She’s racing her way through familiar streets. A laugh bubbles in her throat as she weaves, short legs and pudgy fingers pushing through the crowded market. She’s… young, her wild mane of black hair flying behind her as she hurtles around a corner - and straight into a pair of strong, familiar legs.

“Miri, my little minnow! How was my little girl today?”

“A little nightmare,” replies her mother, dry and slightly out of breath as she rounds the corner behind her. “Really, dear, did you have to give her your stubbornness? I’m about ready to tear out my hair!”

Her father reaches down to pick her up with thick, wind-tanned arms and bounces her on his hip. “She’ll be a sailor one day, Nuala. Best way to survive the waves is to know how to bend and not to break. Now, Miriam, my little nightmare -” she giggles, reaching out to yank on his beard, and he chortles with her. “You bend for the soft breezes like your mama, okay? Because when the storm and its strong winds come, you need to have your strength saved up to fight those instead.”

“Whatever storms could you possibly mean, Alban?”

“Why, my dear, your darling dragon of a mother of course - I’m joking, I’m joking!”

She’s in front of the path to her house, facing off against her father as her mother stands in the doorway, hands covering her mouth. She’s a young girl yet, just the faintest hint of height in her legs and toned muscle in her arms. But her eyes crackle with lighting to match the storm raging in her heart.

“You can’t keep me off the water! You can’t!”

“Now, Miri - ”

“You’ll have to break me yourself to stop me, Da! Because I’ll NOT BEND!”

Silence. The two stare at each other, sea waves crashing against the rocks in the distance. It’s been her cornerstone, her guiding star, witness to her entire life from the day she was born. She’ll not lose it. Not now. Not ever. The space between them stretches, and she takes in a long, slow breath to fold her rage back inside her thin frame. She swallows, voice softer; bleeding, but not broken. Never broken. “I’ll not.”

Her father exchanges a single look with her mother, then sighs deeply. “Alright, little minnow. You’re right, you’re old enough to choose. We sail out tomorrow at first light.” He pauses and looks her over, steel entering his gaze. “But you obey me out on the ocean, you hear me? A captain’s word is law on their ship. And if you break that, I’ll throw you overboard myself.”

She’s older - barely more a woman than girl - and her throat is raw with her screams. She lays there, cheek against the sand, and watches the blood trickle down her fingertips to fall with slight ripples into the lapping tide. Her body can’t support her rage, her storm, anymore, and she watches as it drips away. Another droplet. And another. And another. And -

The droplet hangs suspended above the frozen surf. Spray stills mid air. Silence, true silence, presses in upon her. An oppressive heat swells, pervading flesh and soul alike. Something black and twisted rises from the water before her without a single ripple, and her eyes slowly track after it, squinting to make out its crooked, humanoid form. It grins at her, mouth full of sharp teeth tangled with seaweed, and calls out to her with a hoarse laugh.

“Yer quite the sight now, ain't ye, girly?”

Her response turns into a wet, hacking cough - and all she manages to gasp out is, “...what?”

“Called me here withou’ knowing, didja?” The figure shook its head, thick dreadlocks swishing with the motion. “Old ritual, oooooold ritual. Blood of th’ innocent gifted t’ the sea by a heart of rage.” It regards her with eyes like black pits, eerie and empty. “‘Course, even those tha’ call me a’ purpose get more n’ they bargain for, usually.”

The words make her head spin further, vision already slightly blurry around the edges. It takes her a moment to realize the silence is expectant, the figure’s head tilting as it watches her. “I don’t… understand…”

“Care t’ make a deal?” The creature bends slightly, cupping a hand of the blood-soaked foam and bringing it to his lips, slurping loudly. Then it grins, teeth stained crimson. “I’m the devil, girly.” Suddenly it’s right in front of her, crouching down to peer into her eyes, scant inches separating pupilless black from dulling blue. “Make a deal with me. Give me yer skill, yer soul. Give me the ocean in yer eyes and the storm in yer heart, and I’ll get ya the revenge ye want on these here raiders.”

She wants it. In that moment she wants it so badly that her pain and exhaustion slip away, dominated by the resurgence of her fury. Her heart races, storm rumbling in her chest, but… all she tastes is still iron, blood pooling thick in the back of her throat. She coughs wetly once more. “What… what happens then?”

“Then? Well, tha’ depends on ye! Been ever so long since I’ve had a soul t’ eat as vibrant as yours.” The creature - the devil leans in closer, putrid breath thick as he smacks his lips. “Course, could always use it elsewhere too. Not near enough sailors endin’ up in me waters as late t’ keep me fed. Suppose I could… lighten yer sentence, as it were, were ye t’ get me a few others instead.” He hopped backwards, balancing perfectly on the crest of a wave. “Unless ye decide ye want t’ die here an’ now after all.”

