Skifra didn’t look at Jackson the way most people did.

  Most people, when they sat across from him, couldn’t decide if they were talking to a man, a myth, or an accounting problem wearing human skin.

  Skifra just looked at him like he was late on a report.

  “Alright,” she said, spooning up the last of her soup like she was finishing a meeting instead of a meal. “Angle here’s how it is.”

  Jackson’s recorder was already running. He had that historian posture—polite, intent, hungry for detail but trying not to look hungry.

  Skifra leaned back and pointed the spoon at me like it was a dagger.

  “When me and Lord Rockfeathers arrived here, Core was still trying to figure out how to do… anything.” She made a face, like she was remembering a very specific kind of frustration. “He was trying to make everything neat and organized. Thinking somehow that made what pirates made, as he put it.”

  I held my hands up in surrender. “I was learning.”

  “I’ve seen your videos,” she continued, not even acknowledging my defense. “The ones where Hollywood decided pirates were all the same—dirty coats, perfect hats, identical accents, and everyone somehow has time to monologue.”

  Jackson gave a careful smile. “That’s… not accurate?”

  Skifra snorted. “Not even close. Pirates didn’t look like a uniform. They looked like people. Like every port had its own style. Every crew had its own rules. Sometimes you’re starving and you dress like it. Sometimes you’re rich and you dress like you want to be mistaken for a navy officer. Sometimes you dress like a ghost because it makes merchants panic.”

  She glanced at me. “But Core wanted theme park pirates.”

  “It was my starting framework,” I said, attempting dignity.

  “You were building a toy box,” she corrected. “And you needed someone to teach you the difference between a toy and a trap.”

  Jackson’s pen scratched across his notebook. “So you helped—”

  “We helped set the realm into what it needed to be,” Skifra cut in. “Designing battles. Teaching him how fire should flow. How smoke should sit. How panic changes a shoreline.”

  Her eyes narrowed, and her voice dropped into that tone that meant the next part mattered.

  “And we found out how intent works for resurrections and injuries… the hard way.”

  Jackson looked up sharply. “Resurrections?”

  Skifra’s mouth twitched like she didn’t know whether to be annoyed or amused.

  “I got mad,” she said, flat as stone. “I shot Lord Rockfeathers. Killed him.”

  Jackson froze.

  Across the table, Rockfeathers—alive, smug, and currently stealing crackers off someone else’s plate—lifted two fingers in a lazy salute without looking.

  Skifra continued, unfazed. “Core gets a notification. Would he like to revive him.”

  I pointed at Jackson. “That was the first time I saw it too.”

  Skifra’s eyes flicked to me. “We looked at each other like—what the hell is this.”

  “And?” Jackson asked, voice caught between horror and fascination.

  “He hit yes,” Skifra said, as if she were describing signing a receipt. “Next thing you know, old feathers over there is alive and well again. Same smug face. Same attitude. And that’s how we started figuring out and playing with intent.”

  Rockfeathers finally looked over. “It was educational.”

  Skifra didn’t even glance at him. “We realized we could make it spectacular.”

  She leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Not fake spectacular. Real spectacular. Real crews. Real events. Real consequences, even if the realm brings you back.”

  Jackson swallowed. “You mean—”

  “I mean,” Skifra said, “pirates that act like pirates. Naval officers that act like naval officers. Cannons that don’t sound like fireworks. Boarding actions that don’t feel like stage fights.”

  A beat.

  Then she pointed her spoon toward the window, where the harbor glittered and everything looked calm.

  “After lunch,” she said, “I’ll take you down to the staff-only area. Show you what it’s like when the show isn’t for tourists.”

  I watched Jackson’s eyes brighten. He was trying to keep his face professional, but he couldn’t hide the excitement. He’d been recording pretty stories and curated moments for weeks. He’d been waiting for the part where the realm proved it had teeth.

  And as if the Realm itself heard him thinking it—

  It wasn’t some gentle system chime.

