wring a chicken's neck.

Through the smoke and shadow stepped a pirate no older than the captain's eldest son. He sauntered forward, boots crunching over broken shards and spilled shot, and squatted before the captain with casual ease. His eyes held a disconcerting calm.

"Do you surrender?" he asked, voice smooth amidst the surrounding chaos.

The captain stared at him, words failing. What was there to say? His ship was lost, his crew slaughtered, his own body broken. Numbly, he nodded.

...

Dobbs, the Viper's quartermaster, strode through the hold of the conquered ship, keen eyes surveying the spoils being hastily gathered. The air was thick with the scent of gunpowder and fear. He paused beside an old pirate clutching a moth-eaten stuffed animal.

"Can't sell that," Dobbs said flatly. "Leave it."

The old pirate glanced at the toy wistfully before tossing it aside. Dobbs moved on, encountering two men struggling to haul a heavy coffin.

"What's this?" he demanded.

One of them shrugged. "Found it locked. Could be something valuable inside."

Dobbs motioned for them to open it. As the lid creaked back, revealing nothing but emptiness, he shook his head in disdain. "No."

A pirate with a gleaming gold tooth suddenly leapt out from behind a stack of crates, aiming to startle him. Dobbs barely blinked, fixing the man with a withering stare.

"Grow up," he muttered, pushing past.

The gold-toothed pirate grinned unabashedly and fell into step behind him. They approached a trio of men clustered around a heavy door, their expressions a mix of frustration and unease.

"What is this?" Dobbs snapped.

"Door's blocked," one replied, kicking it in irritation. "Won't budge."

Dobbs sighed, his patience thinning. "Then unblock it."

With a nod, the men set to work, and within minutes, the door yielded with a groan. Dust and stale air wafted out as Dobbs stepped inside, flintlock drawn and ready. His gaze swept the dim interior, settling on a lifeless body sprawled across the floor—a cutlass buried deep in its back.

Standing over the corpse was a young man, scarcely more than a boy. His hands were raised in a gesture of surrender, but his eyes held a glint of defiance.

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"Hello," the boy said, nodding toward the dead man. "He couldn't bear the thought of what you might do to him."

Dobbs arched an eyebrow. "And you?"

"I," the boy began with a faint smile, "would very much like to join your crew. My name is Marcellus, and I'm an excellent cook."

A slow grin spread across Dobbs's face. "A cook, eh?"

Marcellus met his gaze steadily, though his heart pounded in his chest. Tales of pirate cruelty had not been exaggerated, it seemed. He felt the small, black book tucked securely under his belt—the one he'd taken from the ship's cook. Whatever secrets it held, it had been worth killing for.

"Come along then," Dobbs said, lowering his pistol. "Let's see what Captain Crowe makes of you."

...

Ascending to the deck, Marcellus was met with a tableau of brutality. The pirate ship loomed alongside, its black sails billowing like the wings of some monstrous bird. The air was thick with smoke and the coppery scent of blood.

He observed the pirates milling about—some grizzled and scarred, others surprisingly young. Up close, they seemed less the fearsome demons of legend and more a motley collection of the desperate and the damned. Yet the evidence of their savagery was undeniable.

Men lay strewn across the deck, some missing limbs, others groaning as they clutched shattered bones. A few clung to the ship's railing, drenched and gasping after being pulled from the icy depths. From the rigging dangled the body of a man, swaying gently—a grim wind chime marking the passing of souls.

Marcellus's gaze caught on a group of women huddled near the mainmast, guarded but unharmed. Among them, he glimpsed a familiar face—Anne. His heart lurched.

Did she follow me here? he wondered. The notion was as alarming as it was inexplicable. He quickly averted his eyes, pretending not to recognize her. Questions could wait; survival was paramount.

He was led aboard the Viper, a vessel that seemed more beast than ship. Its hull was dark and scarred, bearing the wounds of countless battles. As he stepped onto the deck, his eyes were drawn to a figure bound to the mainmast—the captain of the trading ship. Blood trickled from a split lip and a gash above his brow. One leg hung at an unnatural angle, the bone jutting grotesquely beneath the skin.

Thank the Might of God I chose not to fight them, Marcellus thought, a shiver running down his spine. Is that what they do to prisoners?

Dobbs approached a towering figure—muscular and imposing, with a shaved head that gleamed under the waning light. Intricate tattoos covered his arms and chest, stories inked in blood and ink. His eyes were sharp, assessing.

"Tommy Bones," Dobbs greeted.

Tommy glanced over, unperturbed. "Who's the whelp?" he asked, nodding toward Marcellus.

"Claims he's a cook," Dobbs replied.

Tommy snorted. "Hope he lasts longer than the last one."

Marcellus felt the weight of Tommy's gaze—a predator sizing up potential prey. He mustered a tentative smile, which went unreturned.

"Best get to the galley, then," Tommy said dismissively. "Crew's got to eat."

As Dobbs led him away, Marcellus cast a final glance back at the trading ship. Pirates swarmed over it like ants, plundering and pillaging with practiced efficiency. Near the stern, a cluster of men had gathered around the captive captain, brandishing an array of cruel implements—blades, hooks, and tongs designed for inflicting maximum pain.

One man stood out—a pirate with two prominent scars crossing his face, forming an X over his left eye. The disfigurement twisted his features into a permanent sneer, rendering his expression both comical and terrifying. He leaned in close to the captain, whispering something that made the man's remaining color drain away.

Marcellus felt a knot tighten in his stomach. I must be careful, he reminded himself. The book pressed against his side—a secret that could be his salvation or his doom.

...

Down in the galley, Marcellus busied himself among pots and knives, the familiar scent of cooking offering a semblance of normalcy. The aroma of simmering stew filled the cramped space, masking the less pleasant scents of the ship.

"Not bad," a voice echoed in his mind.

Marcellus paused, a frown creasing his brow. Not now, he thought.

"You're wasting time," the voice persisted. "We should be planning our next move."

He shook his head subtly, focusing on chopping vegetables. I need to stay focused. Any misstep could be fatal.

"You're too cautious," the voice chided. "Boldness is what's needed."

"Talking to yourself, are you?" came a gruff voice from the galley entrance.

Marcellus looked up sharply to see the gold-toothed pirate leaning against the doorframe, a sly grin on his face. "Old habit," he replied, forcing a casual tone.

The pirate sauntered in, eyeing the bubbling pot. "Smells decent. Better than the swill we've had lately."

"Thank you," Marcellus said, keeping his gaze lowered.

"Captain wants to see you," the pirate said, his tone suddenly serious.

Marcellus felt his pulse quicken. "Me? Now?"

"Aye. Don't keep him waiting."

Wiping his hands on a cloth, Marcellus followed the pirate through the dim corridors, his mind racing. Had they discovered the book was missing from Crowe's quarters? He'd taken a grave risk retrieving it.

In truth, Marcellus had never possessed the habit of speaking to himself, yet he never questioned its sudden emergence. He never paused to ponder why the voice in his mind had grown so tangible—audible, distinct, and unsettlingly contradictory. Perhaps it was the madness of his circumstances, or perhaps it was something far deeper, far more insidious.