Miriam’s gaze sinks slowly back to the unmoving water, resting on the single drop of blood suspended above it. These… these raiders. They burned her home. They killed her parents. They sunk the ship that was meant to be hers. Only half her face moves properly, but still her lips curl downward into a snarl. They’ve taken everything else from her. They will not take away the sea.

The devil claps, delighted, taking her snarl as her answer. A quick gesture manifests a scroll of parchment between them as he trots over the waves back to her. “Perfec’ perfec’! That’s a good girl! Or a bad one, dependin’ on who ye ask. But we’ll get ye what ye want, I guarantee it, I really do!” He brandishes the quill with a flourish, words - a contract - appearing on the paper even though he never once draws it across the page. Then he turns back to her with his bloody grin.

“So, ya ready t’ make a deal with the devil, girly?”

“No.”

For the first time since he appeared, confusion flickers through the devil’s eyes. “Huh? But ya jus- “

Bend if you must, little Miri, but do not break. The weight of the frozen world presses in against her from all sides, yet Miraim manages to close her hand into a fist. Fingers curl in one by one and squeeze until fresh pain shoots through her palm once more, trembling beads of blood forced free and falling to form ripples on the otherwise smooth sea. Blue eyes look up to meet pupilless black. And the dying woman drags in her arm, braces it against the stand, and pushes herself upright. She stands tall, weight entirely on one leg, and stares down the figure before her.

“Is the devil ready to make a deal with me?”

Skin throbbed; muscles spasmed. Burning fangs sunk deep into flesh and bone, but she made no sound as coal-black fire burned away her broken limbs.

Her leg below the knee. Her arm just past her shoulder. The entire left side of her face, trawling down her neck and collarbone. Flames devoured the wrecked and ruined flesh before the cool sting of the ocean slipped through its cracks, weaving the ivory tides of her soul in its wake.

She took slow, limping steps along the ruins of the wharf. Flesh, then soul, then flesh again. Blood dripped down her forearm, the mark of the sworn oath dyeing the crimson stream a thick, inky black. Let it scar, she snarled, vicious. She would remember the bargain made today.

The girl reached the end of the ravaged pier and fixed her eyes on the depths below. A single ship of the raider’s fleet greeted her, sunk by the town’s cannons before the slaughter. Their vessel would better suit her needs than the handful of dinghies and fishing boats barely afloat in the quay. She snapped translucent fingers, wisps of alabaster drifting across her knuckles, and the ship rose upwards. Its scorched hull, pitted and cratered, reformed as its torn and ragged sails gradually mended. A flick of her hand as the vessel - her vessel - settled and bobbed on the gentle roll of the harbor tide, and its gangway extended down to meet her. She strode across it, slow steps growing more steady with each pace.

Once she boarded, the bridge vanished. The ship lurched and tilted, sending her staggering against the rail. Steady, Miriam. She must stand tall on her own. She had no one left to lean on. Her ship steadied itself along with her as she straightened. Its prow turned towards the open waters to match her gaze fixed upon the horizon. It sailed forward, cresting the first waves as the new Captain took her first steps toward the helm.

She did not look back.

You are definitely, totally, not at all afraid of the dark.

Being afraid of the dark is for little kids. You’re not little anymore- you’re almost fifteen. Fifteen-year-olds get invited to big, late-night, no-parents-around sleepover parties.
There’s no way you could’ve passed up an invite to this.

But… standing out here, alone, in the pitch-black night… you kinda wish you had.

Your tenuous steps echo through your ears as you make your way down the silent, unlit street. Why did you have to be the one to walk all the way to the corner store?
You’re not… afraid, really. But it’s not like it’s comfortable, either, walking in winter in the middle of the night.

What was that? You start as something calls through the darkness. No, it was… it was just a hoot. It must be an owl.
You shutter and try to shake away the dark thoughts creeping into your head. You’re not afraid. It’s just… cold. You’re shuttering for warmth.

They said it should only be about a fifteen-minute walk. That’s easy; you’re probably already halfway there. This… isn’t really so bad. You’re getting used to the chill.
The owl hoots again, and you force yourself to breathe deep. The owl’s almost good company. Kind of helps with the whole… sensory deprivation thing that goes on when you’re wandering alone.
Keeps your mind from wandering too much.

Did they really just do this because they wanted snacks? Their faces had seemed so… mischievous, when they first asked.
They said they always did it at sleepovers; get super hungry around midnight and send someone out for junk food. They said you had to go because it was your first time.
That it would make you a real member of the group. That was so fake, wasn’t it! You feel your face bunch up in frustration as you repeat their words. “Oh c’mon hun, what’s wrong? You’re not afraid of the dark, are you?”

