Chapter 40 (Part I) — Tempest's Lull and the Serpent's Gaze
The pirate ship loomed like a rusted leviathan, its hull groaning as it scraped alongside the raft. Bennett squinted at the raucous crew leering over the rails—grinning faces sun-leathered, teeth rotted, eyes glinting with hunger.
"Shipwrecked," Bennett called, his voice raw yet steady. "Care to lend a hand?"
The pirates roared with laughter. A rope ladder thudded against the raft.
Joanna climbed first, her jaw set. Fools, she thought, flexing fingers still tingling with residual magic. Let them underestimate.
Bennett followed, barefoot and ragged, his makeshift seaweed belt clinking with hollow gourds. Behind him, Vivian clung to the ladder, her trembling visible even to the drunkest deckhand.
"Lookit the ginger one!" A pirate spat overboard. "Bet she's sweet as plum wine!"
"Nah, the icy bitch's mine!" Another licked cracked lips. "Break her good, I will—"
"Silence!"
The crew parted as Captain Morales emerged—a parody of naval decorum in his tattered officer's coat, pocket watch glinting like a predator's fang. His gaze slithered over Joanna's armor, lingered on Vivian's waist, dismissed Bennett entirely.
"Welcome aboard, doves." Morales' bow reeked of mock chivalry. "My cabin awaits. Let's… refresh you."
His hand grazed Joanna's shoulder—
Crack.
A burst of azure light erupted from her palms. Morales' smirk died mid-sneer as his body arced overboard, a comical scream trailing his plunge.
Chaos erupted.
Joanna became a storm—seizing the nearest pirate by the collar, swinging him like a flail. Bones crunched. Men flew. Bennett counted splashes under his breath: Three… six… nine…
"Enough, Jo!"
"You don't command me!" She whirled, fingers clawing for his throat—
"Look. At. Me."
Their eyes locked.
Joanna froze.
Something shifted in Bennett's gaze—pupils dilating into voids that swallowed the Mediterranean sun. The faintest glint of obsidian flickered beneath his sweat-matted bangs, where cloth hid the horn's tapered curve.
Vivian gasped. The pirates staggered back, crossing themselves.
Joanna's fury dissolved like sugar in rain. Her hands fell slack.
"Wh… What…" She swayed, drowning in the abyss of his stare—a hypnotic pull that mirrored the island's cursed vortex.
Bennett steadied her, voice velvet-soft. "We're guests here. Let's negotiate."
Chapter 40(Part II) — The Puppeteer's Gambit and the Ebony Tide
Bennett's voice, cold and deliberate, cut through the chaos like a blade through silk. "Cease."
Joanna froze mid-swing, her boot hovering above a pirate's ribcage. The command reverberated in her skull, sweet and binding as honeyed chains. "Yes," she murmured, her defiance crumbling into docility.
"Good." Bennett's gaze pinned her, pupils darkening imperceptibly beneath his stolen captain's hat. "Stand behind me. Stay."
Joanna obeyed, her steps mechanical. Only when his eyes released her did clarity return—and with it, shame. Why? Why does his word feel like… a lullaby?
Bennett turned to the cowering pirates, their faces smeared with blood and terror. "Listen well, vermin." He kicked a whimpering deckhand. "You're no longer pirates. You're my property. My mercy spares you the gallows. Refuse, and the sharks feast tonight."
A scarred brute spat. "Yer no lord! Yer a—"
Crack. Bennett's heel crushed the man's fingers. "Any other objections?"
Silence.
"Clean this filth." Bennett gestured to the wounded. "Toss the useless overboard."
The crew moved with feral efficiency, betraying comrades without hesitation. Screams punctuated the splash of bodies. Two lifeboats splashed down—a mockery of mercy.
"Row toward the horizon," Bennett called to the drowning. "Pray the island finds you before thirst does."
Vivian clutched his sleeve. "Th-This is… cruel."
"Cruel?" Bennett's laugh held no mirth. "These animals gut pregnant women for sport. Would you weep for wolves?"
