Chapter 12 — "The Whispers of the Sea"
(Year 288 AD — Ronnel, age 10, heading for Volantis)
---
The sea was deathly calm.
The waves gently lapped the ships' hulls, and the sound of the wind was almost a whisper. Four captured vessels sailed in formation around the Noctis, like obedient wolves surrounding their alpha.
On the main deck, the new men and women—pirates who were now crew—remained silent. They had seen things that night that defied all logic. They had seen how a boy barely ten years old had taken their ships, their weapons, and their lives… and he had done it with terrifying calm.
And yet, there was no fear in their eyes.
There was something deeper.
Devotion.
Ronnel sat on the railing, Night Rain resting on his knees. The black blade reflected shards of light, and the runes etched along the steel seemed to breathe with every blow of the sea breeze. They were ancient symbols, taken from codices he'd learned to decipher thanks to Sheldon's eidetic memory and Newt Scamander's deep knowledge of runes and alchemy.
He couldn't use real magic without a wand, but he'd found ways…subtle.
The sword drank energy, not generated it. A forbidden art, an echo of an ancient power belonging neither to Westeros nor to his former world.
Kael Dravven, the navigator, approached slowly, crossing his arms over his tattooed chest. His face was tanned by sun and salt, and his eyes shone with a mixture of respect and fear.
"I'm still not used to it," he said, looking at the sword with a slight frown. "It seems to devour the light."
Ronnel didn't look up. He ran his thumb over one of the runes, and the blade gleamed palely, like a sigh.
"It doesn't devour," he whispered. "It drinks."
Kael tilted his head, uneasy.
"I don't know if that sounds better, Captain."
Ronnel let out a low, barely audible laugh.
"It doesn't have to sound better to you, Kael. Just remember what it means: this blade is no ordinary weapon. When I raise it… the gods listen."
Kael swallowed.
"And what do the runes drink, exactly?"
Ronnel finally looked up, his gray eyes boring into the navigator's. His voice, deep and serene, seemed to carry the weight of the entire sea.
"Everything it touches."
A chill ran down Kael's spine, but he nodded, accepting the answer without further question.
From across the deck, Mira leaned against a barrel, playing with a piece of rope between her fingers. Her voice broke the silence like a poisoned dart:
"I don't know what scares me more… the blade, or its owner."
Lya, standing nearby, abruptly crossed her arms.
"If you're afraid, you can always go in a boat."
Mira smiled, still provocative.
"Oh, dear... if I wanted to leave, I'd be swimming by now. I'm here because he's here."
Sariah, sitting in the shadow of the mainsail, looked up slightly, her eyes cold as steel.
"The sword doesn't matter. The real weapon is his mind." She turned to Ronnel and spoke with absolute calm. "How many sleepless nights have you had, Captain?"
Ronnel smiled slightly, not looking at her.
"Long enough to be awake when everyone else is dreaming."
Sariah narrowed her eyes, as if assessing the hidden meaning behind his words. Mira frowned, while Lya simply snorted.
Kael, uncomfortable with the rising tension, tried to change the subject.
"Captain... the crew is restless." They say ships follow you like trained dogs.
Ronnel ran his hand over the blade, letting the glow of the runes slowly fade.
"They're not dogs, Kael." He stood slowly, and everyone present noticed how the air around him seemed to weigh more. "They're wolves. Sea wolves. And a wolf serves no one... except the alpha."
His words hung in the air.
The new recruits, watching him from a distance, instinctively knelt.
No one had ordered them to do so.
They simply knew they must.
Ronnel sheathed Night Rain and looked at the horizon.
"Ready the men, Kael. The storm is coming... and I intend to ride it."
The wind blew hard at that instant, as if the sea itself were responding.
---
The sea was calm, but in the hold of the Noctis, the air was heavy as lead.
A dozen men and women, the new recruits, sat around a makeshift table. Some murmured to each other, others avoided eye contact.
The air smelled of sweat, salt, and tension.
Ronnel entered silently. He didn't knock, didn't raise his voice, or make any unnecessary gestures. His presence alone was enough to drown out the conversations.
He wore a simple black shirt, the sleeves rolled up, and on his belt rested the Night Rain. His gray eyes scanned the room, reading them all in seconds:
Young Hadrik, trembling, avoiding eye contact. Fear. Easily molded.
Bryna, a former pirate captain, haughty, proud, unable to accept being under another's command. Danger.
Gerof, a burly man with a calculating gaze; he didn't talk much, but he listened too much. Ambition.
Silas, a veteran navigator, distrustful, protective of his own people. Conditional loyalty.
