The night pressed heavy over the pirate island. Braziers burned along crooked streets, their smoke staining the stars, while shanties bled from taverns like ghosts too drunk to rest.
Gareth walked with Kael at his side, boots thudding on the warped boards of the dock. The mark on his arm pulsed faintly beneath his sleeve—each beat a reminder, each glow a silent proclamation. Whispers followed them, rippling through the crowd.
"Sun's Parabbeal…" one pirate muttered."The cursed boy," hissed another.Yet no one dared block his path.
Kael tilted his goggles down, muttering low, "Bro, they're staring like you're the second coming of Blackbeard. Kinda creepy."
Gareth forced a smile, though his jaw clenched. They see the mark, not me.
Ahead, lanterns swayed on the mast of a waiting ship—The Tempest's Vow. Its figurehead, a woman carved in chains, seemed to writhe when the torchlight struck. And standing before it was the man himself: Captain Belmarius, cloak snapping in the salt wind, eyes sharp as a blade.
"You two," Belmarius said, his voice rough as rigging in a storm. "Tonight, you sail with me. But first—you meet my crew."
Five shadows stirred behind him, stepping into the firelight one by one…
The deck of The Tempest's Vow was alive with lanternlight, the glow bending across salt-slick planks. Captain Belmarius raised one gloved hand, and the crew behind him stepped forward—five figures, each carrying their own weight of legend.
Marcellus "The Ash-Hound" came first.A tall, wiry man with teeth stained black from smoke, scars crawling across his jaw like half-burnt parchment. His eyes gleamed too bright, too alive, as though every flicker of torchlight was fire whispering secrets to him. He cracked a grin, jagged as cinders.
"They call me the Ash-Hound," he said, voice like embers grinding. "Not 'cause I bite… but 'cause I hunt what the flames leave behind." His gaze lingered on Gareth, uncomfortably long, like a wolf sniffing a wound.
Kael muttered, "Bro, I think this guy sleeps in a chimney."
Marcellus only laughed, a harsh bark that made the flames quiver.
Next was Eira Vale.Her pale hair gleamed silver in the firelight, but her eyes—cold, precise—belonged to a noble court, not a pirate's deck. A serpent tattoo coiled up her throat, its tongue flicking just beneath her ear. She held twin daggers, polished clean, like extensions of her fingers.
"I was Eira of Highwarden once," she said softly, with no pride, no shame. "Now I am only Eira Vale. That is enough."
Her voice was calm, but Gareth caught it—the bitterness buried beneath, the venom coiled just like the serpent on her skin.
Kael leaned close. "She's scary-hot. Like, stab-you-in-your-sleep hot."
Eira didn't smile.
Then came Doran Flint.He was massive, taller than any man Gareth had seen, his shoulders broad enough to carry a mast. Iron shackles still clung to his wrists, broken chains dangling, rust staining the skin beneath. His presence was gravity itself, heavy, unyielding.
"I rowed a galley till my back broke," Doran rumbled. "Every chain they gave me, I broke back. Now I row for no one. I fight only for who earns it."
He crossed his arms, and the chains clinked—like a warning.
Kael whispered, "Bro's basically a walking fortress. We stand behind him, we're set."
The fourth was Sevrin Crowe.Thin, shadow-eyed, his coat jingled faintly with charms, coins, and keys stitched into the seams. His fingers twitched constantly, like a man who couldn't stop playing invisible strings.
"Secrets," Sevrin said simply. His voice was low, oily, carrying too much weight for so few words. "That's my trade. I know curses in tongues no one speaks anymore. I know where bones are buried, and whose names were carved on them."
He tilted his head, staring at Gareth with those hollow eyes. "Even you, Sun's Parabbeal… carry whispers you haven't heard yet."
Kael shifted uncomfortably. "…Yeah, not creepy at all."
Last was Lys "Redhand" Callen.Barely older than Gareth, his grin was sharp, his hands permanently stained crimson—not with ink, but with blood he never bothered to wash off. And yet, he was cheerful. Too cheerful.
He flicked a knife from finger to finger as if it were a toy. "Name's Lys. Don't worry—I only kill when I'm bored." His eyes sparkled with mischief, but the silence that followed said the crew knew he meant it.
Kael stared. "…Okay, bro. He's scarier than the big guy."
Lys just laughed.
Captain Belmarius spread his hands. "These are the five you'll sail with, Gareth Valven. Choose your steps carefully. Each one here bleeds saltwater and fire—but they bow to no king, no crown. Only to me. And perhaps, if you prove yourself…"
His gaze narrowed. "…to you."
The crew shifted uneasily. All of them had seen the faint light pulsing under Gareth's sleeve. None spoke it aloud, but the whispers swirled again—Sun's Parabbeal.
