The carriage rattled to a halt, and when the doors swung open, light poured in—blinding, alive, and endless.
Before them stretched the open sea, vast and glittering like a sheet of shattered glass. Ships with masts like forests crowded the harbor, sails billowing as gulls screamed overhead. Dockworkers barked orders as they heaved crates taller than men, chains clattering, sweat gleaming under the sun.
To their right, towering buildings rose in proud defiance of the salt winds, their balconies draped with banners of every color. The streets twisted between them like veins, choked with inns spilling laughter, markets alive with bargaining cries, and alleys hiding the shadows of men who watched too closely. The air itself was thick—spiced food, tar, brine, and the metallic bite of coin.
Kael stepped down first, his boots hitting stone. He froze for a heartbeat, eyes wide, drinking it all in. "Bro…" he breathed, almost reverent. "This place is insane."
Gareth followed, stretching his arms with a tired grin. "Bro, I thought that road would never end. My back's done for."
Kael laughed, pulling off his silver-black goggles and sliding them up onto his forehead. Gareth did the same, the sunlight flashing across the dark lenses as if crowning them.
Both stood there, side by side, coats swaying in the sea breeze, staring at the city that hummed like a beast alive.
"Worth it, though," Gareth said with a smirk.
Kael smirked back, extending his fist. "Damn right."
Their fists met with a solid thud—an oath sealed in skin and steel.
Together, they turned toward Aurensport, and stepped forward.
They moved through the veins of Aurensport, following the crumpled slip of parchment Ryn had pressed into Gareth's hand. The address wound them deeper and deeper, far from the shining markets and roaring docks, into alleys that twisted like a maze.
The laughter of the crowds faded behind them, replaced by dripping gutters, the scuttle of rats, and shadows that clung to the stone like oil.
Finally, the path spat them out into a narrow courtyard, half-choked with weeds. At its center stood a door, wedged between two leaning walls as if forgotten by time.
It was wood, but not dead wood. The surface seemed to ripple faintly, the grain twisting like veins beneath skin. Knots pulsed faintly in the half-light, like closed eyes straining to stay shut. Every breath of wind made it groan softly, almost like a sigh.
Gareth slowed, his hand tightening around the letter.
Kael stopped behind him, adjusting his goggles up on his forehead again. "Bro…" he muttered, voice low. "This place is… ominous."
Gareth swallowed, heart hammering. "Yeah," he whispered. "Ominous is an understatement."
They exchanged a look, both trying to look braver than they felt. The truth? Their nerves were wound tight—like kids sneaking into a graveyard at midnight.
Still, Gareth stepped forward, reaching for the warped handle. The wood was warm under his fingers, almost like flesh.
The hinges screamed as the door swung open.
And staring back at them—a mummy, wrapped in tattered, brown-stained bandages, its face a hollowed mask.
Both of them screamed in perfect unison, stumbling back like startled children.
Kael shouted, "WHAT THE HELL, BRO?!"
Gareth's own hand fumbled for his hilt—but then something in the way the creature moved… flickered. For a heartbeat, the edges of its form blurred, as though painted on mist.
Gareth's chest rose and fell with sharp breaths. "Wait—wait… It's not real."
The mummy swayed forward again, its bandages dragging across the cobbles with a sound like cracking bones. Kael cursed under his breath but squinted, his eyes narrowing.
And then, as quickly as it had appeared, the image shivered into smoke, dissolving into nothing. The alley was empty again, save for the strange wooden door and their own ragged breathing.
Gareth exhaled, forcing a shaky laugh. "An illusion. A veil snare… only works on Binders below rank 1.4."
Kael shoved his shoulder, half-angry, half-relieved. "Bro—you could've said that sooner before I nearly pissed myself."
Gareth grinned, finally letting the tension crack into laughter. "What? I wanted to see how high you could jump."
Kael snorted despite himself, shaking his head. "You're an ass."
Still, they stepped forward together, this time braced for whatever lay beyond.
Inside, the dim room smelled of dust, old parchment, and iron. Shadows clung to the walls like a second skin. At the far end sat a man wrapped head to toe in bandages, even his eyes hidden beneath the strips of cloth. Only the faintest glow of breath moved through the wrappings, rasping and slow.
Kael froze. Gareth stiffened, forcing himself not to reach for his sword.
