The sky over Nassau was the kind of sharp, scorching blue that hurt to look at. Not a cloud to be seen, not even a promise of one. The sun pressed down like a hand on the back of your neck, and the Gunpowder Storm creaked faintly at anchor, a restless sleeper too proud to groan.

Up in the rigging, barefoot men moved like spiders, adjusting canvas that barely caught wind enough to stir. One of them, too eager by half, fumbled with a knot that wouldn’t hold.

[colour=2e8bc0]“Twist it again,”[/colour] came a voice from above. Calm. Solid.

Edric Blake didn’t shout unless he had to, especially when someone was earnestly trying hard to learn. The boatswain was perched a few lines higher, braced against the mainmast with one boot hooked and one hand gripping rope. Sweat darkened the collar of his shirt and clung to his brow, but there was no sign of discomfort. He pointed once, a silent correction, and the young sailor adjusted, earning a short nod and a small smile in return.

With that, Edric descended, hand-over-hand down the rigging. His calloused palms slid down lines he’d coiled himself a dozen times over. As his boots hit the deck, the scent of pitch, salt, and hot wood washed over him like home.

Down on deck, the shade offered brief relief, not cool, but cooler, the way a palm frond doesn’t fight the sun but makes peace with it. Tar steamed between the seams, thick in the air, as two greenhands dragged their mops across the boards with all the enthusiasm of chained ghosts.

Edric watched them for a moment. [color=2e8bc0]“Swab it proper!”[/color] he barked, [color=2e8bc0]“or were you waitin’ on the captain himself to show you how?”[/color]

The pair startled, glancing up. One dropped his mop with a clatter, the other nearly tripped trying to fix his grip. They flushed red in the ears, then set to work with twice the effort. He gave a grunt, not quite approval, but enough to leave them be, for now.

He stooped beside a coil, giving a line a sharp pull. It bit back with just enough give to earn a nod. Spotting one of the riggers passing by, a lad who knew a reef knot from a granny hitch, Edric jerked his chin toward the fore.

[color=2e8bc0]“Tell Davie the staysail’ll need a new reef knot before midday. She’s runnin’ loose.”[/color]

[i]“Aye, bosun,”[/i] came the reply, feet already turning.

He didn’t care for the murmurs about the Queen Anne’s Revenge moored just ahead, nor the hush that fell when Blackbeard had crossed the deck. Let the officers worry about plots and partnerships. Edric had rigging to inspect and a crew to keep alive. A ship wasn’t kept afloat by gossip, and sails didn’t mend themselves.

Still, the motion near the captain’s quarters caught his eye. Ishaan stood tall, or as tall as a man like that did, bearing the weight of age and wisdom both. Edric respected him more than most. The Quartermaster had a way of making decisions stick, even when tempers ran hot and rum ran low. 

Then came Anne. Red hair catching fire in the sun, she stepped into the light like she belonged in it. There was precision in her every movement, like a knife honed for one purpose. She and Ishaan exchanged words just outside the door, nothing loud, but enough to see her posture shift, just slightly, firm as oak. Edric watched longer than he meant to, eyes narrowing with a hint of something unreadable. Then he turned away. Ropes to tighten. Boards to check. A ship to keep breathing.