Jack had gone through dozens of posters—faces faded by time, ink smeared from the salt breeze, some even torn clean in half. He traced the same names over and over, waiting for something, someone, to leap out and demand attention. But after a while, even that got dull.
His fingers were dry with parchment dust. His throat even drier.
With a grunt, Jack peeled himself away from the weather-worn bounty board and turned down a crooked street. "Time for a drink," he muttered. "Milk, preferably."
He passed a group of gamblers shouting over a card game. A one-eyed sailor danced on a barrel while someone strummed a lute missing half its strings. Lanterns swayed above like tired stars, and the sea breeze carried the unmistakable cocktail of tobacco smoke, roasted fish, sweat, and spilled dreams.
At the far end of the alley stood a squat little tavern, its sign swinging unevenly above the door: The Broken Anchor. A few drunk pirates were already slumped against the outer wall, snoring in unison.
Jack stepped inside.
The tavern was alive with noise.
The floorboards groaned underfoot, the air sticky with humidity and the scent of overripe citrus and sea foam. Tables were clustered close, every one of them occupied. Pirates of every stripe huddled together—scarred faces, tattooed arms, leather hats, dented tankards. Dice clattered. Coins exchanged hands. A woman in the corner shouted as she arm-wrestled a brute twice her size. A drunken shanty was being belted in the back, off-key but with conviction.
Jack made his way to the counter, slipping onto a stool beside a man slumped forward, his mouth pressed flat against the sticky wood, snoring softly.
Behind the counter stood the drinkman: broad-shouldered, gruff-faced, with a towel slung over one shoulder and a permanently skeptical expression. He raised a brow at Jack.
"Milk," Jack said.
The man blinked. "…Milk?"
Jack nodded.
The man leaned in. "How old are you?"
Jack didn't blink. "Drinking milk has nothing to do with age."
He dropped five rubies onto the counter.
The barkeep looked at the rubies, then at Jack, then slowly shrugged. "Fair enough." He filled a chipped mug with creamy white milk, wiped the rim with his towel, and handed it over. Jack took it with a grateful nod, spun around on his stool, and took a sip.
The milk was cold. Surprisingly fresh.
His eyes scanned the room. Fights. Games. Deals. Tall tales. But near the center of the room, a particularly dense knot of pirates surrounded a single table. Laughter and raucous jeering echoed from the cluster. Something—or someone—was drawing a crowd.
Jack leaned toward the drinkman. "Who's that?"
The man glanced up from drying a cup. "You serious?"
Jack looked back at him. "Yeah."
"That's Iron Vlad. The metal-eating pirate."
Jack raised a brow. "Metal-eating?"
"Ten thousand rubies on his head," the barkeep continued, eyes narrowing. "Some say he once bit clean through a cutlass." He shrugged. "Never seen him do it, myself. But the tales don't stop."
Jack sipped his milk again. "Always the case with pirates. Half what's told is soaked in rum."
"Still," the barkeep added, nodding toward the crowd, "he's got their attention for a reason."
"What's the commotion?"
"Came back from a plunder. Seems like he scored big. Got something to show off. Typical behavior—boost your rep, cement your legend." He wiped the rim of a second mug, muttering, "Showboating, basically."
Jack tilted his head. His gaze fixed on the center of the gathering, where a weapon gleamed faintly in the lantern light. Curved like the crescent moon, its blade shimmered with strange etchings.
"That the treasure?" Jack asked, pointing.
The barkeep followed his finger, then nodded. "Looks it. Strange piece, that."
Jack swirled the last of his milk in the cup, thinking. "If I brought back a treasure—something real, something unique—pirates would take notice too, wouldn't they?"
The barkeep didn't even pause. "Course. If you're nobody, treasure makes you somebody."
Jack grinned, eyes distant. "Wonder if Mk and Gego found anything good aboard Smollet's wreck…"
A loud scrape pulled Jack's attention back.
Iron Vlad stood now, pushing his chair back with his knee. His coat was iron-gray and draped like a cape. His bare chest gleamed with sweat and salt, and strange iron rings were pierced along both arms. The crescent blade rested across his palms, and he spun it like a baton as he raised his voice.
"Gather 'round, you barnacle-bitten sea dogs!" Vlad bellowed, voice thundering through the tavern. "Let me tell you how I earned this beautiful moon-kissin' blade!"
The crowd roared.
Vlad began to pace theatrically, blade spinning, the lantern light gleaming off the curve.
"Faced a sea-giant twice my size! Black teeth, arms like sails! He came at me like a storm! I dodged left, ducked right—pow! took out his kneecap! But he kept comin'. Mad beast, he was! So I leapt up, wrapped my legs round his neck, and tore the breath from his lungs with one hand—this one right here!" He flexed dramatically.
The crowd howled with laughter and cheers.
Jack smirked, sipping the last of his milk, oddly enjoying the ridiculous tale. "Man can tell a story," he murmured.
Vlad raised the blade above his head, spinning in a wide circle. "And when the brute fell, what did I take? Not coin. Not gold. I took this!" He slammed the blade onto the table. "A trophy of conquest!"
"Wotcha gonna do with it, Vlad?" someone shouted.
Iron Vlad grinned, his teeth yellow and jagged. "What I always do."
He held the blade above his mouth.
"I'm gonna eat it."
A collective murmur swept the room.
His crew began pounding the table rhythmically—thud, thud, thud, like a war drum. The tempo rose as Vlad tilted his head back, opening his mouth disturbingly wide, jaw creaking like an unhinged door.
Jack leaned forward, fully intrigued.
And then—
WHAM.
The tavern door burst open.
A body hit the floor with a sickening thud, skidding across the boards. Blood trailed behind it like red ink across paper. The tavern fell dead silent.
Every tankard froze mid-air. Dice clattered and were left forgotten. Even the lute string snapped from tension.
In the doorway stood a cloaked figure. The lantern light barely touched him, but what did shimmer through revealed dark leather soaked by the rain—or blood. A hood shadowed most of his face, but then he raised his head.
Eyes. Bloodshot red.
Not drunk. Not tired. Not human.
Vlad narrowed his eyes, holding the blade like a cudgel. "You lost, freak?"
The figure didn't answer.
He stepped forward.
And in that moment, even Iron Vlad didn't move.
The man slumped at the bar, still face-down, suddenly groaned and lifted his head. "…The hell did I miss?"