《Forgotten Lives - A collection of Practice Short Stories》 The Weight of Nothing The Weight of Nothing Marcus Thorne''s sword had grown heavier over the years. Not the blade itself, good steel doesn''t change but the weight of memory it carried. The weight of everything he''d done with it. Everything he hadn''t done. The tavern''s ale was watered down and bitter. Marcus swirled the dregs in his cup, watching the thin liquid catch the morning light. His body ached with the familiar pain of too many battles and too few soft beds. The tavern keeper watched him with the knowing eyes of a man who''d spent decades studying men through the bottom of their cups. Marcus met his gaze once, saw the quiet judgment there, and looked away. The keeper had his measure. They always did, eventually. There was something about tavern keepers they could smell old blood, no matter how much time or ale you used to wash it away. His purse held exactly six small silver coins. Not enough to drink away the dreams that had woken him before dawn. The ones of Millbrook, of smoke and screams and the weight of his commander''s purse afterward. Of telling himself that orders were orders, that someone else would have done it if he hadn''t. That at least he''d been efficient about it. Through the tavern''s grimy window, he studied the village with a mercenary''s practiced eye. Poor place, barely worth raiding. The granary was the only stone building three stories of granite that had probably cost the village a decade''s worth of harvests. Smart investment though. In a world where orc raids and bandit attacks were common as rain, food stores were worth more than gold. The houses clustered around it like chicks around a hen, connected by muddy paths that would turn treacherous in a fight. A single well served the village center. Two streets, if you could call them that, intersected at the granary. Decent fields beyond, summer wheat already harvested and stored. The forest pressed close on the northern edge too close. Amateur mistake. Should have cleared another hundred yards of trees at least. The first screams caught him mid-swallow. For a moment, he wasn''t sure if they were real or memory. Then the tavern keeper''s daughter burst through the door, terror turning her young face ancient. "Raiders! From the woods!" Marcus''s body moved with the instinct of forty years of warfare, bringing him to the window. Orcs. His enhanced perception caught every detail with crystalline clarity. Twelve initially, more at the tree line. Crude weapons mostly, but he noted the gleam of stolen steel. Their markings spoke of mountain holds, of old blood. They''d done this before. The smart play was obvious. His horse was behind the tavern, already saddled. The road east was clear. In an hour, this would all be behind him. Another memory to drown. Another village to forget. But the girl still stood in the doorway, frozen like a rabbit before wolves. Like that other girl, in that burning village whose name he''d never bothered to learn. The one he''d ridden past because the job was done and his purse was full and it wasn''t his problem anymore. Her face haunted his dreams for twenty years. "Get everyone to the stone granary," he heard himself say. "Bar the doors. The walls are thick there." She ran. His sword cleared its sheath with familiar ease. The grip was warm, like it had been waiting. Like it knew. The blade caught the morning light, and for a moment he saw his reflection fragmented in the polished steel. An old man''s face. A coward''s face. The first orc died before it saw him, his blade opening its throat in a spray of dark blood. Clean. Efficient. Just like Millbrook. His enhanced strength guided the blade through flesh and arteries with practiced precision, he''d learned long ago exactly how much force it took. No waste. No flourish. Just the economical motion of a man who''d spent decades learning the most efficient ways to end lives. The second orc managed a clumsy swing that he slipped past, hamstringing it with a backhand stroke. Its enhanced constitution meant it didn''t fall. These weren''t common bandits, but System-strengthened warriors. No matter. He''d killed better. The blade found its spine as it turned, another clean strike. Textbook really. He''d taught that move once, to fresh recruits who still believed in glory. Before he''d learned to see each battle in terms of risk and reward, of cost and profit. If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation. They came at him in waves after that. His heightened perception caught every detail. Fourteen remaining, three with stolen steel, two with bows. The orcs moved with the coordinated precision of veteran raiders. Experience meant predictability. His body responded to decades of gathered power, each movement amplified by the System''s gift. An orc''s axe whistled