  It was a dock bell.

  Deep iron. Rope-driven. The kind of alarm you only rang when the bay was about to stop being a bay and start being a battlefield.

  A heavy GONNNNG rolled through the air, vibrating the glass in the common room windows.

  Skifra’s spoon froze halfway to her mouth.

  She didn’t flinch.

  She didn’t jump.

  She just… stopped. Like someone had slid a blade under the table and she’d felt the point touch her ribs.

  Another bell hit.

  GONNNNG.

  Then a shorter, sharper sound behind it—hand bells. The rapid, ugly kind used on pirate docks when men are sprinting and nobody has time for polite.

  Skifra’s eyes went distant for half a heartbeat.

  Listening.

  Not to the bell.

  To the pattern.

  Outside, beyond the hotel’s quiet, the Realm’s harbor carried sound like a drum.

  Shouts. Footsteps. The fast slap of boots on wet wood.

  Jackson straightened, hand hovering over his recorder like he wasn’t sure if recording this was allowed.

  Skifra slowly set her spoon down.

  “What,” she said, voice calm in a way that meant it wasn’t calm at all, “did that idiot do now.”

  Rockfeathers—two crackers in, completely unconcerned—lifted a brow. “Define idiot.”

  Skifra didn’t look at him. She was already halfway out of her chair, her attention hooked toward the bay like a predator scenting blood.

  Then the door slammed open hard enough to rattle the hinge.

  Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

  A pirate stumbled in—wide-eyed, breathing like he’d run uphill through smoke.

  “MA’AM!”

  Skifra didn’t ask who he was. She didn’t need to. Anyone running into a quiet room like this was either on fire or bringing fire.

  He skidded to a stop, bent over, hands on his knees.

  “We got eyes in the crow’s nest—Parrot Pete’s up there!”

  Skifra’s jaw tightened.

  “Of course he is.”

  The pirate swallowed. “He’s—he’s sober, ma’am.”

  Skifra blinked once. “Did you check his rum cup.”

  “Aye,” the runner said. “Checked his cup, checked his breath. He’s got breath like dead fish but he’s sober.”

  Rockfeathers made a soft choking laugh into his hand.

  Jackson’s eyes flicked between them, trying to keep up with the fact that this was apparently normal protocol.

  Skifra leaned forward, voice still controlled. “What did Pete see.”

  The runner’s face drained further like saying it out loud made it more real.

  “Ships, ma’am.”

  “How many.”

  He hesitated, then blurted it like ripping off a bandage.

  “Forty-five.”

  The room went quiet so fast it felt like someone had sucked the air out through a straw.

  Jackson’s pen stopped mid-scratch.

  Even Rockfeathers stopped chewing.

  Skifra didn’t move.

  “Say it again,” she said.

  “Forty-five ships,” the runner repeated. “Three directions. Closing on the harbor.”

  Jackson’s voice came out low and stunned. “Three directions…?”

  Skifra’s gaze slid, sharp as a cutlass, to me.

  Not accusing.

  Assessing.

  Like she was checking whether I’d done something stupid on purpose or something stupid by accident.

  I held up both hands.

  “I didn’t ring your bell,” I said. “That’s all pirate.”

  Skifra’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve been editing again.”

  “I’ve been—” I started.

  She pointed at me with the spoon like it was a weapon. “Don’t you dare say ‘curating.’”

  Jackson looked at me, incredulous. “Wait—are you saying this is—”

  Skifra didn’t let him finish. “Not now.”

  She turned back to the runner. “Where’s Pete.”

  “Still in the nest,” he said. “Screaming his lungs out and pointing like a madman. He’s got three flags called—British, French, Spanish.”

  Jackson sucked in a breath through his teeth.

  “A three-way,” he whispered.

  “A three-way,” Skifra confirmed.

  Then she stood—smooth, fast, absolute.

