The Devil's Storm, 1708, 10 years ago
The sea was on fire.
Edward Vance gritted his teeth as the Sovereign's Fury pitched beneath him, the deck slick with seawater and blood. Cannon fire lit the sky. Thunder tore the night. British frigates—fast, ruthless—had driven them into the Devil's Spine: reef-choked waters haunted by shipwrecks and ghost stories.
Now his legacy was coming apart, plank by plank.
A broadside slammed the hull. The deck heaved. Wood shattered. Men screamed.
And through the smoke, cutting across the chaos like a blade, came another ship.
The Queen Anne's Revenge.
Blackbeard.
He was closing in fast.
Two enemies. No escape.
Edward vaulted the stairwell, boots slamming on wet wood, and stormed below deck.
The corridor groaned around him. Timbers strained. Water crept in long, cold fingers.
He reached his cabin. Kicked open the hidden lockbox.
There it was.
The Leviathan's Heart.
Heavy as guilt. Cold as the abyss. It pulsed faintly—like something asleep, but listening.
He stared.
Not treasure.
Not power.
Something older.
Another blast rocked the ship.
Footsteps pounded. Shouts.
Crane burst in—his first mate—bleeding, wild-eyed.
"Edward, no!"
Edward turned. The relic was already in his hand.
"The Navy's breaching from starboard," Crane gasped. "Blackbeard's behind us. We're boxed in!"
"Scuttle the ship—run her ashore—anything but that!"
Edward's grip tightened.
"If Blackbeard takes the Heart," he said, quiet and grim, "the ocean won't belong to anyone ever again."
"Then sink it!" Crane shouted. "Don't feed it—don't bind it!"
But the relic pulsed louder now. It was calling. Hungry.
Edward hesitated. He could destroy it. He should. But…
What if there was something worse still asleep?
There was one way left.
Not to escape.
To survive.
He drew his dagger.
"Edward, please—"
Steel met flesh.
His blood spilled onto the Heart, thick and dark. The surface drank it—greedy, jagged, ancient.
The ship lurched.
Something had grabbed it. From below.
Edward staggered, clutching a mast as the Fury groaned—not just sinking.
Being dragged.
Then—
A breath.
Deep. Primal.
Not thunder.
The sea exhaled.
And the screaming began.
One by one, his crew dropped to their knees, choking.
Not gasping.
Drowning—on dry deck.
Crane stumbled, seawater leaking from his mouth.
"What did you do?" he rasped.
Edward couldn't answer.
Another man fell, vomiting salt. Then another. And another. Eyes rolling back. Lungs filling with something not air.
They weren't just dying.
They were being claimed.
Then it hit Edward too.
A crushing weight in his chest. Cold flooding his lungs.
He collapsed, choking. Not dead. Not alive.
Through the blur, he saw them rising.
Bodies twitching like broken marionettes.
Eyes black as the deep.
Saltwater pouring from their mouths.
The sea had bound them.
He reached for Crane—
Too late.
The Heart throbbed in his hand, now fused to his blood, his breath, his soul.
And then—
A voice.
Low. Ancient. Inside his skull.
"You are mine."
The Sovereign's Fury tilted.
Not sinking.
Dragged.
Masts snapped. The hull screamed.
Edward clung to the rail as the sea swallowed him whole.
****
High above, aboard the Queen Anne's Revenge, Blackbeard stood at the prow.
Rain lashed his face as he watched the Fury vanish into the black.
A ship.
A crew.
A captain.
Gone.
The storm paused.
Then, far below—something flickered.
Not flame.
Not lanterns.
Something alive.
Blackbeard narrowed his eyes.
He had won.
But somehow…
He knew it wasn't over.
Not even close.