where his head had been, too slow. Their enhanced strength meant little when they couldn''t land a blow. His counter-strike took its arm at the elbow. The next one died reaching for a throwing axe at its belt. Blood turned the mud black beneath his feet. His blade moved like a thing alive, finding gaps in crude armor, striking at vulnerable joints. Not the showy swordwork of his youth, but the lethal precision of a man who had survived a thousand fights by learning which strikes were worth the energy they cost. Just like that village in the north. Just like the river crossing. Clean. Efficient. The coin always spent the same. A wild axe swing caught his left arm, opening a line of fire. Getting slow, old man. System enhanced flesh knit together even as he moved, stemming the blood loss. He answered with a thrust through the attacker''s eye socket. Behind him, he could hear the sounds of villagers running, crying. The watch drum began its frantic beating from the granary tower. His breath came harder now. Six orcs lay cooling in the mud. The rest had pulled back, regrouping. More shapes moved at the tree line, reinforcements arriving. His enhanced sight picked out details through the morning mist. Eight more. No, ten. Armed better than the first wave. The math was simple. The kind of calculation he''d made a hundred times before, in a hundred other places. Even with System enhanced abilities, the odds were turning. His horse was still there. The road still clear. Twenty years ago, he''d have laughed at the thought of running. But twenty years ago, he''d still believed his own lies about duty and honor. Now he knew better. Knew exactly what kind of man he was. He''d run before. From fights where he had nothing to gain. From battles where his purse was already full. He''d stayed for the others. Stayed and done what needed doing. Stayed and been efficient about it. The coin had always spent the same. An orc''s roar split the air but this one came from behind him, where the houses stood. Where the granary stood. Marcus turned and saw one of the raiders had circled around. A child''s scream cut through the morning air. The sound struck something in him. Not conscience, he''d burned that away years ago with strong drink and stronger lies. Not duty or honor or any of the pretty words he''d once hidden behind. Something older. Simpler. A memory of the man he''d thought he would be once. Before. His legs moved. Not toward his horse and the open road, but toward the granary. Toward the screams. His sword felt lighter now, somehow. Like it had been waiting for this. Like maybe it had known all along. The next few minutes were a blur of steel and blood and desperate movement. The System made his muscles sing with gathered power as two orcs fell before they could reach the granary door, their blood painting the stone steps. A third died trying to drag a woman from her home, its spine severed by a stroke he hadn''t used since the siege of Hawkridge. The fourth got past his guard, its System-enhanced strength driving an axe deep into his side, but Marcus barely felt it. He had found that place beyond pain, beyond fear. Beyond the weight of memory. They came at him with everything then. Their own enhanced strength and speed made them formidable, any one of them could tear an ordinary man apart. But he met them on the granary steps, using the elevation to his advantage. His sword moved in patterns learned in a hundred battles, taught by deaths he''d dealt and wounds he''d taken. Not fighting for glory now, or coin, or even survival. Fighting for something he''d forgotten existed. Something that felt like redemption. His sword was red to the hilt. Blood ran freely down his side, but he stood straight. Stood tall. Behind him, through the granary''s thick door, he could hear children crying. In front of him, the remaining orcs gathered for one final rush. His vision was growing dark at the edges, but his blade had never felt lighter. "Come then," he whispered, and for the first time in decades, his voice carried no bitterness. No lies. "Come and see how a coward dies." Epilogue They buried him on a hilltop overlooking the village. The blacksmith carved a simple stone marker which read: "Marcus Thorne - He Stood." Nothing more. The village women laid wildflowers on his grave. The men stood silent, heads bowed. Among his possessions they found six small silver coins, a whetstone worn smooth by years of use, and a folded scrap of parchment. On it, in faded ink, was a list of names. No one asked what the names meant. Some things are better left unknown. For years after, old Willem the tavern keeper would place a cup of ale on the bar each autumn, on the day the orcs came. "For Marcus Thorne," he would say, when asked. "A man who died better than he lived." He''d seen enough soldiers pass through his tavern