Joanna stiffened. "He's right." Her voice trembled—whether from rage or the horn's lingering thrall, even she couldn't tell.
The Feast of Shadows
Below deck, Bennett devoured salted pork like a starved hound. Vivian nibbled moldy biscuit crumbs, her pet imp Jujube hissing at the crew. Joanna sipped ale, her glare dissecting Bennett's every move.
"Why keep them?" she hissed. "We could've slaughtered them all."
Bennett wiped grease from his chin. "A ship needs rats. Even rotten ones."
He rose, addressing the huddled "crew." "From this hour, you sail under my banner. This vessel is no longer the Scabrous Maw. She is…" A smirk twisted his lips. "The Black Pearl. And you—" He pointed to a lanky youth with eyes like a cornered hare. "—are Captain Jack Sparrow."
The pirates blinked.
"Sparrow?" The boy squeaked.
"Captain Sparrow." Bennett's grin widened. "Welcome to the Roland Privateers."
The Horn's Whisper
Later, beneath a starless sky, Bennett peeled back his makeshift turban. The horn gleamed faintly—a shard of obsidian fused to bone.
Chris's voice echoed in his mind: "Control tastes sweet, doesn't it?"
Joanna's submission. The pirates' fear. Even Vivian's reluctant trust—all threads in his newfound web.
But webs entangle the weaver too.
He traced the horn's ridges. How long before this… thing demands more?
Chapter 42— The Golden Arches of Absolution
The Surrender Spectacle
The Black Pearl glided toward the Imperial warship, its new flag—a grotesque golden "M"—snapping in the wind. Naval officers gaped.
"Sir!" A lieutenant squinted through a spyglass. "They're… surrendering? And that banner—is that some pagan sigil?"
The warship's captain, a squat bulldog of a man named Harkness, spat overboard. "Sigil? Looks like a tavern sign. Ready the boarding party. And fetch my dress coat—we've nobility to coddle."
Bennett, flanked by Joanna and Vivian, crossed via gangplank. Harkness bowed, eyeing Joanna's scarred knuckles. "Lord Bennett! What an honor! Though, ah… your retinue seems… unconventional."
"Adventurers," Bennett drawled. "Terribly fond of justice."
Joanna's frost-kissed glare iced the deck.
Bureaucracy & Brinksmanship
In Harkness' cabin, over vinegar wine:
"Your father's influence shields you," Harkness muttered, stamping pardons. "But these pirates—you'll truly employ them?"
"Rehabilitation, Captain." Bennett smirked. "Even cutthroats deserve a second chance… under my watchful eye."
Harkness leaned close, breath reeking of pickled herring. "Between us—that ice-witch butchered thirty marines at Port Siren. The Crown wants her head."
Bennett sipped wine. "And yet, here I stand—unharmed. Curious, no?"
Silence.
Harkness broke first. "Fine. But your 'McDonald's Fleet' better not raid trade routes. Else I'll—"
"Trade routes?" Bennett laughed. "We're privateers now. Hunting pirates. You'll see."
Portside Revelations
Wokker's Port reeked of fish guts and desperation. Bennett inhaled deeply.
"Home," Vivian coughed. "If home were a brothel's outhouse."
The docks teemed with vice:
Drunken sailors brawling over dice.
Hawkers peddling "mermaid tears" (glass beads).
A one-legged bard screeching shanties off-key.
Joanna gripped Bennett's elbow. "Your father's men approach."
Robert, gaunt and guilt-ridden, dismounted. "My lord… your punishment—"
"Ah yes." Bennett yawned. "House arrest. How original."
The Cage of Privilege
Robert delivered the edict like a death sentence:
Confinement to Castle Loring for 366 days (leap year).
Zero access to family coffers.
Forbidden from "meddling" in trade, politics, or "eccentric naval ventures."
Bennett grinned. "Tell Father I'll plant roses. Such a harmless hobby."
Alone with Joanna, his mask slipped. "You'll need to act as my hands."
"Pirate hunting." She scowled. "Beneath me."