Gareth forced a smile, though deep down, his stomach coiled. Not me they fear. The mark. Always the mark.
The air between them was heavy. Five pirates, each dripping with menace, their eyes fixed on Gareth. The whispers of Sun's Parabbeal circled like vultures.
Gareth straightened, keeping his voice calm—humble even. "I'll sail, I'll bleed, and I'll fight beside you. But if any of you think to test me…" His gaze hardened, meeting Marcellus' burning eyes, Eira's venomous calm, Doran's mountain of muscle, Sevrin's shadowed stare, and Lys's crimson grin in turn. "…then you'll find I won't go down quietly. Try me, and I'll fight you all."
The deck stilled. Then—laughter. Not friendly laughter. The kind that dripped with danger.
Marcellus stepped forward, firelight dancing across his scars. His aura rippled—and suddenly Gareth felt it, like a weight pressing on his chest. Not just a man, but something more.
"Rank 1.5 Veil Binder," Marcellus hissed, his grin like fangs. "Flames answer when I call." The air shimmered with heat, embers floating as if reality itself bent for him.
Eira's daggers caught the lanternlight as she tilted her head. Her presence surged—sharp, cutting, cold. "Rank 1.5," she whispered, voice like ice breaking. "Poison and shadow. Enough to end kings in silence."
Doran flexed, the chains at his wrists rattling as unseen weight seemed to drag at the deck around him. "Rank 1.5. Shackles that once bound me now bind others. No man breaks them."
Sevrin's fingers twitched, and whispers slithered through the air—snatches of curses, secrets Gareth shouldn't understand but somehow did. "Rank 1.5. Knowledge itself bleeds for me."
Lys twirled his knife, grinning too wide. His aura bled crimson, staining the deckboards as though the ship itself bled beneath him. "Rank 1.5. Blood remembers every cut. Every life I take makes me sharper."
The weight of their combined presence hit Gareth like a storm. His throat tightened. Every instinct screamed to run, but his legs held firm. Damn it… They're all above me. If they strike now, I don't last a breath.
Kael muttered under his breath, trying to mask his nerves. "…bro, I think we're screwed."
Gareth's mind raced. Think. Plan. Fast.
But before the crew could close in, a roar of power split the air.
Captain Belmarius' aura crashed down like a tidal wave. Binder's energy rolled from him, chains of light and shadow snapping into place around the five at once. The deck groaned, the mast quivered, lanterns guttered out.
"Enough," Belmarius thundered. His eyes glowed, voice carrying the weight of law. "This is the sea. My sea. And here, no pirate raises power against his own without my word."
The five froze, bound by his will, their energies smothered under his grip. Belmarius held them there a heartbeat longer—long enough to remind them who ruled—then released. The pressure lifted, though the taste of it lingered, bitter on Gareth's tongue.
Belmarius turned, cloak whipping in the salt wind. "That, boy, is the law of pirates. Out here, strength is everything—but even strength bends to order. Cross that line, and the Locker swallows you."
He gestured toward the dark horizon, where countless stars reflected on black waters like endless eyes.
"There are more than six million crews scattered across these isles," he said. "Millions of islands, millions of banners, each captain with their own law, their own flag. But all bend, in the end, to one truth: the sea belongs to those who can take it… and hold it."
The words hung in the salt air. The crew smirked again, but quieter now, their eyes still heavy with challenge. Gareth stood straighter, pulse still racing, but his smile was calm. If I'm to survive this, I can't just match them. I have to outthink them.
Kael nudged him lightly, whispering just enough to crack the tension: "So… yeah. Bro. Welcome to hell."
The tension from Belmarius' display still lingered, though the crew moved about the ship as if nothing had happened. Gareth kept silent, watching. Every gesture, every glance, every whispered word between them felt sharpened, coded. They live in secrets, he thought. I have to learn faster, or I'll be swallowed whole.
That night, while Kael slept half-snoring against the bulkhead, Gareth slipped below deck. The cargo hold smelled of salt, tar, and damp parchment. Stacks of maps, scrolls, and sea-charts lined the shelves—but what caught his eye was a single black-bound book resting apart, almost as if abandoned… or hidden.
Its cover was etched with faint silver runes that seemed to move when he wasn't looking directly at them. Against his better judgment, he opened it.
The pages writhed. Ink bled into shapes, then into whispers. Words he did not know, yet understood, clawed into his mind.
The Cursed One walks where dawn cannot reach.He binds the sun in chains of shadow.He waits beyond the horizon, and he remembers your name.
Gareth's breath hitched. His vision blurred. His chest burned as if molten iron had been poured inside. He clutched his head, but the whispers only grew louder—rising, overlapping, drowning him in screams of centuries past.