to recognize the look in Marcus''s eyes that morning. The look of a man who''d spent his life running from himself. Who had finally, in his last moments, stopped running. The village children sometimes played near the grave, the younger ones asking about the weathered words on the stone. Their parents would tell them a soldier was buried there, one who had saved the village long ago. But as the years passed, even this faded, until there was only the stone, its words growing fainter with each winter''s rain. And perhaps that was tribute enough. The Things We Build The Things We Build The morning mist clung to the river like a mother''s farewell embrace, reluctant to release its hold as autumn''s crisp breeze stirred the air. Martin Fletcher watched his son Thomas gathering their supplies. Sturdy hempen rope, freshly cut saplings he''d selected himself, and his prized carpenter''s saw. The boy moved with the eager energy of youth, but there was a carefulness in how he handled the tools that made Martin''s chest swell with quiet pride. "Remember your hunting knife?" Martin asked, shouldering his own pack. His own knife hung at his belt, well worn but meticulously maintained, its blade still holding the keen edge he''d learned to keep over years of use. Thomas patted his belt where the smaller knife Martin had given him for his last nameday hung. "Yes, father. And the tinderbox too." They set out along the well trodden path that wound from their village toward the river. The forest stretched out to their left, its edge softened by the morning mist. The leaves had turned to amber and gold, and the morning air held just enough bite to make Martin grateful for his sturdy wool tunic. The sound of running water grew stronger as they approached their destination. Martin had chosen this spot carefully, a bend in the river where the current slowed, creating deeper pools where fish gathered. The water ran three to eight feet deep here, perfect for the larger river trout and the occasional bass that would soon be making their autumn runs. "Here," Martin said, setting down his pack. He began laying out their tools with the precise movements that came from twenty years of working wood. His hands had grown stronger over those years, steadier. He could sense the grain of wood now in ways his younger self would never have believed possible. The saw went on a clean piece of bark to keep it from the damp ground, his measuring cord, marked with knots at precise intervals close at hand. "The trick to a good fish trap isn''t just catching the fish," he explained, showing his son how to gauge the river''s width with the knotted cord. "It''s building something that will last through the spring floods. See how the bank curves here? That tells us where the water runs strongest." As they worked, driving stakes into the riverbed to anchor their trap, Martin thought about the story he''d been waiting to share. Some tales you only tell when a boy is ready to hear them, not children''s stories of heroes who always triumph, but the complex truths that make a man. "Have you heard the story of Victor Blackthorn?" Martin asked, helping secure a cross beam. "The man who became Count de Montfort?" When his son shook his head, Martin nodded. The boy worked carefully at the joint, just as he''d been shown, while Martin gathered his thoughts. "He wasn''t born to power," Martin began, testing the stake''s stability. "Third son of Baron Blackthorn, who held just one village in the hills. His mother, Lady Rosalind de Clermont, died bringing him into the world. His father fell in a border skirmish when Victor was just a boy." They worked as Martin spoke, showing his son how to weave flexible branches between the stakes to create the trap''s walls. The technique required a delicate touch. Too tight and the branches would snap, too loose and fish would find their way through. His son''s hands were clumsy at first but grew more confident with each attempt, and Martin could already see the boy''s movements becoming smoother, more natural, as though the work itself was teaching his body how to move. "Victor went to live with his mother''s sister, Lady Celestine de Clermont. She wanted him to be a scholar, but Victor..." Martin smiled, helping correct the angle of his son''s weaving. "Victor was like a young oak. You can try to make it grow the way you want, but its nature will show through. She found him in the courtyard one day, practicing swordplay with the guards instead of studying his letters." "Did she punish him?" His son asked, carefully threading a supple willow branch through their growing lattice. "She never got the chance. Duke Alaric de Montfort was visiting that day. He saw something in Victor, not just skill with a blade, but how the common soldiers respected him, how he learned their ways and earned their trust. The Duke