Ronnel smiled very slightly. He already knew who would be an ally, who would be useful, and who would be a problem.
"I brought you aboard for two reasons," he said, his voice deep and calm, Harvey Specter-like. "
First, because you're worth more alive than dead.
Second... because I want to see what you're made of."
He paused, letting the words sink in. Then he leaned forward, placing both hands on the table.
"Today you will learn the first rule under my flag: the sea does not forgive the weak."
Silas, the veteran navigator, frowned.
"And if anyone disagrees, Captain... what happens?"
Ronnel stared at him, letting the silence stretch just long enough for everyone to catch their breath.
Then he smiled, cold, almost mockingly.
"You'll find out when you hit the water."
Nervous murmurs spread through the room. Kael, who was leaning against the wall, crossed his arms and smiled to himself.
Ronnel walked slowly around the table, getting close enough to each recruit so they felt the weight of his gaze. He spoke slowly, in a tone that seemed like a whisper, but which everyone heard.
"I don't want blind obedience. I don't want sheep..." He stopped behind Bryna, the former captain, and lowered his voice even further. "I want wolves. But a wolf that bites its alpha... dies."
Bryna's jaw tightened, but she didn't respond. Patrick Jane smiled in Ronnel's mind. Pride hurt, but not broken. Perfect.
Ronnel suddenly turned to Hadrik, the trembling young man.
"You. Come here."
The boy gulped, but obeyed. Ronnel placed a hand on his shoulder and turned him toward the crew.
"This boy doesn't know how to fight. He doesn't know how to sail. He barely knows how to stand." She looked at him, and her tone changed, now firm and warm. "But he learns quickly. And what he doesn't know... I'll teach him."
The message was clear. If you were loyal, Ronnel made you something greater.
Hadrik lowered his head, almost on the verge of tears.
"Th-thank you, Captain..."
Ronnel released him and returned to the table.
"There's no equality here. There's a hierarchy here. Those who serve well rise. Those who conspire..." her gaze fixed on Gareth, the ambitious one, "fall."
No one dared to reply.
Then, in a lighter, almost friendly tone, Ronnel changed pace, tapping into his inner Harvey:
"I want you to trust me, but I also want you to compete."
"Compete?" Bryna asked suspiciously.
"Exactly," he replied, smiling calmly. "I'll divide the crew into three cells. Each cell will have a leader. Whoever brings me the best results will be promoted."
Gareth's eyes glittered with ambition. Bryna pursed her lips, proud, unable to be left behind. Silas narrowed his eyes, suspicious... but interested.
Just as Ronnel wanted.
As he spoke, his mind processed every microexpression, every breath, every shift in his gaze. Patrick Jane and Sheldon Cooper did the rest: real-time psychological analysis.
By the time he finished, he knew who would betray first, who would sell themselves for gold, and who would die for him.
Ronnel raised the Night Rain, letting the runes gleam in the torchlight.
"Under this blade, we will forge something greater than pirates and ships." His voice boomed like suppressed thunder. "We will conquer seas... and men."
He paused, then smiled wickedly.
"Whoever can't follow me... jump now."
No one moved.
Perfect.
---
The deck of the Noctis smelled of salt, gunpowder, and damp wood. Under the moonlight, the crew gathered in a semicircle. The new recruits still seemed uncomfortable among the veterans, and the exchanged glances were fraught with tension.
Ronnel stood on the helm platform, his hands behind his back. The Night Rain rested on his belt, glowing faintly with the active runes. Kael stood to one side, like his silent shadow.
"From this day forward, the Noctis is not just a ship. It is a living organism." His voice sounded firm, deep, and full of authority. "And every organism needs organs that function in perfect synchronization."
He took out a piece of parchment and unrolled it, revealing a simple diagram: three wolves drawn around a skull.
"From now on, the crew will be divided into three cells:
The Claw, led by Bryna.
The Fang, under Gerof.
The Eye, led by Silas.
There were murmurs, but no one protested. Ronnel continued:
"Each cell will have different tasks:
The Claw will hunt for loot and coordinate raids.
The Fang will be responsible for internal security and combat training.
The Eye will monitor the routes, scout, and control rumors.
He leaned forward, his smile a mixture of charm and menace.
"The results will speak for you. Whoever brings me the most courage... is promoted."
He paused, his gaze hardening.
"Whoever fails... goes down with the ship they capture."
The atmosphere instantly tensed. Bryna, Gerof , and Silas's gazes met like knives. Ronnel noticed and inwardly smiled. The first seed had been planted.
---
That same night, Ronnel secretly summoned three men and a woman to his cabin. None of them knew the others had also been summoned.
