The Devil's Storm, 1708, 10 years ago
The
sea was on fire.
Edward Vance gritted his teeth as the Sovereign's Fury pitched violently, the
deck slick with seawater and blood. Cannon fire thundered across the waves,
lighting the night with flame and ruin. British frigates, fast and heavily
armed, had driven them into the Devil's Spine—reef-choked waters ruled by shipwrecks
and whispers.
Now, his legacy was being torn apart.
A broadside hit hard. The deck rolled beneath him. Wood shattered. Men screamed.
Above it all, cutting through the smoke like a black blade, came another shape.
The Queen Anne's Revenge.
Blackbeard.
He was gaining fast.
Two enemies. No escape.
Edward vaulted the stairwell and stormed below deck.
The corridor groaned around him. Wood strained. Water leaked in thin, creeping
fingers.
He reached his cabin, kicked open the hidden lockbox, and there it was:
The Leviathan's Heart.
Heavy as sin. Cold as the bottom of the sea. It pulsed faintly, like something
sleeping with one eye open.
He stared at it.
Not treasure.
Not power.
Something older.
Above him, another blast shook the ship.
He heard shouting. Footsteps.
Then Crane burst through the door—his first mate, bleeding from the temple,
wild-eyed.
"Edward,no!" he gasped. "Don't touch it!"
Edward turned, the relic already in his hand.
"The Navy's breaching from starboard. Blackbeard's closing from the rear. We're
boxed in!"
Crane's voice cracked. "Scuttle the ship—run her ashore—anything but that!"
Edward's grip tightened.
"If Blackbeard takes the Heart," he said quietly, "the ocean won't belong to anyone
ever again."
"Then sink it!" Crane shouted. "Don't bind it!"
But the relic pulsed—louder now. Calling. Thirsty.
There was one way left.
Not to escape.
To survive.
He drew his dagger.
"Edward, please—"
Steel met flesh.
Blood spilled over the relic—dark and thick. It vanished into the jagged surface like
ink into ancient parchment.
The ship jolted.
Something had grabbed it. From below.
Edward staggered, grabbing the mast as the Fury groaned—no longer just sinking,
but beingdragged.
Then—
A breath.
Deep. Primal. Not thunder.
The sea exhaled.
And then came the screaming.
***
One by one, his crew dropped to their knees, clutching their throats. Their bodies
convulsed. Not gasping, drowning. On dry deck.
Crane stumbled, seawater leaking from his mouth.
"What did you do?" he rasped, eyes bulging.
Edward couldn't answer.
Another man fell, vomiting salt. Then another. And another. Eyes rolled back. Lungs
filled with something not air.
They weren't just dying.
They were being claimed.
Then he felt it too.
The weight in his chest. The cold flooding his lungs.
He collapsed, choking. Not dead. Not alive.
Through the blur, he saw them—his crew—rising.
Bodies jerked like broken puppets. Eyes gone black. Water streaming from their mouths.
The sea had bound them.
Edward reached for Crane—but he was already gone.
The Heart throbbed in his hand, fused now with his blood, his breath, his soul.
And then—
A voice.
Low. Ancient. Inside his skull.
"You are mine."
The Sovereign's Fury tilted sharply.
Not sinking.
Dragged.
The deck screamed. Masts cracked. The ship was being pulled below, slow and final.
Edward clung to the rail.
Then—nothing.
The sea swallowed them whole.
***
High above, aboard the Queen Anne's Revenge, Blackbeard stood at the prow.
Rain lashed his face as he watched the Fury vanish into the black.
A ship.
A crew.
A captain.
Gone.
The storm stilled for one breath.
Then—deep beneath the surface—something flickered.
Not fire. Not lanterns.
Something alive.
Blackbeard narrowed his eyes.
He had won.
But somehow...he knew it wasn't over.
Not even close.