"This be the nearest port to us," Sawyer said, eyes fixed on the charts spread before him. "We'll drop anchor there, get some rest, and see that torn sail mended."
He traced a route with his finger across the parchment. Syrena leaned closer and noticed the maps weren't bought—they were drawn by his own hand.
"These... these are beautiful," she murmured, almost to herself.
Sawyer said nothing, but the faintest smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, betraying that he'd heard well enough.
"It's late," she said, folding her arms. The moonlight cast silver across the deck and the restless waters below. "You ought to get some rest."
"Aye, I will…" he replied. Then, with a flick of his head, he beckoned her to follow. "But first…"
He led her below deck, to the cannon room. One of the cannons had been removed—only the porthole remained. Beside it, a small bed had been rigged up, layered with soft, warm-looking sheets. Finer than anything the rest of the crew possessed. Syrena blinked, caught off guard.
"What's this?" she asked, her voice low. "For me?"
Sawyer crossed his arms, leaning casually against the wall. "Aye. Figured ye earned your berth aboard. The lads reckon ye might like the sea breeze through the porthole."
Syrena's lips curled into a small smile. "Thank you," she said softly, already curling onto the makeshift bed. Compared to the bare planks she'd been sleeping on, it felt near luxurious.
Sawyer gave a gruff nod, turning as though to leave, though he lingered a heartbeat longer than needed.
"Goodnight, Captain," she added, eyes gleaming with something unspoken.
He tipped an imaginary hat with a smirk. "Rest well, Syrena."
And with that, he was gone—both of them pretending there'd been naught but casual kindness exchanged.
The gentle rock of the ship and the faint salt breeze lulled Syrena into sleep. The soft sheets, the quiet of her tucked-away berth—luxuries she hadn't known for months.
But come morning, it wasn't sunlight that woke her.
A harsh voice, guttural and sharp, rang in her ears. Her eyes flew open—to the sight of a stranger looming over her, a rough-hewn arrow pointed straight at her face.
She gasped, jerking upright, but the man barked something she couldn't understand. Another shoved her back down, binding her wrists fast with coarse rope.
Bootfalls echoed down the stairs—Sawyer, hair tousled from sleep, stormed into the cannon room. His eyes flared when he saw her captive.
"Stand down!" he snarled, reaching for his blade—but another arrow met his chest, its point just barely pressing against his skin.
More of them—dozens—had already overrun the ship. Faces painted, armed with bows, knives, spears.
"Captain…" Syrena's voice was low, tense. "We've been boarded. They must've come in the night."
Sawyer's jaw clenched. "I see that."
Though half the crew still slept, those awake had already been captured. The islanders barked commands, forcing Sawyer and Syrena to their feet.
As they were herded up onto the deck, Syrena glanced sideways at him. "You were right," she whispered bitterly. "Looks can lie."
Sawyer gave a grim half-smile, though his gaze never left their captors. "I'd hoped for once to be wrong."
The crew had been forced ashore, bound and weaponless, guarded on all sides. The islanders spoke in sharp, unfamiliar words, gestures growing more agitated as they pointed toward Syrena.
Suddenly, two men seized her by the arms, dragging her away from the line of prisoners.
"Wait—!" Syrena struggled against their grip, feet digging into the sand. "What are you doing?!"
"Leave her!" Sawyer roared, thrashing against his bonds. The ropes dug into his skin, but he fought them anyway, fury blazing in his eyes. "She's done nothing! Take me if you must—take me!"
The islanders ignored him. One struck him across the face with a spear haft, forcing him to his knees.
"Bastards!" he spat, fighting to rise again. "You'll pay for this!"
Syrena twisted in their grasp, her gaze finding Sawyer's. There was panic there—more than panic—her lips parted, desperate to speak, to call to him, but no words came.
His own eyes locked on hers. "Syrena!" he shouted, voice hoarse, but the words echoed uselessly across the jungle as she was dragged beyond sight.
Then she was gone—swallowed by the trees.
Sawyer slumped forward, breath ragged, chains rattling as he fought and failed to follow. The crew watched in silence, none daring to speak.