We were no longer pirates.
We were… something else. Something harder to define. Explorers. Scholars. Sailors. Survivors.
And if you asked London society?
Menaces.
Oddities.
A cautionary tale.
I breathed in the salt-bright morning air, leaning against the railing as the Azores faded behind us. The horizon ahead was a vast, shimmering promise. The kind of blue that made a person believe in second chances.
And the Wraith—our wild, impossible girl—was taking hers. It was evident in the lightness of her crew and the spark of excitement that followed everywhere she went. More than that, the flag that flew ahead. No longer black, it was a stark white that blew in the salt air, showcasing the long sword with a jagged scar through it, offset by a spyglass crossing over it.
Our tribute to Inu and Val, while also recognizing that we were more explorers, hellbent on new discoveries of the deep.
“Adjusting two degrees starboard!” Dilly shouted from the quarterdeck, her hair a frizzy halo of wind-tossed curls. After she got too close to a barnacle she shouldn’t have, Emille diagnoses her with some vision loss. Now, she wore custom-made lenses Bash found in Funchal and repaired himself—large, round, and thoroughly magnifying her eyes.
She looked like an inquisitive owl. An owl who might accidentally blow herself up with algae.
“Two degrees starboard,” Kit echoed, handling the tiller. A year older, he was no longer the terrified child who clung to Val’s coat. He stood straight, steady, and sun-browned, with arms and legs that finally seemed to coordinate. He wore a knife at his hip—Oscar had given it to him on the anniversary of Val’s death.
“Don’t let her talk you into testing anything live on deck,” Bash said behind me, sliding an arm around my waist. “The last thing we need is another repeat of the ‘Exploding Barnacle Incident.’”
“That was onlyslightlymy fault,” Dilly yelled back, having absolutely overheard him.
“Yes, and you nearly blew a hole in my ship,” Bash called.
Kit stifled a snort. “It was impressive though!”
Oscar, tightening the rigging nearby, shook his head but smiled—the genuine kind that softened the grief carved into him.
This was our life now.
Strange. Loud. Messy. Bright.
Alive.
The British government called it The Act for the More Effectual Suppression of Piracy, though no one outside of Parliament bothered with the formal name. Newspapers simply called it The King’s Pardon of 1717.
Some credited the success of the bill to shifting politics. Others to naval exhaustion. A few whispered that the seas themselves had become too dangerous—too many monsters stirring where once there were few.
But among sailors, among the men and women who once flew black flags with pride, the truth was known:
A single member of Parliament had stood and argued passionately, fervently, for weeks.
Oliver Bailey.
My brother.
He had spoken of mercy, of second chances, of usefulness instead of destruction. He had spoken, too, of the value of men who understood the sea better than any admiral. Of sailors who had been driven to piracy not by greed, but by survival.
In the official list of pardons, only two names drew ink thick enough to overshadow the rest:
Captain Sebastian Flynn
Hellcat Smith
