The cold wind swept across the deck of the Sea Phantom, dragging the scent of gunpowder and death in its wake. The crew remained kneeling, bruised, bloodied, and bound—some silent, others trembling with rage or fear. The air was tense, too still, as if the very ocean held its breath.
Droskyn paced in front of them with the swagger of a man who believed he had already won. His long, tattered coat flapped at his heels, the color soaked with sea salt and dried blood. A crooked grin carved across his weathered face as he stopped in front of Captain Ander again, who sat upright, tied tightly to a thick post near the mast. Blood trickled from his mouth and a purple bruise had started to swell over his cheekbone.
"Well, well…" Droskyn said, circling Ander like a vulture. "Still got some pride in you, do you, Ander?"
The old captain didn't respond. He met Droskyn's sneer with a silent glare, his only answer the tight clench of his jaw.
