The Arcadia's great hall had never known such silence.
Banners salvaged from shattered ships hung blackened and torn along the walls. Candles flickered, their light dim against the cavernous steel chamber. At the center, on a plinth taken from the vaults of the Gilded Ambition, lay the Writ of Trade — a parchment older than many worlds, its seals unbroken, its authority absolute.
It was the key to wealth, to power, to legitimacy.
It was also a chain.
The people of Arcadia gathered in their thousands. Veterans in scorched armor, widows draped in black, children who had known no world but the ship. Every soul aboard had come, drawn by the weight of what their captain was about to do.
Francis Harlock stood before them. His cloak was torn, his saber at his side, his crimson eye glowing faintly in the candlelight. Behind him, the skull prow of the Arcadia loomed through the hall's great viewport, its silhouette cutting across the stars.
He placed his hand on the Writ. The parchment was cold.
"By this," Harlock said, his voice low but carrying through the hall, "the Imperium would claim to grant us freedom. By this, they would demand our obedience in exchange for survival. This Writ is no gift. It is a leash."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd — fear, doubt, anger.
Harlock raised his hand. Silence returned.
"But if it is a leash, then we shall use it as a whip." His crimson eye glowed brighter. "We take their law, their authority, and we make it ours. By this Writ, no governor may seize us, no admiral may bind us, no priest may silence us. With it, we carve our own path — not as serfs, not as slaves, but as Arcadians."
The crowd stirred, voices rising. Some cheered, some wept, some bowed their heads in reverence.
Harlock continued:
"I will not be a servant of Terra. I will not be a pawn of Mars. I will not kneel to fate. This Writ is a shield, not chains. With it, I swear before you all: we are free."
He lifted the Writ high. For a moment, the crimson glow of his eye reflected on the ancient seals, making them shine like blood.
The hall erupted. Cries of defiance filled the air, fists raised, voices shouting the name of Arcadia. It was not triumph, but something harder, sharper — the roar of a people who had survived and refused to be broken.
The Writ of Trade was bound into the Arcadia's shrine deck, sealed beneath the ship's banners. Not as a relic of the Imperium, but as a promise sworn in grief and rage.
From that day forward, Francis Harlock was no longer merely a pirate, nor only a legend. He was a Rogue Trader — not sanctioned by faith, but by fury.
The Skull Prow had a new banner to fly.