  “Sound the full alarm,” she ordered. “Harbor booms in. Shore batteries manned. Every captain in the staff corridor in five minutes or I’ll drag them there myself.”

  The runner was already moving before she finished speaking.

  Skifra’s eyes flicked once to Jackson—professional now, clipped.

  “You wanted history,” she said. “You’re about to get it.”

  Jackson swallowed. “I… I’m still recording.”

  “Good,” she said. “Record the part where the pirates learn they’re not the only predators in this Realm.”

  Then she looked back at me, and the frustration in her face was so familiar it almost felt like family.

  “You,” she said.

  “Me,” I answered.

  She jabbed the spoon again. “If this is one of your ‘interesting improvements,’ I swear—”

  “It’s not for them,” I said, cutting in, steady. “It’s for the humans. The defenses. The pressure release. The reality check.”

  Skifra held my gaze for one hard second.

  Then she turned, already walking.

  “Staff-only platform,” she snapped over her shoulder. “Now.”

  Jackson hurried after us, trying to keep his calm.

  As we left the quiet common room behind, the dock bell rang again.

  GONNNNG.

  And this time it didn’t sound like a warning.

  It sounded like a countdown.

  Staff-Only Platform

  The staff-only platform wasn’t glamorous.

  It was built for function—reinforced stone, iron railings, sight lines that cut across the entire bay. Hidden behind a false wall that tourists walked past every day without realizing it was there.

  Skifra was already up there when we arrived.

  Her coat was on now—dark, practical, the kind of garment that moved with a body instead of decorating it. A cutlass hung at her hip. A spyglass in her hand.

  She didn’t look at us.

  She looked at the sea.

  Below us, the pirate fleet was scrambling.

  Twenty-odd ships—sloops, brigantines, rough-built galleons—turning on anchors, crews running like ants. Drums beating. Orders shouted. The harbor booms creaked as they swung inward.

  Jackson stepped to the railing.

  And then he saw it.

  Three horizons.

  Not one.

  To the west: tall-masted ships with disciplined lines, flags like rigid statements in the wind—British.

  To the south: leaner profiles, more aggressive rakes to their masts, sails set like blades—French.

  To the east: heavier hulls, broad and stubborn, the kind of ships that looked like they’d rather smash through a storm than steer around it—Spanish.

  Forty-five ships, just like the runner said.

  And the pirates were in the middle.

  Skifra spoke without turning. “Core.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re a problem.”

  “Thank you.”

  She lowered the spyglass and finally looked at Jackson. “You wanted history.”

  Jackson couldn’t take his eyes off the water. “I—yes.”

  Skifra’s mouth twisted. “Then write this part properly.”

  Out on the bay, a cannon fired.

  A British broadside—range test—shot skipping across water like stones, sending geysers up in a straight line toward the pirate mouth.

  It was a warning.

  It was also a measuring tape.

  Jackson swallowed.

  Then the French answered.

  Not with a broadside.

  With a single long gun—one shot, perfectly placed—splintering the prow of a pirate brig like a surgeon cutting a tendon.

  The pirates erupted.

  Signals flared. Smoke rose. Panic became motion.

  And the Spanish—

  The Spanish didn’t test.

  They came in with weight.

  Their front line ships lowered sails and committed, heavy hulls pushing a wake like bulldozers.

  Skifra drew her cutlass, not because she could reach them—

  Because watching a battle without steel in your hand felt wrong to her.

  “Sound carries weird on water,” she muttered. “You’ll hear the wrong things first.”

  Jackson’s hands shook. He kept recording anyway.

  And then the battle began.

  The Bay Turns to Fire

  It started like a storm.

  Cannon smoke rolling low across the water, obscuring distance and turning the sun into a dull coin. The first real broadside struck a pirate galleon on its starboard—British guns, disciplined volleys.

  Wood exploded.

  A mast cracked.

  Men screamed.

