Harsh winds, the heralds of the storm, mercilessly battered the heavy galleon's sails, the wooden floor letting out ear-piercing creaks as massive waves crashed against the hull. However, Captain Vargo, taking refuge in his luxurious cabin, couldn't care less about the apocalypse outside. With his feet propped up on his oak desk, he was dreaming of the massive payment he would receive from Lord Vorren. If I survive this trade without a hitch, he thought to himself, a greedy smirk spreading across his face. Then I'll have hit the jackpot...
Right at that moment, the heavy cabin door burst open with a loud crash. First Mate Dorn rushed in, his clothes soaking wet and completely out of breath.
"Captain! The situation is dire!" he shouted, trying to make his voice heard over the howling wind. "The storm is approaching faster than we expected. At this rate, we won't make it to Chain Gulf! If we change our course to Ironhold as an alternative, we might just narrowly escape this hell!"
The smirk on Vargo's face vanished instantly. He got up with heavy steps, grabbed Dorn by the collar in a sudden motion, and pinned him against the wall. His eyes held not just a greed for gold, but pure cruelty.
"Lord Vorren will flay us all and make sails out of our skin!" Vargo roared, practically spitting in Dorn's face. "What are you talking about? If you were going to be scared of a measly storm, why did you board this ship? Go check on the mercenaries! Nothing must happen to the slaves. This shipment means everything to Lord Vorren. I don't want a single scratch on them!"
Dorn struggled to swallow between the hands squeezing his throat. Fear and desperation mixed together. "Y-yes, Captain," he barely managed to say.
When Vargo released him, Dorn stumbled out of the cabin. As he stepped onto the dark, wet deck, raindrops began to pelt his face. Just as he was about to head over to direct the helmsman, he noticed a movement in the shadows of the mainmast out of the corner of his eye.
Defying the darkness of the night, purple silk fabrics fluttering in the wind... What was an elegant outfit like this, looking straight out of a noble's wardrobe, doing on a death-reeking slave ship? The figure's face wasn't fully visible, but that condescending, noble posture was enough to give Dorn goosebumps.
The moment Dorn sensed the danger, he wanted to quickly turn back and warn the helmsman. But a steel-like force he felt on the back of his neck violently pulled him backward into the darkness. The silhouette that was standing at the base of the mast a second ago had appeared right behind him with unbelievable speed. He was even faster than the sound of the wind.
"Looks like a bit of a bad start for a first introduction, doesn't it?"
The voice was mocking, calm, and equally chilling. Before Dorn could even understand what was happening, he felt the coldness of icy steel against his neck.
The silhouette leaned his face slightly out of the shadows. "Now tell me, weak man," Kaelith whispered, pressing the dagger a little harder. "What is your true purpose on this rundown ship? Why does Lord Vorren attach so much importance to this delivery?"
Dorn's eyes widened in sheer terror. Driven by his instinct for survival, he took a deep breath and tried to yell at the top of his lungs, "Attac—!"
But before the word could spill from his lips, Kaelith's wrist drew a flawless and ruthless arc. As blood mixed with the rain and splattered onto the deck, Kaelith dropped the man's lifeless body to the ground in disgust.
"Stupid thing," he muttered. Wiping the blood from his dagger onto Dorn's clothes, he reviewed his plan. Storming directly into the captain's cabin could be an unnecessary risk; if there was someone else inside, it might break the silence. It would be wiser to first check on the condition of this famous cargo, the captives.
With silent steps, he headed for the stairs leading down. After descending the wooden steps like a ghost, he pushed open a heavy door and slipped into the hold. The scene inside was enough to turn his stomach. The smell of sweat, rust, and dampness permeated the air. Dozens of people were chained side by side in the cramped space, staring into the darkness with desperate eyes.
So many slaves... Kaelith thought, narrowing his eyes. Where are they bringing these from? What could Vorren possibly want with these poor wretches?
There was only one way to find the answers. He turned his gaze to the mercenaries standing guard at the head of the captives, their armor and weapons contrasting sharply with the despair in the room. He stepped slowly out of the shadows and into the light.
"Which one of you is shepherding these sheep?" Kaelith called out. His voice echoed like a sharp sword in the dim hold.
In the corner, Sharp-Sword Valit, standing with his arms crossed over his chest, didn't break his composure at all. He just slowly raised his head and sized up this unexpected guest with cold eyes. His silence was the greatest proof of his danger.
But unlike Valit, Crazy-Heart Varug couldn't tolerate this insolence. Gripping the handle of his axe, he took a step forward with his massive frame. He was breathing heavily with anger.
"Not even the Captain on deck can speak to us like that!" Varug snarled, looking at Kaelith's expensive purple clothes with disgust. "Who do you think you are, demanding answers from us, you rich bastard?!"