Chapter 46
The next few days aboard the Black Pearl passed like any other for a pirate crew: sea spray in the wind, the clash of swords on enemy decks, the occasional cannon fire echoing across endless waters. Elias and Jake returned to their usual chaotic selves—drinking, laughing, stealing things they shouldn't, and occasionally saving each other's lives in the most ridiculous ways imaginable.
It was normal. As normal as life could be after slaying a sea god.
But that night, the sea grew quiet.
The wind stilled.
The stars blinked faintly above, and the moon hung low and heavy, casting a strange silver sheen on the water. The Black Pearl rocked gently, the crew asleep below deck, exhausted from a long day of fending off some overly dramatic navy ship that tried to capture them.
Only two crew members stood guard at the railing, yawning more than watching.
Inside the captain's quarters, Jake Sparrow snored with his hat over his face, one leg slung over the arm of a chair, a half-finished bottle of rum still dangling from his fingers.
Elias? Well, Elias was Elias. For some reason only he could explain, he was sleeping above the ship's flag, balancing dangerously on the wooden beam like a lazy cat who'd had too much whiskey.
Even Raina, ever-watchful and sharp, was out cold in her hammock, curled up with her arms crossed, a dagger still clutched in one hand.
Then it happened.
The sound.
A horrible, groaning screech like the sea itself was cracking open.
The water splashed violently against hidden rocks that shouldn't have been there. The calm of the night was broken by an otherworldly howl that rolled across the waves like thunder.
From the deep, rising like a nightmare, came the Flying Dutchman.
Its hull groaned and creaked with the weight of cursed centuries. The sails were tattered, filled with a wind that didn't exist. Barnacles clung to its sides, glowing faintly green. Its lanterns flickered with ghostly light, and the figurehead, shaped like some long-forgotten sea demon, opened its maw as though it screamed.
Elias's eyes snapped open.
He blinked, then looked down at the phantom vessel rising before him.
"What the... what the actual fuck," he muttered, rubbing his eyes.
Then, louder:
"JAAAAAKE!"
There was a loud crash below deck.
Jake Sparrow stumbled out of his quarters, half-awake, tripping over his own sword as he pulled it out of its sheath.
"What? Who? Why? Where's the fire? Who touched my rum?"
He stopped cold when he saw it.
The Flying Dutchman.
Right in front of them.
He blinked once. Twice. Then muttered, "Oh crap."
By now, the entire crew was awake, running up from below, weapons drawn, eyes wide.
Elias slid down from his perch and landed beside Jake. He pulled out a new sword—a slightly rusted, slightly stolen blade he had claimed from a drunk pirate two days ago after a tavern brawl.
Jake glanced sideways at him. "That doesn't look as magical as your last one, mate."
Elias shrugged. "I told you. I don't have any powers anymore. No ancient pirate juice, no prophet magic, no ghost army. Just me, my average sword, and my extremely good hair."
Jake smirked, though he looked terrified. "Well, that's just perfect. We're entirely, epically, gloriously screwed."
The Dutchman drifted closer, silent now. No crew could be seen, but they knew better.
Everyone aboard the Black Pearl tightened their grips on their weapons. The wind began to pick up again—but it wasn't normal wind. It was cold, like breath from a grave.
"Maybe," Jake offered, twirling his sword nervously, "they just came by for a chat. Ask for some sugar. Borrow a cup of rum."
"You think cursed ghost sailors borrow rum?"
"You never know."
The deck of the Flying Dutchman suddenly lit with faint green fire.
Figures began to appear—twisted, fish-like men with barnacles for eyes, skeletons in navy coats, pirates with coral sticking through their skulls. They watched the Pearl in eerie silence.
Elias raised his sword slowly.
"So. No talking. Definitely not borrowing rum."
Jake sighed. "It's always the ghost ships, mate. Never a nice merchant with extra treasure."
The crew of the Black Pearl formed a loose formation, circling Jake and Elias. Raina emerged from below deck, eyes narrowed.
"I was asleep for one peaceful night," she muttered. "Of course it's another cursed ship."
Jake tipped his hat. "Welcome back to the nightmare, love."
Elias looked at the ghost ship. His voice dropped low.
"They're not here to scare us. They're here to fight."
Jake groaned. "Well, I suppose we're doing this the old-fashioned way then."
Elias raised his sword. "With style, sarcasm, and absolutely no plan."
Jake raised his. "Just how I like it."
And then, the Flying Dutchman's crew began to move.
Climbing over the railings, they dropped into longboats and slid across the water like sharks.
The sea was about to erupt in another war.
And this time, Elias had no power.
Only his sword.
And Jake.
And the most unpredictable, rum-loving, sea-broken pirate crew in history.
"Right then," Jake said, flashing a grin. "Let's go greet our ghostly guests."
Elias cracked his neck. "Let's make 'em wish they stayed dead."
The Black Pearl was ready.
And the battle was about to begin.
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