  Then the pirates fired back—wild but furious—shots ripping sails, punching holes, snapping rigging like threads.

  The French moved like wolves.

  They didn’t aim for hulls first.

  They aimed for control.

  Chain shot tore through rigging. Topmasts fell. Sails collapsed like wings broken mid-flight.

  Ships that couldn’t steer became targets.

  Ships that couldn’t run became prey.

  The Spanish drove straight in, taking hits like they were paying a toll.

  One of their lead ships rammed a pirate brig so hard the brig’s hull split and water swallowed it before the crew fully understood they were dead.

  Jackson gagged, face tight. “That—”

  Skifra’s voice was ice. “War.”

  The pirates tried to swarm.

  They always tried to swarm.

  Fast boats launched—boarding skiffs. Grappling lines thrown. Hooks biting into enemy rails.

  A pirate captain—bare-chested, painted in salt and blood—led a boarding party onto the side of a British ship.

  For a moment, it looked like it might work.

  Then British marines rose from behind the rail in a firing line so clean it was almost unreal.

  One volley.

  Men fell like puppets with strings cut.

  The survivors hit the deck anyway, screaming, blades out, slipping in blood and seawater, trying to reach the line before it reloaded.

  That’s when the French hit the British flank.

  Two ships on two sides.

  The British line wavered, forced to split attention—rigging snapping, orders shouted, smoke thick enough to choke.

  The pirates, seeing opportunity, threw themselves into the gap.

  And for a brief, ugly minute, the bay became a single grinding brawl—ships locked, sails burning, men fighting on planks slick with rain and red.

  Landing parties hit the shore too.

  Pirates tried to storm the harbor batteries.

  Skifra’s eyes went distant, tracking them. “They’re going for the guns.”

  She raised two fingers, gave a signal.

  From hidden embrasures along the cliff, the shore batteries answered.

  Not fireworks.

  Real cannon.

  The first shot blew a landing boat apart so completely there was nothing left to rescue.

  Jackson flinched hard.

  “They can revive,” I said quietly, seeing his face.

  He looked at me, horrified. “That doesn’t make this—”

  “Clean,” I finished. “No. It doesn’t.”

  Because pain still taught.

  Fear still taught.

  And some lessons needed to be learned with fire in your mouth.

  The Brutal Middle

  The pirates fought like cornered animals once they realized something worse than death was happening:

  They were being outplayed.

  They weren’t the only predators anymore.

  The Spanish pushed toward the harbor mouth, trying to take the center.

  The British tried to hold a disciplined arc, controlling range.

  The French kept cutting threads—isolating ships, forcing collisions, forcing chaos.

  A pirate frigate caught between Spanish and British fire caught flame in its rigging.

  The sails went up like paper.

  Men climbed, screaming, trying to cut lines before the mast became a torch.

  The mast fell anyway.

  It crushed the deck with a sound like a giant snapping a spine.

  Jackson’s face had gone pale. He didn’t stop recording.

  “Who wins,” he whispered.

  Skifra’s smile was all teeth. “Not the pirates.”

  As if the world heard her—

  A Spanish boarding party slammed into a pirate galleon near the center, grappling hooks catching, planks thrown.

  Spanish soldiers came across in heavy armor, shields up, blades short and practical. They didn’t duel.

  They shoved.

  They stabbed.

  They took ground like they were moving furniture.

  The pirates met them with rage and desperation—axes, pistols, teeth.

  It became a brutal press of bodies.

  No elegance.

  Just weight and will.

  The French saw the cluster and moved in.

  Two fast ships, sails tight, coming upwind like knives.

  They fired grapeshot into the tangle—horrific and effective—forcing both pirates and Spanish to drop, to scatter, to lose formation.

  Then French marines boarded their own prey—clean, fast, brutal.

  Skifra watched all of it without blinking.

  Jackson’s voice shook. “This is… this is insane.”

  “It’s alive,” I said.