He saw flashes: oceans boiling black, stars shattering, a throne of bone beneath a bleeding sun. A figure faceless, yet watching. Always watching.
His heart seized. His knees hit the wood. Blood welled from his nose, dripping onto the pages that pulsed like living flesh.
I can't breathe. I—
A hand slammed the book shut.
The visions cut off with a crack like thunder. Gareth gasped, dragging air into burning lungs.
Captain Belmarius loomed above him, eyes blazing with restrained fury. He yanked the book away, his aura pressing down hard enough to pin Gareth against the bulkhead without touching him.
"You fool," Belmarius growled. "That was no book. That was a curse, bound in ink and memory. A relic of the Locker. One page too long, and you'd have been nothing but a husk screaming in silence."
Gareth trembled, the ghost of the whispers still crawling under his skin. His hands shook. He had faced blades, fire, executions—yet this terror was deeper. Something primal. Something that made even death feel kinder.
Belmarius' voice lowered, still sharp. "Some knowledge costs more than blood. Pirates die chasing it. Entire crews vanish. You want to survive this sea, Parabbeal? Then learn restraint, or you'll feed the abyss."
He tossed the book into a locked chest and sealed it with a gesture.
For a long moment, Gareth sat in silence, still pale. Then… he realized something. His vision had sharpened. He could see every grain in the wooden planks, every drip of condensation trembling on the iron nails. His pulse raced, yet his body felt light—too light.
He stood, and without meaning to, crossed the room in a blur. Faster than before. Stronger. Sharper.
Kael stirred, bleary-eyed. "Bro… did you just move like… five feet in a blink? The hell did I miss?"
Gareth didn't answer. His hand still shook, but his eyes burned with new clarity. That book almost killed me. But… it changed me. I saw the Cursed One. I felt him. And now, something's different.
He clenched his fists, steadying his breath. A whisper lingered at the back of his mind—not from the book, but from himself.
If I'm cursed to walk this path… then I'll use every piece of it.
The sea whispered against the hull. Lanterns swayed. Gareth still felt the cursed book's echo clawing faintly at his mind when Captain Belmarius' voice cut the silence.
"You've seen power, Parabbeal. But you don't yet understand it."
He set the black chest down and leaned forward, eyes catching the faint glimmer of the stars beyond the porthole. "This sea doesn't run on steel or numbers. It runs on Roots. The Veil-Bound Roots. They are the foundation of every Binder's path. And no matter how high you climb, everyone begins here—five stages that mark your awakening."
His voice lowered, resonant, as if reciting an ancient law:
"Gray Root – The Awakener. 1.0.""The first tremor. When a mortal brushes the Veil and begins to see. Sight sharpens, whispers stir, the self begins to split. It is here you first ask: Who am I? What do I want? The Gray marks the boundary between sleep and waking."
"Crimson Root – The Blooded. 1.1.""Strength. Flesh. Survival. To step here is to bind yourself to the most primal truth—life is bought with pain. It grants speed, power, aggression… but the Crimson drinks from you as you drink from it. Memories of blood linger in your bones. The more you take, the more it takes of you."
"Azure Root – The Mind-Bound. 1.2.""The sea of thought. The depth of mind. Those who reach Azure can glimpse truths others miss—illusions, instincts, foresight. Yet the danger is drowning in your own reflection. To see too much is to fracture. To know too much is to break."
"Verdant Root – The Binder of Growth. 1.3.""Verdant breathes of oaths and ties. Of leading, commanding, nurturing—or dominating. This is where leaders are born, and tyrants too. Power grows with bonds, but beware: when bonds rot, Verdant withers."
"Onyx Root – The Shadowed. 1.4.""The black mirror. Secrets. Silence. Fear itself. Onyx is the hand that closes the mouth, the eye that watches unseen. It is powerful—but it is lonely. For the more shadows you hold, the less light you remember."
"White Root – The Awakened. 1.5.""Few ever touch it. The White is clarity, the stitching of self. It is when the five come together, and the Binder truly knows who he is—his want, his path, his truth. It is not mastery, but it is beginning. And from there… the higher Roots unfold."
The lanternlight flickered against his scarred face as he shut his eyes, then opened them again with quiet weight.
"This, boy, is the beginning of all Roots. A mirror. A knife. A question: Who are you? What will you bind yourself to? Until you know, you're just drifting. Until you pass through these stages, you're just prey on this endless sea."
The crew stood silently nearby, some smirking, others watching Gareth closely, as if measuring whether the boy before them could endure the truth or would sink beneath it.
