Salt spray clung to the splintered wood of the flagship Vindicator. Kyrus stood at the helm, his short dark hair tossed by the harsh wind. Through his single functional right eye—dark, icy, and sharp—he watched the seaside village burn. The horrific, jagged scars carving down the left side of his face burned faintly under the twilight sky, a stark reminder of past mutinies he had ruthlessly crushed.

He was the unchallenged Pirate King of these waters. Rumors painted him as heartless, a monster who lived only for the thrill of the raid and his insatiable obsession with rare, gleaming treasures. Yet, as his crew looted gold and silver from the panic-stricken villagers, Kyrus felt no thrill—only a familiar, hollow detachment.