The chaos of the island, the fall of Azan's crew, and the shadow of the Black Mark were two years behind them. During that time, Elhaan, Mikael, and the red-haired girl vanished from all pirate routes, embraced by peace.
They built their lives away from blood and salt, opening a quiet inn on a green hill above the cliffs. From the porch, they could see the wide, glittering sea, with waves crashing against the rocks below.
At first, the inn was just a creaky shell, featuring a leaky roof and warped floors, with three people trying to forget the world. Gradually, it transformed into something more significant. Among pirates, it became known as a place where a man could drink, share stories, and sleep without being alert.
Elhaan spent his mornings in the grassy yard behind the inn, training Mikael until his hands blistered and his legs shook. The mage's hair turned silver, his back slightly bent, but his voice still sliced through the air like steel.
"Again. Faster. You'll die moving like that."
Mikael grew stronger under that constant pressure. His body toughened, and his stance steadied. Each strike became tighter and cleaner—less like a boy swinging and more like a blade in motion.
The red-haired girl changed as well. The haunted look in her eyes disappeared, replaced by quiet confidence. She moved through the inn with certainty, exchanging sharp comments with drunken sailors and serving trays as if she were born in a tavern. Some nights, when guests pushed their luck, she dealt with them before Mikael even had the chance to react.
They weren't alone for long. A wiry, dark-skinned boy from the village started showing up—first sweeping floors for a meal, then working for real pay. His hands were clumsy, and his balance was worse, but his curiosity burned bright. He bombarded Mikael with questions about sword fighting and sea monsters and never dropped a tray twice.
Seasons passed—filled with training, working, and laughing by the fire while the wind howled outside. None of them realized how quickly the years flew by.
One morning, an old pirate arrived unexpectedly in a ragged coat, with a salt-stiff beard and eyes like worn glass. His boots left wet marks on the floor. Mikael served him stew and rum, trying to avoid staring.
When he set the tray down, the man's gaze fixated on the silver chain around Mikael's neck. The simple ring hanging there froze him in place. Slowly, he pulled his own chain free—a matching ring, worn and dull.
"A drifter," he murmured.
Mikael frowned. "What?"
The man tucked it away. "Nothing. Just keep it close."
With Elhaan gone to visit an old friend, Mikael found himself talking to the old pirate more. The man spoke of ships that could outrun storms, of a spring "not from this world," and of a sea so vast it curved into the sky. Sometimes, his words slipped into a strange language Mikael didn't recognize.
One quiet morning, Mikael found him in the yard, rolling his shoulders.
"You look like someone who's never held a blade properly," the pirate said, tossing him a wooden stick. "Show me."
Mikael raised it, awkward but eager. The old man moved effortlessly, disarming him in one swift motion. Again and again, Mikael attacked, only to be knocked flat—each strike from the old pirate felt like a wave crashing on the shore. Even while holding back, the man's presence was overwhelming.
The man—Red Roggan—grinned. "You're quick, but you've got no anchor. A strong tide will sweep you away."
Mikael never forgot the impact of that lesson.
A week later, sickness took him. By the time Elhaan returned, Roggan could barely get out of bed. Mikael led Elhaan upstairs, finally naming their guest.
Elhaan froze at the door. The red-bearded man on the bed looked thinner and weaker, but the mage recognized him instantly. A century ago, Red Roggan had ruled the seas like no one else. Kingdoms had submitted to him. His fleet was unmatched. Then, one day, he vanished, and his crew scattered. Azan had once been a boy on his ship.
Now, that legend—whose name alone could make empires tremble—lay dying.
Roggan lifted a trembling hand toward Mikael. His voice was weak. "You. Come here."
When Mikael approached, Roggan looked past him at Elhaan. "Leave us."
Elhaan intended to offer what help he could, but respect for the most feared man at sea made him bow and step aside.
Roggan pushed a black chest toward Mikael. His grip was tight and desperate. "Kid, I had a son once. Your age when I left him. By now, he's gone." His breath rattled. "You said you want to sail the seas? Then do me a favor. Half my life went into finding what's in here. The other half was keeping it from them."
He coughed hard, blood staining his lips.
"You are a drifter, like me. Inside, you'll find everything. About the Mark. About the Rift." His words stumbled, weaker by the moment.
Then his final words hit Mikael like a cannon blast. It was about the Mark—the death it brings and the life it can deliver.
The light in Roggan's eyes dimmed. His hand slipped from the chest.
Somewhere far away, a man with the same ring as Mikael and Roggan turned the silver band between his fingers. He had a sharp jaw, a short white beard, and a fading smile.
"Rest in peace, my friend."
Back in the inn, Elhaan entered the room again. Roggan lay still, wearing the expression of a man who had wanted to accomplish one last thing before he died but couldn't.
The Black Chest sat at Mikael's feet. Its weight was heavier than the sea.