"Pirate funding." He unrolled a map marked with crimson X's. "Black Cove. Skull Island. The Drunken Kraken Tavern. Plunder their vaults, and I'll split the gold… sixty-forty."
"Seventy-thirty."
"Done."
— Saltwater Baptism and the Sigil of Rebirth
The Black Pearl (née Scabrous Maw) now bore witness to three heresies:
Bennett, barefoot and grinning, sprawled across the captain's bed like a stray cat claiming a throne.
Joanna and Vivian, scrubbing weeks of salt and blood from their skin with four barrels of freshwater—an act so decadent, the crew crossed themselves in superstitious horror.
Captain Jack "Sparrow", a gangly youth trussed in scarlet sashes and kohl-rimmed eyes, practicing mincing poses under Bennett's delighted scrutiny.
"Chin higher! Wrists limp!" Bennett barked, sketching furiously. "Imagine you're… flirting with a kraken."
The Scourge of Cleanliness
In the galley, the crew huddled like whipped hounds.
"Four barrels!" The cook—Sparrow's father—slammed his cleaver. "Four! To wash arseholes while we lick dew off sails!"
"Shut it, old man," growled a one-eared brute. "That ice-witch'll hear—"
Thud.
Joanna's bootprint caved the door. She stood haloed in steam, hair dripping, wearing a towel and a glare that could flay seals. The room froze.
"More. Hot. Water."
The cook whimpered.
Negotiations Over Grog
Bennett sipped rancid rum, eyeing Sparrow's sketches. "Good. Now add tentacles. Lots of tentacles."
"But sir," Sparrow stammered, "what's it mean?"
"Mean?" Bennett grinned. "It means we're pirates who read. Scares the shit out of navy prigs."
Belowdecks, the crew's mutterings crescendoed:
"We're dead! He'll sell us to magistrates!"
"Or worse—make us farmers!"
Sparrow's fist cracked the table. "Listen!" He unrolled Bennett's flag design—a raven clutching a key, encircled by serpentine runes. "He's not our jailer. He's our patron."
"Patron my arse!" One-Ear spat. "What's he trade? Fish?"
"Magic." Sparrow leaned closer. "Saw the redhead summon fire with a snap. The ice-witch? She's half dragon. And him—" He tapped the raven's eye, inked black as Bennett's hidden horn. "—he talks to shadows."
Silence.
"You'd rather rot as pirates?" Sparrow pressed. "Or sail under a sigil that makes kings piss?"
The Art of Subversion
Bennett, meanwhile, taught Sparrow to swagger.
"Less stomping, more… drifting." He demonstrated, hips swaying like a drunk aristocrat. "You're not a captain. You're a rumor."
Joanna watched, arms crossed. "This farce helps how?"
"Fear dies," Bennett murmured. "Legends don't."
He adjusted Sparrow's tricorn, fingers brushing the youth's temple. Sparrow shuddered—a fleeting warmth, like brandy down the spine.
Subtle, Bennett thought. Just enough thrall to keep him loyal.
The Cook's Ultimatum
At dawn, the crew gathered under Bennett's flag—now flapping atop the mast.
"New rules!" Sparrow declared, voice cracking. "No raiding villages! No keelhauling! And bathe weekly!"
The cook lunged. "You shame your blood!"
Sparrow dodged, grace unnatural. His dagger pricked the cook's throat. "Blood's what drowns men, Pa."
Bennett applauded. "Well said, Captain!"
Joanna frowned. The boy moved… wrong. Too fluid. Too familiar.
Like Bennett's reflexes during the island's trials.
Chapter 43— Coins, Kisses, and Confinement
The Art of Legal Larceny
Bennett lounged in his temporary quarters, boots propped on a mahogany desk. "Legal wealth accumulation," he mused aloud, tossing a gold coin engraved with the Imperial crest. "A nobleman's most tedious chore."
Joanna leaned against the doorframe, her armored arms crossed. "You want me to play debt collector? Hunt pirates for their purses?"
"Gods, no." Bennett snorted. "You'd sink ships first and count coins later. No, our dear Rowena will handle the dirty work."