took Victor under his wing, taught him not just warfare, but the harder lessons of rule." This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. Martin showed his son how to test each section of their weaving, checking for weak spots that clever fish might exploit. "Victor learned quickly. He spent time with common folk, not out of kindness, but because knowledge was power. He knew which woodsmen could guide men through the forests unseen, which farmers could feed an army, which merchants could be trusted with secrets. When the eastern houses sent raiders, claiming they were mere bandits, Victor knew better. He knew their paths because he''d walked them with hunters. Knew their targets because he''d talked with the farmers about their harvests. Knew which local lords were secretly helping them, because he''d learned to read men as well as he read tracks in the forest." The afternoon sun warmed their backs as they worked on the trap''s funnel. The clever heart of the design that would guide fish in but make it difficult for them to find their way out again. Martin explained how to angle the wickerwork, drawing on years of experience to show the precise degree that would prove most effective. "The eastern lords thought they knew these lands," Martin continued, "but Victor knew them better. He didn''t just drive out the raiders, he used them. Made sure everyone knew which lords had secretly supported them. Three minor houses fell in the aftermath, their lands quietly absorbed by the de Montforts. That''s when people began to truly fear him." "Is that how he became Count?" His son asked, carefully securing the funnel''s end with the knots Martin had taught him. "That''s how it began. The old Count de Montfort saw in Victor something rare. A man who understood that true power comes from knowing not just the high paths where nobles walk, but the low roads where common folk tread. They say that''s why the Count arranged for Victor to marry his only daughter, though some claim it was the daughter''s idea entirely." Martin winked at his son. Martin paused, checking their work. "Victor became a great ruler. Built alliances with other houses, expanded the de Montfort lands, made them more prosperous than they''d ever been. But here''s the part of the story people don''t often tell. He died young, not yet forty five. All that power, all that skill, all those plans... his enemies moved before his body was cold. His eldest son held power for less than a season before the vultures circled in. Everything he''d built, every alliance he''d forged, every territory he''d won. It all fell to the very houses he''d spent his life fighting against." His son''s hands stilled on the wickerwork. "Then what was the point of it all?" Martin was quiet for a long moment, his hands moving automatically as he tested the trap''s bindings. "The point, son, is that power is like this river. It looks solid, looks permanent, but try to hold it and it slips through your fingers. The wise man doesn''t try to hold the river, he learns to build things that will weather its passing." He tapped the fish trap. "Victor showed that understanding the low roads was as important as walking the high paths. The de Montforts still do it, not out of kindness, but because it works. Whether their empire crumbled or not, that lesson remained." The sun was lowering in the sky by the time they finished the trap. Martin showed his son how to check it was secure, testing each joint and support. "Tomorrow morning, this will have fresh fish waiting for us," he promised. "But for tonight..." He taught Thomas how to make camp properly, showing him how to clear the ground and arrange stones for a fire pit. As the flames caught and grew, Martin demonstrated how to prepare a smoking rack using green wood. "The key is to keep the fire small," he explained, arranging the wood carefully. "You want smoke, not flames. Too hot and you''ll cook the fish too quickly. Too cool and it won''t cure properly. Your mother says my smoked fish is almost as good as her father''s was, and he was known for his skill with it." His son absorbed every detail, asking questions that showed he was thinking ahead. How long would smoked fish last? Could they use the same technique for other meat? Martin answered each query patiently, sharing not just the how but the why of each step. As darkness settled around their camp, father and son sat close to the fire''s warmth. Martin showed Thomas how to bank the flames to last through the night, then pulled out a small package wrapped in cloth. "Your mother sent some honey cakes," he said, offering one to his son. "She thought we might want something sweet after a day''s work." They ate in comfortable silence, watching sparks rise to meet the stars. Thomas leaned slightly against his father''s shoulder, the way he used to when he