The East India Company fleet cut through the sea in tight formation, sails full, cannons primed. At the center of it all sailed Beckett's flagship, steady and confident as it advanced toward Tortuga.
Beckett stood near the stern rail, gloved hands resting lightly behind his back. The wind tugged at his coat, but his posture never shifted.
"By the way," he said mildly, not looking at Daniel, "you claim to have seen the Flying Dutchman."
Daniel leaned lazily against the rail.
"How does it look?" Beckett continued. "I prefer to understand the assets I intend to control."
Daniel's lips curved faintly.
"Black," he said. "Deadly. Nothing like your polished fleet." His gaze drifted toward the horizon. "In the dark, it doesn't sail so much as… emerge. Like a wound in the sea."
Beckett's eyes sharpened with interest.
"And its condition?" he asked. "Rotten? Barnacled? As the stories suggest?"
Daniel gave a small shrug.
"It used to be," he said lightly. "Grotesque. Fused with coral and bone. Like the ocean was digesting it."
He paused, then added casually—
"Not anymore."
Beckett glanced at him now.
"Not anymore?"
Daniel's expression remained calm.
"Let's just say," he replied, "it looks… improved."
Inside, Daniel couldn't help the faintest flicker of satisfaction.
He had remade it himself.
Of course it looked better now.
n the water ahead of the East India fleet swelled unnaturally, rising as though something immense stirred beneath.
"Hold steady!" someone shouted—but the command died in his throat.
The sea ruptured.
A violent column of black water exploded upward, and through it—like a blade piercing cloth—a ship tore its way out of the depths.
Timbers groaned. Chains rattled. Water cascaded off the hull in roaring sheets.
Men stumbled across the decks.
"Impossible—!"
The vessel did not rise gently. It erupted, forcing the ocean apart as if the sea had no choice but to release it.
First the bowsprit. Then the towering masts. Then the full length of the hull, slick and glistening under torchlight.
The hull was pitch black, polished like obsidian. The sails unfurled with a crack, dark as a storm cloud. Faint pale markings—like skulls etched in moonlight—ran along the canvas.
The crew had witnessed storms that split masts like kindling. They had seen hulls shattered by cannon fire, ships dragged screaming beneath black water.
But never—
Never had they seen a warship rise from the sea.
The Dutchman cut through the last stretch of water and came alongside Beckett's flagship with deliberate precision, her black hull towering over the East India vessel. Ropes were cast without hesitation.
Will descended first.
He slid down the line and landed hard on the deck, boots striking wood with a sharp thud. Water dripped from his coat, his expression carved from cold resolve.
"I am told," Will said, his voice carrying across the deck, "that you are in possession of my heart."
Beckett did not talk. He merely gestured.
Ian Mercer stepped forward and opened the iron chest. Inside, the heart beat steadily—wet, deliberate, unnatural.
Several soldiers lifted their muskets at once, aiming at the heart.
Beckett's gaze remained level. "Which would mean, Captain, that your life rests rather comfortably in my hands."
Will's jaw tightened, but he did not look at the guns.
In a single fluid motion, he drew his sword and stepped forward, the blade stopping at Beckett's throat before anyone could react.
At the same time, the Dutchman's cannons shifted into position with a grinding rumble, their dark muzzles aligning directly with the East India flagship.
"Careful," Will said quietly, steel pressing just enough to mark skin. "You are bargaining with the Flying Dutchman."
Daniel, standing a little behind the line of soldiers, gave a subtle thumbs-up that only Will could see.
Not bad, he thought. The boy really was settling into the role—voice steady, posture controlled, just enough menace without overdoing it. For someone who'd been a blacksmith not long ago, he had surprising talent for theatre.
Beckett, however, did not so much as blink.
He did not lean away from the blade at his throat. He did not glance at the cannons trained on his ship. If anything, his composure sharpened.
"Captain Turner," Beckett said calmly, "before a single cannon discharges… before one splinter leaves your vessel… a bullet will pass cleanly through that heart."
"And I assure you," he continued evenly, "my men are far quicker with a trigger than you are with a blade."
Will held Beckett's gaze for a long moment before slowly lowering his sword. The gesture was deliberate, controlled—not submission, but negotiation.
"What do you want?" he asked, voice steady.
Beckett clasped his hands behind his back as though they were discussing trade routes over tea rather than standing between loaded cannons and a beating heart.
"I want your ship," he replied. "And your crew. The Flying Dutchman will serve the interests of the Crown. You will hunt pirates. You will sink them. You will make the seas orderly again."
A faint pause.
"Under my command."
The word hung heavier than the cannons.
Will's jaw tightened. "And after that?"
Beckett's gaze flicked briefly to the chest in Mercer's hands, where the heart continued its stubborn rhythm.
"After that," he said smoothly, "you will be permitted to reclaim what is yours."
"Or," he added coolly, "I end the matter here myself."
Will sighed, thinking the man had a remarkable talent for daydreaming while a far more immediate storm stood calmly on the deck behind them—one that would soon swallow them whole.
*****
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