Without a word, Alaric turned and walked toward the ropes. As he approached, a host of skeletal figures and misty, grey apparitions descended from above. The skeletons landed with weighty thuds; the fog-like beings drifted in ghostly silence, circling the ship like vultures awaiting a feast.
Among them was one who stood out—a skeleton with an unusually broad ribcage and a red scarf tied around his skull. In his bony grip was a massive, rusted blade. He stepped forward while the rest of the undead crew stood back, waiting with the patience of the dead.
This was Andrew, the Boatswain of the Black Crown—the man who managed the crew and all the lesser duties the captain deemed beneath his attention but necessary nonetheless.
Andrew stopped before Alaric and spoke in a deep, gravelly voice.
“What shall we do about this whole escapade?”
“Search the ship,” Alaric replied. “Anything of value—especially information. Then assign some of our men to manage it for the time being. We’ll decide its fate... after a good, long sleep.”
As he walked past his subordinates, a strange sense of familiarity washed over him. Even in this surreal nightmare, issuing orders grounded him—anchored him to the fading remnants of who he once was.
When he reached the ropes, something unexpected happened.
One of them unfurled from the deck above, hanging still in the air—waiting.
Alaric raised his right hand and gripped it.
In an instant, a forceful pull shot him upward. The world blurred, and he was on the Black Crown again, staring down at the two captured men still suspended in the air, immobilized by the ship’s eerie magic.
As Alaric stepped toward them, his very presence made their skin crawl. The ropes released just enough for them to breathe, and the moment air touched their lungs, both gasped in relief.
Before they could speak, Alaric cut through the silence.
“I will ask you five questions. Answer them truthfully, and I may spare your lives—for now. Do you agree?”
The two men turned their heads slightly toward each other, exchanging nervous glances.
The one who appeared to be the captain gave a hesitant nod.
“Yes... but you must let us go afterward.”
“If your answers are useful,” Alaric said, “you’ll live. What comes next... depends on you.”
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They both nodded.
“First question,” Alaric began. “Why did you come looking for this ship?”
The man straightened as best he could in his restraints.
“For the bounty... and the ship itself. Stories say the Black Crown holds unimaginable treasures, but even without those, the ship alone is worth a king’s ransom. And the bounty on the captain’s head…” he trailed off, glancing nervously at Alaric. “It was more than fifty thousand gold coins last I checked. That kind of money... it changes lives. So I gathered a small crew and followed every whisper, every port rumor, until I tracked the ship here.”
Alaric gave a small nod. It made sense. The Black Crown was a legend, and his own bounty—a treasure all its own.
“Second question. What year is it now, according to the general calendar?”
The man hesitated, confused by the simplicity of the question.
“It’s... March of 1367. We left port in September last year.”
A cold stillness fell across the deck. Even the skeletons exchanged glances.
Alaric felt his chest tighten.
Ten years. Ten years gone in the blink of an eye.
What happened to the war? The resistance? Abu... Sheren... Kabul?
His voice, now tinged with desperation, cut through the silence.
“What happened to the revolutionaries? To the Resistance?”
The man frowned.
“The authorities labeled them rebels about six years ago. Since then, they've been hunted down. Ports were raided, their fleets crippled—especially by pirates like the Blood Machete. Everyone seems to want them gone. They might not last much longer.”
Alaric remained motionless, but inside, the world tilted.
The cause he bled for, the movement he believed would change the world—reduced to ashes while he was asleep.
“Third question,” he said, his voice low. “What of the empires? Lemos and Armana?”
“Still at war,” the man said. “Still fighting over Alma. The Storm Isles are a mess—open conflict between their factions. Even the Blood Queen’s influence isn’t enough to keep the peace. I’ve also heard Armana has been pushing into southern colonies, causing trouble for Lamos and Lere-Mora.”
So little had changed—and yet, everything had.
“Fourth question. What of the Unshackled?”
The man’s throat tensed.
“The Unshackled… They’ve been a menace to the northern powers. Attacking slave routes, freeing captives. But word is… the Lemos navy ambushed their leader. Captured him. He’s set to stand trial soon—or perhaps he already has.”
Alaric’s breath caught in his hollow chest.
Abu. Captured. For six months.
He did the math. For a trial of that scale, it would take months to prepare. Coordinating slavers, merchants, and nobles from across continents wasn’t simple.
There’s still time. There must be time...
He pressed on, though his voice trembled now.
“Final question. What do you know of the leader of the rebels—Kabul Azef?”
The captive winced.
“He… he died. In the attack on Tottum Port. I’m sorry.”
A silence heavier than any fog fell over the deck.
Kabul. Dead.
Alaric’s mind spiraled. Who failed him? Why wasn’t I there? They had sworn to die together.
His mask didn’t show it. But the ropes knew. They felt the chaos, the grief.
Without a command, they tightened.
The two captives thrashed—then went limp.
Gasps rippled through the skeleton crew. Alaric had made a promise. He didn’t go back on promises.
Something was wrong.
The ropes uncoiled, letting the lifeless bodies fall with dull thuds onto the deck.
Alaric turned without a word.
“All of you are dismissed,” he said as he walked toward the captain’s quarters. “Get some rest.”
The door closed behind him with a long, slow creak.