Sometime in 1679

The first crack of lightning split the sky the moment Enzo’s voice rang out above the din: “Brace for battle!” He stood at the helm of the Graveyard Rose, its dark sails shimmering with arcane energy, the wind clawing at his cloak as though trying to tear him free from the cursed vessel itself. The twin serpents etched into the figurehead glowed faintly, poised and fanged, as the ship surged between two enemy warships, their timbers groaning in anticipation of combat.

The first crack of thunder came before the cannons even roared, less a warning than a declaration. Santiago had heard tales of battle from old sailors and dreamers, but none of it could have prepared him for what unfolded that dusk, when the sea itself seemed to bow to Alethea.

She stood at the prow of the Graveyard Rose, a figure draped in tempest. Her cloak whipped like smoke caught in wind, lightning pulsing beneath the fabric of her skin as though her veins ran with stormwater. The sky above boiled with slate-grey clouds, roiling as if called from some ancient place by her fury. The two enemy ships advanced against the Graveyard Rose, either to capture or destroy, it didn’t really matter.

With a sweep of her arm, she pulled the wind into her grip. The air shimmered around her fingertips, heavy with static. Santiago could feel the storm forming, first in the sway of the sails, then in the sudden hush of the crew. Everything held its breath. Then lightning struck with surgical fury, cleaving the nearest enemy mast in half and sending fire and bodies tumbling into the drink.

The sea surged up, but did not consume the Graveyard Rose. It split around the ship in defiance, waves lashing the enemy hulls instead. Every move Alethea made seemed choreographed, not chaotic, but precise, as though she knew the rhythm of battle like a symphony. Cannonballs whistled through the air, yet none touched her. With a twist of her wrist, she spun wind into shields and gusts that shoved enemy gunners backward across their decks.

Santiago gripped the rigging, unable to look away. She didn’t revel in it, didn’t scream or posture. Her magic was silent, powerful, rooted in something deeper than rage. Even as fire lit the waves and screams cut through the air, she moved with solemn grace, her eyes fixed not on victory, but necessity.

The first ship had already begun to crumble beneath Alethea’s relentless storm magic. Her hands shimmered with raw elemental power, every motion sending a torrent of wind and jagged rain toward the trembling sails. Mast after mast buckled and splintered, the hull rocked until it heaved sideways, swallowed by waves turned to wrath.

Santiago gripped the railing, eyes wide, awestruck and terrified all at once. This didn’t look like the sweet girl that he had gotten to know, bonding over languages and hope for escape.

But the second vessel held its own champion. Cloaked in crimson runes and a veil of flame, the enemy mage stood poised on the bow, lips moving in a rhythm older than time, summoning fire from the depths of his soul. His power built slowly, heat radiating across the water, forming a pulsing sphere of molten destruction as he tracked Alethea’s movements with grim precision.

She didn’t notice. Her storm roared with fury and triumph as the first ship slipped beneath the waves, her gaze fixed on the horizon, until the mage struck. A great burst of fire cleaved the air, a searing blossom of orange and gold, and slammed into her with brutal force. Her scream was lost in the rush of flame, her body thrown back as her arm caught the full fury of the spell. Santiago saw it then: the skin charred in an instant, blackened and raw, and yet, the tattoo etched along her forearm remained untouched by flame.

The ship reeled. Crew shouted. Santiago dashed to her side as she staggered, smoke rising from her sleeve, and collapsed against the railing. Her breath came shallow, unconsciousness already claiming her.
Enzo barked a fresh volley of commands, his voice thunderous as the Graveyard Rose surged forward, dark tendrils of magic lashing out to entangle the second ship. “No mercy!” he roared, voice edged with something colder than vengeance. His gaze cut toward

Alethea’s form with grim urgency, a flicker of emotion ghosting through his stern façade, irritation, rage, and something heavier.
The enemy mage disappeared in smoke and fire as their vessel limped away, its sails singed and crew disarrayed. Santiago knelt by Alethea, pressing a trembling cloth against her burned arm, as healing magic sparked feebly between his fingers. But it wasn’t enough.

Enzo’s glare burned hotter than any flame summoned by magic. As the battle ended, and she crumpled to the deck, smoke curling from her scorched arm, his face remained impassive—save for the subtle flicker of disappointment that darkened his eyes. He had expected elegance in battle, foresight and precision. Perfection. And she had failed him. No urgency marked his stride, no tenderness softened his gaze. Only a curt shake of the head, a gesture not of sadness, but of judgment. She was still alive, and that was enough. Pain was a lesson. Scars, a necessary punishment.

He turned away, issuing sharp commands to check the damages to the ship as Santiago rushed to her side. The young artificer’s heart thundered as he gathered Alethea into his arms. Her burned sleeve crumbled at the touch, revealing skin blistered and angry. As Santiago carried her from the deck, the crew parted without word or gesture of comfort, their silence complicit in the captain’s creed: pain was earned, not soothed.

The cabin was dim, bathed in the golden shimmer of wards etched into the walls. Santiago laid Alethea gently onto the narrow bed, brushing ash from her cheek with trembling fingers. Minutes later, the Archivist arrived. Cloaked in silver and silence, the ancient figure stepped in without ceremony. His silver eyes, gleaming like polished steel, scanned the injury with clinical detachment. No questions. No indignation. No grief. He unrolled his satchel and set to work, drawing out tools that glowed with soft sorcery and healing salves that hissed upon contact with burnt flesh.

Alethea’s breathing was shallow, her brow furrowed even in unconsciousness. Santiago watched helplessly as the Archivist manipulated her wounds with elegant precision, offering no words of comfort, no gestures of kindness. Just restoration without compassion.

Frustration bloomed in Santiago’s chest. Didn’t they see her as more than a weapon? More than a flawed instrument of war? Did no one care that she was hurting? She had fought with everything she had, unleashed power that could drown towns, and yet all she received in return were disappointed glances and silence.

Outside, the storm drifted west, the aftermath of battle settling across the sea like a burial shroud. Inside, Santiago sat beside her, hands clenched, his eyes never leaving hers. He didn’t care that she had stumbled, only that she wouldn’t face her pain alone. On the Graveyard Rose, loyalty might have been cold steel and scars, but Santiago’s was warmth, fierce and unrelenting, and for Alethea, it would be enough. As he held her hand, he silently vowed that, one way or another, they would find a way to escape.