The sun dipped lower on the horizon, casting a golden glow over the vast expanse of the Ancorna Sea. The water, calm and shimmering under the fading light, was suddenly disturbed as a large ship, leading a formidable fleet, sliced through the tranquil surface. The ship’s dark sails billowed in the evening breeze, its massive hull cutting through the waves with an air of menace.

  This was no ordinary vessel—it was a warship, fitted with at least fifty mounted ballistas, each one primed for battle. Built for both speed and firepower, the ship was also large enough to carry essential cargo, including provisions, weaponry, and—hidden away in its depths—human cargo. A black flag adorned with a skull flapped ominously in the wind, marking the fleet as pirates. Yet this fleet of thirteen ships was anything but rogue marauders.

  At the helm stood Ser Connor, a seasoned veteran of House Ronin. Dressed in pirate-like garb, he cut a striking yet uncomfortable figure, his usual knightly armor replaced by tattered clothes meant to sell the illusion. He gripped the wooden railing, his gaze fixed on the distant horizon.

  Footsteps echoed from the lower deck, and a man in similar pirate attire emerged from below. His movements were stiff, unnatural—like a man playing a role he was not accustomed to.

  “C-Captain,” the man stammered, clearly struggling to drop his knightly mannerisms in favor of a more rugged, seafaring tone. “Everything is in order below deck. The slaves are secured, properly chained, and under guard.”

  Connor barely glanced at him, his expression unreadable. “Not that it matters much longer. We’ll be reaching Jola Island in a few more hours,” he muttered. “By nightfall, we’ll be on their shores.”

  His eyes remained on the horizon, scanning the fading light for any sign of trouble. Above, the sails rustled as another figure descended from the rigging with ease. This man, however, looked far more at home in his pirate disguise. His confident smirk never wavered as he landed beside Connor.

  “You know, Connor,” the man said, amusement lacing his voice, “this look suits you.”

  Connor scoffed, adjusting the rough fabric of his borrowed coat as if the very touch of it offended him. “Spare me,” he grumbled. “My dignity as a knight is hanging by a thread. Unlike you people from the Syndicate, I actually care about honor.”

  Keith, the man in question, chuckled and leaned casually against the railing. His dark eyes glinted mischievously as he responded, “That’s the difference between us, Ser Knight. You have honor, and I have results.”

  Connor exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “A loyal knight of House Ronin, reduced to wearing pirate rags, pretending to be a savage, and attacking like common criminals.” He clenched his fists, his voice lowering to a bitter murmur. “It’s disgraceful.”

  Keith let out a short laugh. “Oh, come now. Look at the bright side,” he said, nudging Connor with his elbow. “Once this mission is complete, you’ll be promoted to vice knight captain. You’ll finally get the recognition you’ve been waiting for all these years.”

  Connor’s expression darkened. He said nothing, merely grumbling under his breath as he turned away. Keith, still amused, folded his arms and watched the knight retreat.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  “You know,” Keith called after him, “we should have a name for our little ‘pirate’ group. It’d make things feel more authentic, don’t you think?”

  Connor didn’t stop walking. “Do whatever you want,” he muttered, disappearing into his cabin.

  Keith smirked and tapped his chin in thought. “Hmm… Faring Ellie has a nice ring to it,” he mused to himself.

  As the fleet pressed onward toward Jola Island, the grim reality of their journey settled heavily in the dimly lit lower decks of one of the ships. Crammed into rusted iron cages, the slaves—men, women, and children alike—sat in silence, their expressions clouded with fear and uncertainty. The air was thick with the stench of sweat and damp wood, the only light filtering in through thin cracks in the wooden planks above.

  Brandon sat with his back against the bars, his arms wrapped protectively around his young son, Samuel. had a sharp mind. His small hands gripped the bars as he whispered, “Father, it doesn’t look like they’re taking us to an auction.”

  Brandon, sighed and nodded. “I agree. These men are dressed as pirates, but something feels off. Some of them are from the Syndicate—I recognize their mannerisms—but the others… they don’t belong here. They’re too rigid, too disciplined to be pirates.”

  From a shadowy corner of the cage, Camila, Brandon’s wife, stirred. The chains on her wrists clanked softly as she shifted. Her voice, though low, carried certainty. “Jola. They’re taking us to Jola Island.”

  Brandon turned to her, brows furrowed. “You’re sure?”

  Camila nodded, her dark eyes sharp despite the exhaustion lining her face. “I overheard one of the guards speaking through the walls to an old man in the next cell. He told him to stop wasting water because we would be in a desert soon.”

  Samuel’s eyes widened. “A desert? Then it has to be Jola! That’s the only desert island anywhere near here!”

  His words traveled through the wooden partitions, reaching the ears of the other captives in the neighboring cells. A hushed panic spread like wildfire.

  “My gods! They’re taking us to Jola?!”

  “No! Not the unruly, ruthless princess’s domain!”

  “It would be better if we were auctioned off!”

  “Please, anywhere but there! We don’t want to be tortured by that evil princess!”

  The murmurs turned to desperate cries, their voices rising in terror. Fists pounded against the iron bars, chains rattled, and fear twisted into hysteria.

  The guards reacted immediately. With heavy wooden clubs, they struck the bars, the deafening clangs echoing through the ship. “Silence!” one of them barked, striking a prisoner’s outstretched hands through the bars.

  Screams turned to muffled sobs as the panic was forcibly subdued.

  Dame Lana stood at the ship’s bow, watching the waves churn beneath them. also a knight of House Ronin, not in her usual elegant armor of her station, but clad in the rough garments of a seafarer. The wind tangled her dark hair as she observed the fleet’s movement toward Jola Island.

  A commotion from below deck caught her attention. She turned sharply as one of the guards rushed toward her, offering a hasty salute.

  “Miss Lana,” he said, quickly correcting himself from calling her Dame in front of the disguised crew. “The slaves were misbehaving, but we’ve dealt with it.”

  Lana narrowed her eyes. “Misbehaving?” she repeated coolly. “They’re in cages. What could they possibly do?”

  The guard hesitated before answering. “They figured out our destination. It caused a panic.”

  Lana sighed in irritation, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Of course, they did.” She turned to the man. “Use the Filet Flower and activate the servitude spell. That should keep them silent for the remainder of the journey.”

  The guard nodded, a wicked grin creeping across his face. “Understood.”

  Lana’s gaze returned to the horizon as she added, “And get ready. The captain has called for us to board his ship for a strategy meeting. We’ll reach and make our move soon.”

  The guard saluted before hurrying off to carry out her orders.

  As the fleet sailed ever closer to Jola Island, the sea remained deceptively calm—belying the storm of cruelty and bloodshed that was about to unfold.