Nassau
Smoke still clung to the docks.
The sun had climbed above the rooftops, but it brought no comfort — only sweat, the reek of low tide, and the uneasy hush of a town that knew it had stirred something better left asleep.
Then came the boots.
Dozens of them. Marching not like soldiers, but like predators. Coordinated. Cold.
A long black coat led the column. Behind it: a small army of cutthroats. Some in leather. Some in stolen navy blues. All armed, all silent. Pistols crossed over chests. Knives at thighs. Sabres notched and worn from use.
And at the centre — the calm eye of a violent storm — walked Blackbeard.
His beard was laced with beads of gold and bone. Smoke curled from the slow-burning match cords braided into it. His eyes were deep, dark, unreadable — carrying the stillness of the sea before a hurricane. Every step seemed to draw the tide closer.
He stopped at the end of the pier.
Waiting for him stood Tully, the dock foreman — red-faced, sweating, puffed up with authority he didn't really have.
"You can't just march in here with— with armed men and start waving pistols about!" Tully blustered. "This is a Crown port! There are rules, permits—!"
Blackbeard looked at him. Just once.
Tully's voice cracked in half.
One of Blackbeard's lieutenants stepped forward — scar down one cheek, grin like a hook. "This the dockmaster?"
"I— I'm the foreman," Tully stammered. "And I demand—"
"Where is Thomas Vance?" Blackbeard asked.
No shout. No threat. Just a question. Heavy enough to sink a ship.
Tully blinked. "Vance? The shipwright? He— he was here earlier. Working on my ship. Said it'd take three more days. But if he thinks he's getting paid for—"
A hand closed around his throat.
Tully's boots squealed as they left the boards.
Blackbeard didn't even glance at him. "He's not here now."
"N–no! He ran off! Haven't seen him since last night — I swear!"
Blackbeard lifted a hand. The crewman dropped Tully like old cargo. He hit the dock gasping and coughing, curled in on himself.
Then came a wet shuffle of boots.
A bloodied man limped through the ranks — coat torn, arm bandaged, face pale with failure.
The assassin.
He dropped to one knee. "Captain..."
"You had him," Blackbeard said, quiet and even.
"I did. At the Rum House. He was with another. But a woman — tall, cloaked. Storm-grey eyes. Shot me. Took him."
Blackbeard crouched. His shadow stretched long across the planks.
"Describe her."
The man swallowed. "Moved like she'd done it before. Didn't miss."
Blackbeard nodded once.
Then, without hesitation, he drew his pistol and fired.
The shot cracked across the dock.
The body slumped. The crew didn't blink.
Tully whimpered, trying to become smaller than possible.
Blackbeard looked at him — bored now. "I don't tolerate failure," he said. "Or noise."
"I— I don't know anything," Tully gasped. "Please—"
"Then run," Blackbeard said, voice mild. "Before I change my mind."
Tully ran.
"Rum House," Blackbeard ordered. "Someone there saw something."
The crew moved like smoke.
The docks emptied behind them. The town held its breath.
And Nassau felt smaller in their passing.
****
A short distance away, another presence watched the chaos unfold.
Four Royal Navy officers stood in the shadow of a rum-crate stack — red cloaks, spotless boots, crisp uniforms. They looked like they didn't belong. They didn't care.
At their centre stood Commander Elias Aldridge.
Tall. Controlled. Unnaturally still.
He had the polished calm of a man who never raised his voice because he never needed to. His gloves were immaculate white. His disdain, permanent.
"Is... is that really him, sir?" asked Ensign Hargrove — barely more than a boy, hat askew, voice high. "That's Blackbeard?"
Aldridge didn't look away. "Yes, Mr. Hargrove. I was under the impression you could read wanted notices."
"He... he shot his own man," Hargrove stammered.
"Yes," Aldridge said. "Quite directly. Admirable efficiency. In a barbaric sort of way."
Hargrove fumbled a parchment from his coat — folded, damp with sweat. "Sir, the local post turned this up this morning. The name matches. Thomas Vance."
He straightened it nervously.
THOMAS VANCE — Wanted for suspected piracy and fraud
Accomplice: Jonah Briggs
Reward: 500 sovereigns
Aldridge took the parchment without looking at it, folded it once more, and handed it back.
"Keep that safe, Ensign. It may comfort you to hold something of actual value."
"Yes, sir. Should I alert the garrison?"
Aldridge's lips curved slightly. "And rob our friends of their head start? No, Mr. Hargrove. Let the wolves hunt the rabbit. When they've torn it apart, then we decide who to leash... and who to bury."
Hargrove nodded quickly, trying to keep up. "So... we're not intervening?"
"Of course not," Aldridge said mildly. "We observe. We calculate. We profit."
He turned his eyes back to the empty pier.
"Pirates are creatures of appetite, Ensign. You never chase hunger. You bait it."
Hargrove blinked. "And if Blackbeard finds Vance first, sir?"
Aldridge gave a small, polite laugh, as if the question itself were quaint.
"Then the sea will handle the paperwork for us."
He adjusted his cuffs, already losing interest.
"Send word to the Orion. I want a list of every vessel that left port before dawn — merchant, sloop, even fishing boats. If it floats, I want its name."
"Yes, sir!" Hargrove fumbled his notebook, nearly dropping it. "At once, sir!"
Aldridge stepped forward, gaze sweeping over the harbor. The very air seemed to clear a path for him.
"Let Blackbeard do what Blackbeard does," he said softly. "And when the tide settles..."
He turned, the wind catching the edge of his coat.
"...we'll claim what's left worth owning."