The knight in question strode in, her tabard still stained with salt spray. "Blackmail ledgers. Smuggler bribes. Naval patrol schedules—all prepared." She slapped a sheaf of documents on the desk. "But mark my words, milord. Your father's name won't shield us if we raid the wrong merchant convoy."
Bennett waved a dismissive hand. "Relax. We'll target pirates discreetly plaguing Crown vessels. Heroic privateers deserve rewards, no?"
Rowena's lips twitched. "How… patriotic."
Farewells & Foolish Hearts
The dockside tavern reeked of tar and heartbreak.
Vivian stood trembling before Bennett, her new mage robes swallowing her petite frame. "I-I have to g-go." Tears glimmered like trapped starlight. "My teacher—if I'm late again—"
Bennett forced a grin. "What'll he do? Turn you into a toad? You're a Grand Magus, for pity's sake."
"Y-you don't understand!" She hiccupped, clutching a crumpled handkerchief. "H-he's… scary when angry."
The memory of Vivian's whispered confession—a floating fortress veiled in perpetual storms—flashed through Bennett's mind. He gripped her shoulders. "Listen. If that fossilized tutor locks you away, send a fire-messenger. I'll stage a rescue. Dragons optional."
Her laughter broke wetly. Then, with the impulsive bravery of doomed youth, she rose on tiptoe and brushed her lips against his cheek.
Time suspended.
Sailors catcalled. Gulls screeched. Somewhere, a lute player struck a sour chord.
Vivian fled, her scarlet cloak billowing like a retreating comet.
Bennett touched the lingering warmth on his skin. Damn. Even villains deserve better scripts.
Homecoming of Shadows
The Loring estate sprawled beneath leaden skies, its turrets clawing at clouds.
"Welcome to your gilded cage, Lord Bennett." Steward Hill's smile could curdle milk. "Three hundred sixty-six days of contemplative leisure. Shall I have the library dusted?"
Bennett swept past him, trailing salt-crusted mud across ancestral tapestries. "Spare me the theatrics, Hill. Where's my damned dog?"
"Dog, milord?"
"The one that didn't bark when assassins slithered into my bedchamber last winter." He paused at the spiral staircase. "Ah, right. You had it 'relocated.' Convenient."
The steward's parchment skin tightened. "Your quarters are prepared. The east wing remains… untenanted."
A coded threat. Your mother's chambers stay sealed.
Bennett's laugh echoed through cold stone corridors. "Fear not, Hill. I'll be the model prisoner. No orgies. No arson. Just"—he flung open the study doors—"light reading."
Ledgers & Loopholes
Moonlight bled through stained glass as Bennett riffled through hidden compartments.
Cipher Journal (Age 14): Mother's cough worsens. Hill barred the physicians. Why?
Portfolio Maps: Smuggler routes through the Icefang Straits.
Rowena's Report: Jack Sparrow's first raid successful. 'McDonald's Fleet' now boasts 3 captured vessels.
A scrap of vellum fluttered loose—Vivian's parting gift. Six apocalyptic incantations glowed faintly:
Frostbite of the Fallen Star
Chain Lightning Cascade
Soulflare Ignition
Tides of the Drowned King
Veil of Shattered Mirrors
Eclipse Call
"Use only in direst need," her looping script warned. "Magic has teeth."
Bennett tucked the list into his boot. Through the window, the distant lights of Loring Village twinkled—a chessboard awaiting its player.
Ephemeral Empire
Dawn found Bennett on the battlements, a stolen bottle of elderberry wine in hand.
Rowena's voice cut through the mist. "The fleet grows restless. Sparrow demands clearer targets."
"Patience." He gestured at the fog-shrouded plains. "Every lordling here's rotting from inherited vice. Give me six months, and I'll own their debts, their secrets, their souls."
She studied him—the boy playing conqueror in a moth-eaten cloak. "And after?"
"After?" Bennett grinned, the expression sharp as a shiv. "Why, dear Rowena, we'll give this stagnant empire something to truly fear."
Somewhere below, a raven cawed. The first of many.