The man raised one hand, palm scarred and trembling, and they placed Captain Ryn's letter in it. His fingers tightened around it like a vice, as if he were swallowing the words whole through his skin. Without a word, he reached to a desk cluttered with wax seals and half-burnt candles, drew out another letter—heavier, marked with deep crimson seals—and extended it toward them.
"Deliver this," he rasped, voice like sand grinding stone, "to the prison chief of the island fortress. He will know."
Gareth accepted it carefully, the wax seal cold against his palm. Kael shifted uneasily, his eyes never leaving the stranger.
Just as they turned to leave, the man spoke again—low, like a whisper buried in the earth.
"Beware the one cursed by the sea."
Both froze.
The bandaged figure leaned forward, though his face was unreadable behind the wrappings. "When waves turn black, and laughter dies in throats… you will know him. Do not face him lightly."
A silence hung like a blade.
Gareth swallowed hard, slipping the sealed letter into his coat. Kael forced a smirk, but his knuckles were white against his sword's hilt.
They stepped back into the light of the alleys, the door shutting behind them with a heavy thud.
"Bro…" Kael muttered, finally exhaling, "that dude just cursed my whole soul."
Gareth gave a shaky laugh. "Relax. Probably just old man paranoia."
But the weight of the words clung to him, like seawater he couldn't shake off.
The docks of Aurensport stretched endlessly, a forest of masts and sails swaying against the horizon. Sea spray hung in the air, mixed with the calls of gulls and the shouts of men hauling crates.
Following the bandaged man's directions, Gareth and Kael searched for their vessel. But the docks were chaos—dozens of ships, sailors shouting, merchants bargaining.
"Bro," Kael groaned, lowering his goggles to shade his eyes, "every damn ship looks the same."
"Just trust the directions," Gareth muttered, clutching the sealed letter.
They approached a towering galleon with dark sails patched in places, its hull etched with strange carvings of skulls and serpents. The crew was rowdy—bandanas tied tight, boots thudding against the planks, tankards raised high. Eyepatches gleamed, knives flashed, tattoos of waves and bones sprawled across sunburnt skin.
As soon as Gareth set foot on the ramp, a voice bellowed from above.
"New blood, eh? Welcome to the Devil's Mercy!"
Before either of them could object, rough hands pulled them aboard. The deck erupted with laughter, mugs of ale shoved into their hands.
"Drink, lad!" a burly pirate with a scarred jaw barked. "Ye don't step on this deck with a dry throat!"
Kael stared at his cup, then at Gareth. "…bro. This ain't the right ship."
Gareth sighed, eyeing the crew of eyepatched madmen dancing to a fiddle's tune. "No shit."
But resistance was impossible. Already, a circle formed around them—pirates stomping the deck in rhythm, chanting in voices thick with salt and smoke.
"Sing, lads! Or we'll make ye scrub the bilge!"
One pirate shoved a carved bone necklace into Kael's hand, a supposed charm against drowning. Another painted a crude wave sigil across Gareth's coat with blue tar.
They were swallowed by pirate culture:
Superstitions: Never whistle on deck (it summons storms).
Rituals: Tossing a coin into the sea before each voyage.
Talk: "Aye, matey!" and "Keep yer eyes off me rum!"
Games: Dice rolling with knucklebones, wagers over who could spit the farthest.
Kael muttered under his breath, "Bro, this is insane. I love it."
Gareth groaned but couldn't help laughing. "You would."
And as the sails unfurled, they realized the ship wasn't docking anywhere nearby—it was heading out into open waters, toward an island hidden from charts.
The pirate island.
The voyage ended with the ship carving through a wall of fog, sails straining against the sea's pull. When the mist parted, Gareth and Kael's eyes widened.
The pirate island revealed itself like something carved out of legend.
Ramshackle docks sprawled across black rocks, lashed together with chains and driftwood. Beyond them, a city of crooked houses and towering taverns rose up, roofs patched with canvas sails, banners of skulls flapping in the salt wind. Fires burned in iron braziers, smoke curling against the sky.
The air was alive with sound—pirates humming low, gravelly sea songs as they rolled barrels off ships; voices shouting wagers over dice; laughter booming from taverns. The scent of roasted fish and burning rum stung their noses.
"Bro," Kael whispered, almost reverent, "this place is insane."
Gareth just stood there, torn between awe and unease. "Feels like the sea spat out every outlaw it didn't want back."