was smaller. Martin felt something catch in his throat. His son was growing up so fast, but moments like these would always be precious. "Father?" "Yes?" "Can we do this again?" Martin smiled in the firelight, putting an arm around his son''s shoulders. "Of course we can. There''s still so much I have to teach you." He was quiet for a moment, watching the flames dance. "You know, they say Victor de Montfort could split a man''s shield with one stroke by the end, break stone with his bare hands. But that wasn''t what made him truly dangerous. Power comes in many forms. In the strength of your arm, yes, but also in knowing when to strike and when to wait. Like this river. it might look peaceful now, but come the spring floods it''ll tear down anything that isn''t built true." He squeezed his son''s shoulder. "That''s why we learn to build things right. Why we learn to read the water, the wood, the weather. Because the world''s not always going to be as gentle as it is tonight." Above them, the stars wheeled in their eternal dance, witnesses to this moment as they had been to countless others. Fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, each generation passing down their knowledge like a river flowing endlessly toward the sea. In the distance, an owl called softly, and the river continued its ancient song, carrying their quiet conversation into the gathering night. The Cormorants Shadow - Part 1: The Price of Passage The morning tide lapped against the hull of the Cormorant as dockworkers loaded the last of her cargo. Longshoremen rolled casks of salt pork up the gangplank, followed by barrels of hardtack and sacks of dried beans. The ship''s hold already brimmed with bales of processed wool, iron ingots, and twenty casks of quality wine goods worth nearly nine thousand large silver coins when delivered to Port Westmark. First Mate Harlan Blackwood oversaw the loading with a weathered scowl that had been etched into his face by twenty years at sea. "Steady with that!" he barked as a barrel wobbled precariously. "Drop that and it''s coming out of your wages." Two deckhands rushed forward to stabilize the load. Reed Turner, the younger of the pair, gritted his teeth as the weight strained his shoulders. His companion, an older sailor named Morris, muttered a curse under his breath. "The First Mate''s in rare form today," Morris whispered as they secured the barrel. "Must''ve had vinegar with his breakfast." Reed nodded, wiping sweat from his brow. Six months at sea, and he still wasn''t used to the backbreaking labor. But he''d signed on for a year, and the fourteen large silver coins per month was more than he could ever make back in his village. Captain Fletcher emerged from his cabin, a sea chart tucked under his arm. A competent shipmaster of fifteen years, Fletcher was neither beloved nor hated by his crew of twenty-four simply respected for his ability to deliver cargo and men safely across the Eastern Sea. "Blackwood," he called. "How much longer?" "Another hour, Captain," the First Mate replied. "The manifests match what we were promised." Fletcher nodded, pleased. This voyage would be a profitable one if all went well. After accounting for the crew''s wages nearly five hundred large silver for the round trip port fees, provisions, and the usual bribes to harbor officials, they''d still clear a handsome profit. He turned his attention to a figure standing near the harbormaster''s office a man who didn''t fit the usual dockside crowd. The stranger approached the gangplank with measured steps. He wore a long gray coat despite the warm morning, cut in a style that wasn''t local but not so foreign as to draw excessive attention. His face bore no remarkable features aside from eyes that seemed to take in everything without revealing anything in return. A single leather traveling case was his only luggage. "Captain Fletcher," the man said, extending a small pouch that clinked with the unmistakable sound of silver. "I believe we had an arrangement for passage." Fletcher took the pouch, weighing it in his palm before tucking it away. Twelve large silver coins a fair price for a private cabin and meals on an eighteen-day journey. "Indeed we did, Master...?" "Vale," the man replied. "Corvus Vale." "Very well, Master Vale. Blackwood will show you to your quarters." Fletcher gestured to the First Mate, who looked less than pleased at being assigned the task. Blackwood led Vale to a small but private cabin near the stern. "We sail with the midday tide," he said curtly. "Meals are taken in the common area, though you may request service in your cabin for an additional charge." Vale nodded, setting his case down carefully. "That won''t be necessary. I prefer simplicity." Blackwood left without another word, returning to the loading operation. As he supervised the final preparations, he