  He looked at me then—really looked. “You built this.”

  “I built the sandbox,” I corrected. “They built the war.”

  A British ship—its captain realizing the center was being lost—made a hard turn to rake the French line.

  It would have been brilliant—

  Except the French expected it.

  They dropped sail just enough, letting the British overshoot, then slammed grapples into the British stern and boarded like sharks.

  The British fought hard. Disciplined. Furious.

  But discipline breaks when smoke fills the lungs and deck boards turn to ice under blood and rain.

  Jackson’s mouth tightened. He kept writing anyway.

  The Random Winner

  The pirates started to break.

  Not one dramatic collapse—

  A hundred small ones.

  A captain dead.

  A powder magazine hit.

  A helmsman gone.

  A mast down.

  A ship drifting.

  A crew realizing nobody was coming to save them because everyone was busy saving themselves.

  And that’s when the French made the move that ended it.

  They didn’t try to annihilate.

  They tried to claim.

  Their ships shifted into a loose ring, cutting escape routes. They targeted rudders and masts, not hulls. They forced ships to surrender by taking away the ability to run.

  Spanish ships tried to punch through, but the wind was against them now—literally, and tactically.

  British ships tried to re-form their line, but the bay had become a maze of wreckage and burning canvas.

  The pirates—

  The pirates were reduced to scattered survival.

  By the time the smoke began to thin, French colors were flying from three captured ships.

  A fourth struck its flag after a boarding party reached the quarterdeck and pinned the captain to the rail with a blade at his throat.

  Skifra finally breathed out.

  “French,” she said.

  Jackson stared. “The French won.”

  “Today,” Skifra replied. “And tomorrow the world will try to punish them for it.”

  Down in the harbor, surviving pirate ships limped inward, some half-sunk, some on fire, all furious.

  French ships held position like they owned the sea now.

  British ships drifted back to regroup.

  Spanish ships held their wounded line, their pride bleeding into the water.

  The bay was littered with wreckage.

  And bodies.

  And men who would wake up later, alive again, carrying the memory of drowning and burning and being crushed under a mast—

  And that memory would change them.

  Because resurrection didn’t erase experience.

  It just made the realm honest enough to let people learn without ending the story.

  Jackson’s hand trembled as he lowered his recorder.

  “Core,” he said quietly, voice rough. “This… this isn’t a tourist show.”

  I looked out at the smoke, at the broken ships, at the flags snapping in the wind like they were laughing.

  “No,” I said. “It’s a world.”

  Then I turned, because the adrenaline had left me in that specific way where you either become profound or you become stupid.

  I chose stupid.

  I looked back at Jackson and smiled.

  “I hope you enjoy the show.”

  Then I raised a hand toward the bar window built into the staff platform—because Skifra ran a tight ship and even staff areas had a barkeep with a death stare.

  “Barkeep!” I called. “Can I get another mango margarita, please?”

  The barkeep didn’t answer.

  He just glared at me like I’d personally invented war.

  Then he started making it anyway.

  I laughed—soft, exhausted, genuine.

  Skifra sheathed her cutlass with a click and finally looked at me again.

  “You’re still a problem,” she said.

  “I’m consistent,” I replied.

  Jackson stared out at the ruined bay one last time, then looked down at his notes like he was afraid the ink wouldn’t be enough to hold what he’d just witnessed.

  And I realized something—quiet, heavy, important:

  This was the first time Jackson understood what the Realm really was.

  Not beauty.

  Not wonder.

  Not curated trails and weddings and glowing quartz.

  But a place where factions from different worlds could collide—

  and where the consequences would echo long after the smoke cleared.

  “Come on,” Skifra said, voice back to business. “We’ve got captains to deal with. And Core—”

  She pointed at me again.

  “—you and I are having a conversation.”

  I took my margarita as it arrived, ice clinking like a tiny bell.

  “Yes ma’am,” I said, and followed her into the next problem.