The silence stretched after Belmarius' words, heavy as an anchor. Gareth felt his heartbeat pressing in his chest, the weight of those stages gnawing at him. Gray. Crimson. Azure. Verdant. Onyx. White. Each one sounded less like a path and more like a trap disguised as growth.
Kael broke it first, exhaling hard. "Bro… that's a lot of philosophy for a ship full of drunk cutthroats."
Belmarius' scarred mouth curved into something between a grin and a warning. "Philosophy is the chain that keeps men from drowning. Or drags them down."
Then it hit.
The sea itself roared.
A low thunder rolled beneath the hull, rattling barrels, lanterns, and bones alike. Gareth staggered as the entire ship lurched, the deck tilting beneath their boots. Crew shouted, grabbing ropes.
"Waves!" someone screamed.
They rushed to the rail—and what they saw froze their blood.
A wall of water, taller than towers, reared from the horizon. The moonlight caught its crest, turning the churning black wave into a mountain of silver and shadow. It was not a storm, not a tide—it was a god's hand, ready to crush the sea flat.
Kael gaped, goggles sliding down his nose. "Bro… that's not natural. That's—"
"—a Veil Surge," Belmarius growled, stepping to the rail. His binder energy spilled into the air like chains snapping, a white haze that made Gareth's teeth ache. "When too many wills stir the sea at once, it answers."
The pirates scrambled, some cursing, others praying. The towering wave drew closer, its roar drowning out every voice. The island lights vanished in its shadow.
Gareth clutched the railing, heart hammering. For a moment, the curse-mark on his chest burned, hot and alive, like it wanted to leap out and meet the wave head-on.
Belmarius raised a hand. His voice cut through the storm.
"This is the law of the sea. The sea does not forgive. The sea remembers every oath."
His binder energy flared, chains of light snapping across the deck, binding masts, sails, even the very hull in a luminous cage. "Hold fast!" he roared.
The wave slammed down.
The world drowned in water and thunder.
For an instant, Gareth felt weightless, suspended between death and survival, the Roots echoing in his mind. Awakener. Blooded. Mind-Bound. Growth. Shadowed. Awakened.
When the wave passed, the ship shuddered but still floated, bound together by the Captain's will. Pirates gasped and shouted, clinging to the rigging.
Belmarius lowered his hand, chains fading into mist. His eyes burned like coals.
"Remember this," he told Gareth, voice low and terrible. "Roots are nothing without the sea's judgment. And the sea judges all."
The storm had passed, leaving the deck drenched in salt and silence. Only the creak of wood and the distant crash of fading waves filled the night. Belmarius stood at the bow, chains of binder's light still fading from his arms, and for the first time—his shoulders looked heavier than the sea itself.
"You ask why I bind this crew with law," he began, his voice low, eyes fixed on the horizon. "Why I speak of chains when pirates dream of freedom. You should know the truth."
His jaw tightened. "I once sailed with a woman at my side. Elara. She was no ordinary pirate—she was fire, cunning, a dreamer of storms. My wife. She believed the sea could cleanse anything, even the whispers of the cursed roots. I… believed her."
His voice cracked for a moment, then hardened.
"But the sea does not forgive corruption. For six years she fought it, swearing she was saving herself… saving us. And one night—she returned."
The deck grew still. Even the wind seemed to hush.
"She was twisted. Skin like obsidian glass, eyes a storm of blood and shadow. But inside that monster was still Elara—or so I thought. She called my name, reached for me… and then—"
His fist trembled.
"She killed our daughter. Our own daughter."
The silence was a blade.
Belmarius' eyes burned, not with tears, but with something older. "I fought her. My wife, the woman I loved. Chains against claws, law against madness. Every strike I landed tore me apart more than it did her. She screamed, not with her voice—but with something else, something wrong. And yet—"
His voice lowered, heavy as an anchor.
"As she lay dying, torn between her true self and the corruption, she saw what she had done. Our little girl, lifeless in her arms. And for the first time since the darkness claimed her, Elara wept. Even in that hideous form… she wept."
He swallowed hard, staring into memory.
"On her last breath, she did the unthinkable. She gave up her life force—everything she had left—to bring our daughter back. For a heartbeat, I saw the woman I loved again. Her eyes were hers. Gentle. Human. Then she was gone."
The crew was silent. Only the waves mourned with him.
"My daughter lives, but she has never woken. Not once in all these years. Acoma, the healers call it. A sleep without end. Every dawn, I watch the sun rise and wonder if she will ever open her eyes. That is why I bind law into chaos. Why I chain freedom with consequence. Because I know what happens when corruption is left unchecked."
He finally turned, his gaze heavy, fierce, broken.
"Freedom is fire. Beautiful. Bright. But left alone—it burns everything you love."