found his eyes drifting back to the passenger''s cabin. Something about the man made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, though he couldn''t say why. In his experience, that feeling was never without cause. Three days at sea found the Cormorant making good progress. The winds had been favorable, filling the sails and driving them eastward across calm waters. The crew had settled into their routine, watches changed, meals were served, minor repairs attended to. Reed found himself on the forenoon watch, mending canvas under the midday sun. His fingers, once soft from farm work, had grown calloused from handling rough hemp ropes and weathered sailcloth. Nearby, the ship''s cook, an older man named Garrick, scraped weevils from the ship''s biscuit before pounding it to make a dough with the meager fat drippings saved from breakfast. "How''s your first deep-water voyage treating you, lad?" Garrick asked, working the dough with practiced hands. Reed shrugged. "Better than I expected. No storms yet." "Don''t tempt fate," Garrick warned, glancing at the cloudless horizon. "The Eastern Sea can turn vicious without warning." Their conversation died as Master Vale emerged from below decks. The passenger spent most of his time in his cabin, appearing only for meals and occasional walks around the deck. He spoke little, answering direct questions politely but never initiating conversation. Now he stood at the rail, gazing out at the horizon with an unreadable expression. "Odd one, isn''t he?" Garrick murmured once Vale was out of earshot. "Keeps to himself. Not that I blame him with this lot of unwashed scoundrels about." Reed glanced up from his work. "What do you think his business is?" "Not ours to wonder," Garrick replied, though his tone suggested he''d done plenty of wondering himself. "Men who travel alone usually have reasons for keeping to themselves." Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. Vale remained at the rail for nearly an hour, statue-still except for the occasional shift of his eyes scanning the horizon. When he finally returned below, Reed realized he''d been holding his breath without knowing why. The next few days passed in the monotony that characterized long voyages. Reed learned to savor the simple pleasures a dram of watered rum with the evening meal, the shifting beauty of the sea at dawn, the rare moments of rest between endless tasks. On the evening of the sixth day, Morris regaled the younger sailors with tales of his previous voyages. The veteran sailor had a gift for storytelling, and even those who''d heard his adventures before gathered to listen in the cramped crew quarters. "...and that''s when the Harbormaster of Silverport accused Captain Thorenson of smuggling," Morris was saying, enjoying the rapt attention of his audience. "Three galleys surrounded us. Thought we were done for." "What happened?" Reed asked, caught up in the story despite himself. Morris grinned. "The Captain had paid the proper bribes to the right officials. The Harbormaster was just looking for an extra cut. We waited them out for two days before the Port Governor himself came to sort it all. Cost the Captain four standard gold coins to settle the matter, but we kept our cargo and our freedom." The sailors laughed appreciatively, though a few exchanged nervous glances. Stories of corrupt officials were common, but tales of pirates had been increasing of late. The eastern shores were becoming dangerous as warlords and outlaws grew bolder. From his corner bunk, the ship''s carpenter spoke up. "Pirates wouldn''t show such restraint. My brother sailed on the Meridian last spring. They found her drifting three weeks later, crew slaughtered to a man." The mood in the quarters sobered instantly. Reed felt a chill despite the stuffy air. "The Eastern Strait is safe enough," Morris insisted, though his confidence sounded forced. "We''ve made this run a dozen times without trouble." But as the lamps were doused and the sailors settled into their hammocks, Reed couldn''t shake the carpenter''s words. In the darkness, he found himself straining to hear beyond the creaking of timbers and the sound of waves against the hull, listening for sails on the horizon. On the seventh day, the wind died. Captain Fletcher stood on the quarterdeck, concern evident in the tight lines around his mouth. What had been a steady breeze at dawn had gradually diminished until the sails hung limp. The Cormorant still moved, carried by momentum and ocean currents, but their speed had dropped dramatically. "How long do you think it will last, sir?" Blackwood asked, joining him at the rail. Fletcher shook his head. "Impossible to say. Could be hours, could be days." He gestured toward the southwest, where heat distorted the horizon. "There''s weather building there, but it''s moving slow." The