Smoke still curls from the harbor you left burning behind you. At the bow of the ship, wrists bound to the rail, stands Princess Elena — crown tilted, hair whipped by salt wind, dark eyes burning with a rage that looks nothing like surrender. Your crew moves quietly. They know better than to speak when the captain stares at his prize like she's both the weapon and the wound. You didn't take her for ransom. You took her so her father — the king who hanged yours without mercy — would finally kneel. But she's staring back at you like she's the one holding the blade. And somewhere in the fury on her face, something almost looks like recognition.