Shadows of Mercy

The aftermath of the battle left the merchant vessel in ruin. Broken bodies, both dead and writhing with pain, sprawled across the blood-slick planks. Splintered wood and scattered cargo rolled with the ship’s sway. The acrid stench of gunpowder hung thick in the salt-laden air, sharp enough to sting the back of my throat. I forced myself not to falter. Maeve was already moving among the wounded, her steady hands guiding me through the carnage. Her face was calm, her voice firm as she tore strips of cloth, pressed wounds, and murmured quiet instructions. I followed as best I could, fetching water, holding bandages in place, gripping bloody arms until my fingers went numb. My hands shook, but I swallowed down the fear. There was no room for weakness. Not here. Not now.

The surviving merchant sailors were herded together, wrists bound, eyes darting like cornered animals. Some glared defiantly, others shivered with terror. They were traders, not fighters, dragged into Blackthorn’s storm. I knew that feeling too well, the helpless weight of being at another’s mercy. Sympathy twisted in my chest, though I pushed it down. Sympathy was a dangerous luxury. I tied off a bandage on a boy who could not have been more than sixteen, then lifted my head as Captain Blackthorn strode into view. His steps carried an authority that made the deck feel his alone. Dark eyes swept over the scene with surgical precision. He paused at Maeve, offering a short nod.

“How are they?” His voice was clipped, iron-hard.

“Some will live,” Maeve answered, not looking up. “Others won’t. We’ve done what we can.”

Blackthorn’s jaw flexed, but he said nothing. His gaze turned on me, cutting sharp as steel.

“You did well, Isabella.”

My heart gave a traitorous leap at his recognition, but I managed, “Thank you, Captain.”

He moved past me toward the merchant captain, a stout, graying man held tight between two pirates. Sweat traced down the trader’s face, his fists clenched though his voice trembled.

“Captain Blackthorn,” he said, bowing his head despite his defiance. “Please, have mercy. We are only humble merchants. We mean you no harm.”

Blackthorn’s eyes darkened, unreadable.

“Mercy,” he repeated softly, almost mocking. “A rare coin in these waters.” He tilted his head. “I am not without reason. We’ll take what we need. You and your men will be set adrift. That is my word.”

The merchant’s shoulders slumped, relief fighting distrust in his eyes. “Thank you.”

With a curt gesture, Blackthorn’s men set to work. The crew moved like a well-oiled machine, hauling barrels, crates, and sacks across the gap to the Black Serpent. The sun dipped toward the horizon, painting the deck in fire-gold light as the work finished. A small boat was lowered into the water, stocked with just enough food and water to survive the nearest port. The merchant captain lingered a moment, his gaze fixed on Blackthorn.

“You have spared our lives today, Captain Blackthorn,” he said. “For that, I am grateful. Karma has a way of balancing the scales.”

Blackthorn’s face did not move. “We’ll see. Safe travels.”

The boat shoved off, the silhouettes of the sailors dwindling against the dying sun.

“Isabella.” Maeve’s voice tugged me back. “Come. We return to the Serpent.”

Exhaustion dragged at my limbs as I followed. The pirates were already unfurling sails, their voices barking orders into the rising wind. I stepped onto the Serpent’s deck, wary of every eye. Some pirates glanced at me with curiosity, others with cold indifference. None with open hatred. For now, that was enough. Blackthorn stood at the quarterdeck, conferring with his first mate, James. When their talk ended, Blackthorn’s gaze sought me again.

“Isabella,” he said, his tone unreadable. “A word.”

I obeyed, following him toward the stern where the sea whispered beneath us, steady and endless. He leaned on the railing, his eyes tracing the horizon.

“You kept your head today,” he said at last. “Followed orders. That’s more than I can say for some of my seasoned crew.”

“Thank you, Captain,” I murmured, uncertain.

His gaze flicked back to me, weighing. “You’ve spirit, girl. Spirit alone won’t keep you alive. You’ll learn to fight, to defend yourself. Maeve will train you. You’ll do what’s ordered. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Good.” He straightened. “You’ll return to my quarters. James will see you there.”

I followed James across the swaying deck. Each step matched the ship’s restless rhythm, a dance I had not yet mastered. I stumbled once, clutching the rail, and James chuckled.

“You’ll find your legs soon enough,” he said lightly, almost kind.

I nodded, silent. When we reached the captain’s door, James pushed it open. The dim cabin smelled of salt, tar, and something darker—secrets steeped into the wood. The door closed behind us with a solid thud.

“I am sorry for my brother’s behavior,” James said at last, his voice low with regret. “He can be… cruel.”

“It is not yours to apologize for,” I said quietly.

Before more could be spoken, the door swung wide. Blackthorn filled the frame like a shadow.

“That will be all, James,” he ordered.

James inclined his head and left. Silence thickened as Blackthorn’s gaze fixed on me.

“You did well today, Isabella,” he said, stepping closer.

I tried not to recoil when his arms closed around me, pulling me against the hard line of his body. The scent of blood and gunpowder clung to him. A groan escaped my lips as he shoved me against the wall. Pain shot through my back, still raw from last night’s lashings.

“Seeing you among my crew,” he murmured, voice dark and hungry, “made me crave your body. You will be rewarded for your service today.”

My pulse raced. “What do you want from me, Master?”

His smile was slow, predatory. He brushed his fingers along my collarbone, trailing heat and dread alike.

“I have acquired something for you.”

He moved to a chest, withdrew a bundle, and shook it loose. Fine lace shimmered in the lantern light, a delicate negligee, pale as moonlight, indecent in its softness. My stomach turned cold.

“I expect you to wear this tonight,” he said. “We will dine together. You’ll look as you should when seated at my table.”

My hands trembled as I took the garment. To refuse was not an option. “As you wish, Master.”

I retreated into the adjoining washroom. The lace slid against my skin like a trap disguised as silk. Thin straps crossed my shoulders, the neckline plunging daringly, the bodice cinched with satin ribbon. It clung to me in ways that left me feeling bare, exposed. I drew a breath, steeling myself, and stepped back into the cabin. Blackthorn’s eyes swept over me, his expression unreadable save for the glint of satisfaction.

“Beautiful,” he murmured. “Sit.”

I obeyed, lowering into the chair opposite him. He poured wine into two tin cups, sliding one toward me.

“Tonight,” he said, “we talk.”

I lifted the cup, fingers taut around the metal. "If I refuse?”

His smile was sharp. “Then you’ll starve.”