crew worked listlessly in the growing heat, their movements sluggish and their spirits dampened. Without wind, progress was minimal, and every day delayed meant less profit at journey''s end. The food wouldn''t stretch indefinitely, and water was already being strictly rationed half a cup per man, three times daily. By midday, the ship had slowed to a crawl. Reed helped raise additional sails in the faint hope of catching any breeze, no matter how slight. Sweat soaked his shirt as he worked, the sun beating down mercilessly on the exposed deck. "Boy!" Blackwood called from below. "Get aloft and keep watch. Your eyes are younger than most." Reed climbed readily, grateful for the task. From the crow''s nest, he could see for miles in every direction. Endless blue water stretching to the horizon. He settled in, scanning methodically as he''d been taught. An hour passed, then another. The stillness was unnerving, broken only by the occasional call from the deck below or the cry of a distant seabird. Reed was about to signal for a replacement when he spotted something to the west, a dark smudge on the horizon. He squinted, shading his eyes against the glare. The smudge resolved into shapes. Low vessels moving across the water. His stomach tightened. "Sail!" he called down. "Western quarter!" Captain Fletcher was at the rail in moments, his prized brass spyglass in hand. Reed watched him scan the horizon, his expression hardening. "How many?" Blackwood demanded when the Captain lowered the glass. "Two galleys," Fletcher replied grimly. "Moving fast." "Merchants?" Fletcher''s jaw tightened. "No merchant runs galleys in these waters." The words hung in the air like a death sentence. Pirates. Without wind, the Cormorant was a sitting target. "All hands!" Blackwood bellowed. "Battle stations!" Reed descended rapidly, joining the frantic activity on deck. Sailors rushed to secure loose items, distribute the few weapons aboard, and prepare for what might come. The Cormorant was a trading vessel, and her crew were sailors, not fighters. Fletcher gathered the men amidships. "Two galleys approaching from the west," he announced, his voice steady despite the gravity of the situation. "They''re making good speed with oars. Likely pirates." A murmur of fear rippled through the crew. Morris swore softly, and the carpenter clutched the lucky bone charm he kept on a leather cord around his neck. "We have limited options," Fletcher continued. "We can try to outrun them if the wind returns, but until then, we prepare to defend ourselves." "Against two galleys?" someone protested. "Captain, they must have thirty fighters on each!" "Plus oarsmen," Blackwood added grimly. "Probably seventy, eighty men total." Fletcher silenced them with a raised hand. "We don''t know their intentions yet. They may be looking for an easy target, not a fight." No one believed it. Pirates didn''t approach in force to parley or trade. "Get whatever weapons we have distributed," Fletcher ordered. "Belaying pins, marlinspikes, anything that can serve. If" He broke off as a shadow fell across the deck. Master Vale stood at the edge of the gathering, watching with that same unreadable expression. Reed hadn''t even seen him emerge from his cabin. "Captain," Vale said, his voice unexpectedly calm. "Perhaps I might observe these vessels? I have some experience with nautical matters." Fletcher hesitated, then handed over his spyglass. Vale studied the approaching galleys for a long moment. "Eastern Strait pirates," he said finally, returning the glass. "I recognize the markings on their sails. They won''t negotiate." A heavy silence fell over the crew. Everyone knew the reputation of the Eastern Strait pirates brutal men who left no survivors. The next hour passed in tense preparation. Sailors fashioned makeshift weapons or prayed quietly. Some carved brief messages into small wooden tokens, pressing them into the hands of shipmates with whispered requests to deliver them to loved ones if they survived. Reed found himself helping Garrick sharpen kitchen knives, the whetstone making a rhythmic scraping sound that did nothing to calm his racing heart. "Ever been in a fight, lad?" Garrick asked. Reed shook his head. "Just village brawls. Nothing with real weapons." "Aim for the throat or belly," the cook advised grimly. "And don''t hesitate. They won''t." The galleys drew steadily closer. Through the spyglass, Fletcher could now make out figures moving on their decks. Sun glinted off metal weapons being readied. "How much longer?" Blackwood asked. "An hour," Fletcher replied. "Maybe less if they pick up speed." Reed felt sick. An hour until he would likely die. He thought of his mother and sisters back in their village, of the life he''d barely begun to live. Around him, other sailors seemed lost in similar thoughts, their faces pale with fear.