When they entered, they found the captain sitting at a table lit by an oil lamp. The Night Rain runes cast eerie shadows on the walls.
"I didn't call you here as crew," Ronnel said calmly. "I called you as... eyes."
He leaned forward, interlacing his fingers.
"From today on, I want you to inform me of everything: what's being whispered, who's plotting, who's doubting. If anyone in your cell tries to hide something from me... I'll hear it from you."
Patrick Jane analyzed every gesture, every breath in his mind. He saw fear in one, ambition in another, and cold neutrality in the rest. Perfect.
"Do your job well... and when the time comes, you will be my alpha wolves."
No one said yes.
No one said no.
But Ronnel knew he already had them.
---
Two days later, Ronnel broke the first rumor:
> "Gerof plans to take one of the captured ships."
It wasn't true, but it didn't matter. Soon, Bryna began monitoring Gerof. Silas, suspicious by nature, began interrogating his men. The three leaders no longer trusted each other.
While they wore themselves down competing, Ronnel consolidated his control. Every faction sought to please him, every leader tried to outdo himself, and every decision inevitably went through him.
---
Five nights later, Kael entered Ronnel's cabin with a serious expression.
"Captain... Gerof is gathering men. It seems he plans to 'talk' to you."
Ronnel smiled, as if he had been expecting it.
"Perfect. Let him do it."
The cabin door swung open. Gerof entered first, with six men behind him. He held a curved sword in his hand and a gleam of ambition in his eyes.
"Captain," he said, his tone trying to sound firm, though his voice trembled slightly. "This can't go on. We're not your slaves. If you want to rule... we vote. If not..."
He gestured, and two of his men stepped forward.
Ronnel remained seated, the Night Rain resting in his lap, the runes glowing faintly in the torchlight. He stared at him for five long seconds.
"Vote..." he repeated quietly, his tone somewhere between mockery and contempt. "How democratic."
He stood up slowly. The silence was absolute. When he spoke, his voice was deep, restrained… dangerous.
"The sea isn't a republic, Gerof. You don't vote here. You survive here."
---
Ronnel strode out onto the deck, forcing Gerof and his men to follow him. The rest of the crew, seeing them, began to gather around.
"Crew!" Ronnel roared, his voice cutting through the air like a whip. "Today one of our men forgot the first rule of the Noctis."
Absolute silence. Ronnel turned slowly to Gerof.
"Repeat," he ordered. "Tell them what you wanted."
Gerof swallowed, but finally spoke:
"He wanted... he wanted us to vote for the captain."
A murmur ran through the deck. Ronnel let it grow, fueling the tension. Then, suddenly, he raised his voice:
"And for that... he's going to die!"
Before anyone could react, Ronnel drew the Night Rain. The blade whistled like a sharp wind and, in a single fluid motion, pierced Gareth's heart.
The pirate opened his eyes in disbelief. He tried to speak, but only a trickle of blood escaped his lips. Ronnel withdrew the sword with an elegant twist, letting the body fall heavily against the wood.
The blood spread in the moonlight.
---
Ronnel slowly turned to the crew. There was no anger on his face, only absolute coldness. His voice sounded deep, controlled, laced with venom and promises.
"Listen carefully..." He raised the bloody sword for all to see. "
There is no democracy here.
There is no equality here.
Here is an alpha... and his pack."
He paused, his gaze scanning each face, one by one. No one dared to breathe.
"Those who follow me... will have gold, ships, power.
Those who betray me... will sink beneath the waves."
He pointed his sword at Gerof's corpse.
"So die those who mistake my patience for weakness."
Bryna, Silas, Kael… they all lowered their gaze. Even the six men who had followed Gerof immediately knelt, trembling.
Ronnel calmly wiped the blade, as if nothing had happened, and turned to them.
"Bryna, keep the Claw. Silas, the Eye is yours. Gerof's men now answer to Kael."
With that, he sheathed his sword and, with a final glance at the crew, uttered the sentence that sealed his dominance:
"The Noctis is no longer a pirate ship. It's a steel wolf. And I am its fangs."
No one dared to reply.
No one dared to think of betraying him.
---
That same night, as Gerof's body was dumped at sea, Ronnel met secretly with his informants.
"You've seen what happens to traitors," he said, without raising his voice. "Now you'll do your job better than ever."
"Yes, Captain," they replied, almost in unison.
Ronnel smiled, dark, calculating.
"Perfect. I want daily reports on Bryna and Silas. I want to know what they eat, what they dream, and what they fear. If either of them tries the same thing as Gareth... I want to know before they think about it."