As they stepped onto the creaking dock, they caught fragments of pirate chatter:
"Best keep yer tongue tied, lest ye end up in the Locker."
"Davy Jones listens when ye whistle at sea."
"The one cursed by the waves walks among us."
The words Davy Jones came up again and again, like a shadow hidden beneath every laugh, every song. A name not spoken loudly, only muttered—half in fear, half in respect.
Gareth and Kael exchanged a glance.
"Guess we found the heart of pirate culture," Kael muttered, forcing a grin.
"Yeah," Gareth replied, adjusting the letter hidden inside his coat. "And maybe the ghost story that runs it."
Ahead, the island waited—taverns spilling light, pirates singing shanties of drowned souls, the sea's judgment lurking in every corner.
The pirate island swelled around Gareth and Kael like a storm of life. Shanties rolled off the taverns, dice clattered on barrels, and knives flashed in the hands of men boasting their kills. Yet beneath the chaos, there was order—a structure born not of law, but of fear and power.
A grizzled pirate with a braided beard caught the boys staring. He smirked, revealing gold teeth, and spat to the side before speaking.
"First time in the Locker's shadow, eh?"
Gareth hesitated. Kael shrugged. "Yeah. What do you call this place?"
The pirate leaned closer, lowering his voice. "We don't call it nothin' proper. But every plank ye stand on here, every rum ye drink—it belongs to him. The Sunken Judge."
The words sent a ripple through the air. Even nearby pirates paused, their voices dropping. No one said the other name, the cursed one.
"The Sunken Judge rules all," the old pirate continued. "But 'tisn't simple. He don't walk these streets much, no. He's the ghost behind the wheel. This island's kept by his chain o' captains."
He jabbed a scarred finger at the docks, where ships loomed like beasts.
"See, every ship's got its own Captain, sworn under him. Them captains answer to the Council o' Tides, five devils meaner than storms. And they answer to none but him—the Judge, the Locker's Keeper, the one who drags men screaming below."
Kael frowned, muttering, "Sounds like a whole empire."
"Aye," the pirate grinned, pride and fear twisted in his voice. "But not just ships. There's guilds here too—the Smugglers' Guild, the Coin Cutters, the Black Tide Slavers. Even they bow their heads when the Judge's name's whispered."
"And what happens if they don't?" Gareth asked quietly.
The old pirate's smile faded. He tapped two fingers against the table, then pointed at the dark sea beyond the harbor. "Then the waves take 'em. Locker claims 'em. No man cheats the sea. No man cheats him."
The hush lingered as if the waves themselves listened.
Finally, Kael forced a smirk, trying to cut the tension. "So basically… don't piss off the boss of bosses."
The pirate barked a laugh but didn't deny it.
By nightfall, the island glowed with firelight. Braziers burned along crooked streets, and taverns spilled laughter and song into the night air. Gareth and Kael found themselves wedged onto a rough wooden bench in one such tavern, mugs of frothy rum shoved into their hands before they could refuse.
The place was alive—pirates with eyepatches slamming dice, fiddlers scraping wild tunes, tattooed sailors arm-wrestling until tables cracked. The smell of roasted shark meat and spiced grog thickened the air.
For the first time, Gareth leaned back and let himself breathe. The tension of the road, the illusions, the ominous warnings—it all felt far away under the heat of firelight and the hum of voices. Kael raised his mug toward him.
"Bro," he grinned, "we might be broke, stuck, and sitting in a nest of cutthroats… but this is the life."
Gareth smirked and clinked his mug against Kael's. "You just like free rum."
Kael shrugged. "A win's a win."
Around them, the stories began. Pirates boasted with voices thick with drink and pride, their words carrying across the tavern:
"Saw the sea glow black one night—every wave lit like fireflies. That's when I heard him, laughin' below the water."
"Storm took my whole crew, but the Locker spared me. Reckon he ain't done with me yet."
"A man once tried to say his name loud on this island. Next mornin'? Boat found adrift, not a soul aboard."
Each tale circled back, in one way or another, to him—the Judge beneath the sea, the shadow who ruled pirates like the tide itself.
Kael leaned close, whispering with mock seriousness, "Bro, half these guys are drunk. Probably just making stuff up."
But Gareth couldn't shake the way their voices dropped whenever the cursed name came near. Drunk or not, they all believed it.
And belief, in a place like this, was as dangerous as truth.