The world of piracy had been his refuge, his muse, and his obsession—and his source of income for several decades. For years, Balin Van Buuren had lived through his characters, sailing across fictional seas in search of adventures that delighted his audience. His hero, the Red Falcon, stood against empires to free the oppressed, always pursuing hidden treasures and remaining loyal to King and Country.

  Balin’s novels always ended with cheers and songs in a tavern by the docks of Wapping, a conclusion that promised hope even in the darkest times. It was a somewhat repetitive formu, but one that had earned him a significant audience and allowed him to pay his debts.

  However, the waves that once carried him forward had begun to turn against him. His test novel had been a failure. The publishing house had coldly dismissed it, arguing that pirate stories were a thing of the past.

  As he walked beneath the light drizzle of London, Balin recalled his st meeting with the editors at the offices of Hawthorn & Barrington on Fleet Street.

  “The audience wants realism, romance… no more swashbuckling adventures,” they had told him.

  “I know. That’s why I wrote Heart of the Caribbean,” Balin replied.

  “Balin,” one of the editors said, removing his gsses and studying him more closely, “your novel felt like a poor imitation of Liza Haywood’s romantic dramas—only set in the Caribbean, with pirates added.”

  “I’m sorry, Balin,” the other editor said, rising and extending his hand. “We wish you the best of luck in your future projects.”

  That unfortunate meeting had all but buried his career. In need of air, Balin made his way toward the docks to clear his mind.

  As he neared Wapping, the sounds of the port grew louder: the creaking of moored ships, the rhythmic sp of waves against wooden pilings, and the low murmurs of sailors unloading cargo beneath the dim glow of nterns. The atmosphere stirred conflicting emotions within him—on one hand, the thrill of the maritime world that had once fueled his creativity; on the other, the bitter realization that the world he had inhabited through his novels was now considered obsolete.

  Seeking refuge, Balin entered a tavern by the docks—the White Pelican—the very sort of pce where his characters once celebrated their victories. Tonight, however, there were no victories to toast. Only a gss of rum and the bitter company of his thoughts, despite the tavern being packed with adventurers and drunken sailors shouting and singing to the tune of a poorly pyed melody. A waitress, her neckline daringly low, attempted to liven the mood by singing as she moved between tables.

  That was when a stranger noticed him.

  A rough-looking man, his face weathered by sun and marked with scars that spoke of a hard life, approached with a mocking smile.

  “I know who you are… you’re the novelist,” he said.

  “And how do you know I’m a writer? I could be a wine merchant,” Balin replied ftly.

  “Come on. Velvet jacket, powdered wig, and the face of a gentleman. Besides, your portrait is on the covers of your little books.”

  “I never thought the likeness was so accurate,” Balin said, unimpressed.

  The man sat across from him and set his mug on the table.

  “What’s the matter? Are you here to draw inspiration from our misfortunes? To listen to a tale that makes you rich while the poor devil in the story dies forgotten, living only on memories?”

  “I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed, my good sir,” Balin replied. “My reason for being here is far from cheerful. My test novels have failed. My st manuscript—the one I poured time, effort, and love into—was rejected. Now I find myself nearly penniless, with barely enough coins to keep my creditors at bay.”

  The man narrowed his eyes.

  “Well, sooner or ter we all get rained on,” he said. “Some of us were simply born in the storm.”

  They drank to that and began to talk. Late into the night, between shared jests and empty mugs, the man hinted that he knew a story—a real one—far more fantastic than anything Balin had ever written.

  “It’s a shame I’m an ignorant man,” the pirate sighed. “Had I written it down, I’d be living in a pace instead of rotting in a pce like this.”

  “I’m dying to hear it,” Balin said, his gaze drifting toward the crowd.

  The pirate drained his tankard, as if the rum were needed to grease the tale. He wiped his beard with the back of his hand, set the mug down with a heavy thud, and fixed his eyes on Balin.

  “There are many legends whispered in the ports,” he murmured, his voice low and gravelly, “but few are soaked in blood, death, and madness like this one.”

  Leaning forward, he lowered his voice further.

  “It was a pirate ship—hardened by a thousand raids, crewed by men who feared neither God nor Devil. But the sea… the sea is treacherous, d. A storm took them—a hurricane unlike any they had ever seen. The sky roared like a starving beast, and the waves rose as though they meant to swallow the ship whole.”

  He paused, allowing the image to settle in Balin’s mind.

  “When the storm passed, the ship y shattered upon an isnd that appeared on no map—a cursed pce, if you ask me. The jungle was thick, the air heavy with something ancient… something that did not belong to this world.”

  “They survived. They searched for water, for food. And what they found, Your Excellency—what they found…”

  He licked his lips.

  “At the heart of a cavern, hidden among rocks bck as death, they discovered a treasure beyond imagining. Gold. Jewels. Relics from forgotten ages.”

  Balin listened with thinly veiled skepticism.

  “And what’s so novel about that?” he asked.

  The pirate smiled.

  “There was more than treasure. Among the riches y a relic of unknown origin—an object said to grant power to whoever possesses it. For centuries, kingdoms, empires, even the Holy Inquisition have sought it. The curse bound to the isnd doomed the captain who found it.”

  He leaned closer.

  “And do you know who that captain was?”

  Balin shrugged.

  “Verbeck,” the pirate said softly. “The very same. A terror to the Spanish and every other power at sea. When the Spanish and French finally joined forces to hunt him down, he fled to his secret isnd—there to die with his cursed crew.”

  The old sea wolf fell silent, his gaze lost in memory—or in his tankard.

  “With no survivors,” he whispered, “the isnd’s location vanished.”

  He leaned back and smiled faintly.

  “Or so they say.”

  Balin cleared his throat.

  “Forgive me for asking, my friend,” he said, “but if no one survived… how do you know this tale?”

  The man took another drink, winked, and replied.

  “Because I survived. And I have the journal.”

  From within his pea coat, he produced an old notebook. Its yellowed pages were filled with sketches and maps that spoke of an obsessive cartographer. Each line stirred something Balin thought he had lost forever: inspiration.

  The pirate soon succumbed to drink, breaking into old sea shanties before colpsing into sleep. That was when Balin made his decision.

  He gnced around the tavern, then carefully took the journal and slipped away. Outside, the night swallowed him whole as he pressed the notebook to his chest like a lifeline in a storm.

  Whether the pages held truth or the ravings of a drunk mattered little. Balin knew only this: the story he had been waiting for was finally in his hands.