As his "eyes" left the room, Ronnel took a sip of wine and let his mind fill with bigger plans.
Because that death... wasn't an end.
It was just the first building block of something much bigger.
---
The sea was calm.
Too calm.
It was as if even the waves held their breath after the execution of the pirate Gerof that afternoon. The main deck of the Noctis still smelled of salt… and blood.
The 23 captured men and two women remained at their posts, obedient, but fear still throbbed in their ribs. They had seen the ten-year-old boy who was now their captain take life without hesitation, as naturally as others drink wine.
But the most disturbing thing hadn't been the death.
It was the silence that followed.
The silence of acceptance.
---
A barrel of wine rested in the center of the main deck. Around it, Lya, Mira, Sariah, Kael, Kaen, and Tymor formed a semicircle. Torches cast long shadows across their faces, and there was a hollow where Gareth Morr usually sat. This time, however, the knight was on guard, watching the new recruits with a predatory gaze.
No one mentioned the execution. But everyone felt it.
Ronnel leaned against the railing, Night Rain resting beside him. The blade emitted a faint blue glow, like an ancient heart beating to the rhythm of the sea.
Kael Dravven, the Lysene navigator, broke the silence with a deep voice.
"Volantis..." he murmured, without taking his eyes off the horizon. "Larger than Oldtown, Gulltown, and King's Landing combined. If we unload the loot from all three ships there, we could double our coffers."
Tymor, the alchemist's apprentice, gave a nervous laugh as he wiped his soot-stained hands on his robes.
"Or… we could accidentally set it on fire. Like that port in Lys…"
Sariah turned her head slowly toward him. Her green eyes glittered with icy menace.
"If you set fire to a city with slaves, I swear you'll be the first to burn."
Tymor swallowed and remained silent.
Mira Sand, leaning against the railing, smiled lazily and toyed with the rim of her glass. Her violet, feline eyes lingered on Ronnel.
"And after Volantis, Captain," she said in a whisper heavy with innuendo, "what wonders do your eyes seek?"
Ronnel slowly swirled his glass, watching the wine catch the torchlight. His voice was calm, but each word carried the weight of a promise:
"Everything." The red sands of Asshai… the colossal beasts of Sothoryos… the ivory temples of Yi-Ti… the ruins beneath the Summer Isles…' He looked up, his eyes shining with a cold, beautiful ambition. 'And the gates to the world no map has drawn.'
Mira licked her lips, fascinated.
"You speak as if the sea were yours..."
Ronnel smiled, tilting his head slightly.
"It will be."
The silence that followed was charged with something neither of them wanted to put into words.
---
That night, as the rest began to leave, Ronnel found Lya alone at the bow. The wind played with her dark curls as she gazed at the reflection of the stars on the sea, as if searching for answers in a duplicate sky.
He approached slowly, resting his forearms on the wood beside her.
"Why aren't you sleeping?" he asked, his voice low.
Lya didn't look at him, but smiled faintly.
"Someone has to watch out for a kraken biting us while we're dreaming of Yi-Ti."
Ronnel let out a soft, amused snort.
"If a kraken appears, I'll tame it."
She chuckled, shaking her head.
"Of course... as if everything in this world belongs to you."
Ronnel was silent for a few seconds. The wind whipped across his face, cold and salty. Then he spoke, more quietly, almost a whisper:
"Not everything." But what I want... I'll take it.
This time, Lya did look at him. Her gray eyes shone with a mixture of distrust, curiosity, and something she didn't want to name.
"You're not like the others..." she murmured.
"Is that good or bad?" he asked, tilting his head with a half-smile.
Lya held his gaze, serious.
"I still don't know."
For the first time, she didn't pull her hand away when Ronnel touched hers. There was no tenderness in the touch, but there was an unspoken understanding: they were bound, whether they admitted it or not.
---
When Lya left, Ronnel drew his sword. The Night Rain runes glowed faintly, casting a liquid glow over the cabin. The blade whispered. Or maybe it was just the sea.
He ran a finger over one of the runes, remembering what Newt Scamander had taught him about its origin. It wasn't just a sword. It was a vestige of something ancient, a weapon born to guide or destroy.
And it felt… alive.
---
Hours later, with everyone asleep, Ronnel spread the maps on the table. Volantis was just the first step.
If he moved right:
He would control maritime routes for spices, silk, and ivory.
He would infiltrate the Triarch families, planting spies and buying loyalties.
He would create alliances with wildfire smugglers.
The Noctis was no longer a ship.
It was the foundation stone of an empire.
And as it glided, the runes of the Night Rain pulsed, as if the steel shared its ambitions.
---