”Oh c-c-cmon, hun”

Your stomach drops as terror shakes your limbs. Your feet stop, and you quiet your breath as much as you can. You strain, listening for anything, any words, any footsteps, any indication that you are not alone.

But it is silent except for the sound of your heartbeat, strong in your ears, as if it’s already outside your chest.

It must have been an echo. That’s all. You step forward hesitantly, thoughts still on the silence around you.

”You’re not afraid of the d-dark, are you?”

The voice is shrill and scratchy, as if someone was speaking by grating two pieces of metal together. You bolt, breath stinging your throat as your feet slam slam slam onto the concrete.
You need to run you need to leave you need to get back. Someone’s chasing you you’re sure of it, they must be right behind you. You can’t slow down, you’re going to die.

You have never been more afraid.

The Nightmare glided smoothly between curtains of haze, the thick, shimmering fog parting before her as her bow flicked cool foam into the hot summer air. Beyond her came the muffled echoes of screams and gunshots. The Captain grinned, as silent as her craft while the Nightmare skulked closer to the pair of interlocked ships swathed in mist. One was obviously a merchant vessel well out of guarded shipping lanes. The other…? No clear markings. Perfect. She raised ghostly fingers and snapped.

Lightning cracked directly overhead, bolts of white energy splitting the murky sky and catching the unmarked mast. It erupted into flame, raining chunks of burning wood and ember on the crew below. Whoops and hollers gave way to panicked screams, the deckhands breaking rank and scattering in disarray. The Captain’s grin widened, and a long rope settled in her hands as the Nightmare drew soundlessly abreast of the fight.

Her boots struck the deck in the center of the pandemonium, her first pistol cracking out before she even let go of the rope. Cutlass in one hand and a continuing series of guns blazing in the other, the Captain took out sailor after sailor in a whirl of carnage. A dark chuckle reverberated through her chest, bursting forth into a roar of laughter. Arcs of blood flew as she kicked one crewman through a rail, drove her sword through the gut of another, and crushed the throat of a third bare-handed, phantom limbs swelling in power with each soul. In mere minutes, she had slaughtered the entirety of the pirate ship, their ghosts sinking to the ocean’s depths below. As for the other…

She turned sharp eyes on the merchant vessel. Poorly armed, and even more poorly captained to have sailed this far out of patrolled waters just to shave a few days off a long voyage. It would be easy - so easy - to leap from one ship to the other, to claim the lives of the misplaced crew and fuel her storm further. The Captain licked her lips, gaze narrowing in thirst, in hunger.

Muffled sobs reached her in the otherwise terrified silence, and she turned, eyes falling upon a shaking bundle half-hidden by a pile of rigging. The merchant crew cowered away from her - all save one, a man who stood between her and the shaking bundle, using his own body in an attempt to shield it from view. A father, then. A child…

The Captain exhaled, eyes closing briefly. The taste of blood still stung the back of her throat, even years later. Her storm could find other ways to grow. She would become a different nightmare than the one she had replaced.

Miriam turned on her heel and strode away across the deck. She leapt from the pirate’s ship back to hers, a gesture bringing the mist to rise thick once more and wrap the pair of them tightly in its embrace. The Nightmare vanished with nary a whisper.

Let the innocent survive.

You’ve lost track of just how long you’ve been wandering.

Has it been years? Or days? Despair creeps into your mind as you look out over the endless sands before you. The wind whips at your silver cloak, as if the desert itself is trying to pull your tired body to the ground.
Your mask filters out the sand as you take a deep breath and shake the desperate thoughts from your mind. The time does not matter.
You hold your head upwards, still and strong against the winds, defiance fueling your next step forward. You will find it.

A battlefield of powers beyond comprehension. A way to gain their favor. The words you should not have read echo in your mind, as clear as they’d been on the Scripture’s forbidden pages.
“The war of Order and Chaos spreads through milennia. Their champions possess a small fraction of the quills’ power, but are perhaps the closest humanity has come to rewriting history.”
A single paragraph hidden in a section of the Scripture you were commanded not to read. No Quill ever questions the will of the Scripture.

It had perhaps been your first act of defiance.

You reach the top of a hill and look below at the small path left by your thick boots before the sand whisks it away as if it never were. Your nose flares, and you stomp again, defiantly, into the sand.
Someday your eyes will see more than this barren desert. Someday you will force the sand to flee from your steps and never return.

You reach down and unclasp the small leather pouch on your belt, the movement by now as routine as your steps. Your fingers close around the perfectly-snug leather binding that rests inside and bring it up to your gaze.
Though the Scripture will forever echo in your head, the old man’s words cut through them, a defiant verse to their refrain.
“A battlefield is no place to heal a broken spirit.” Would he scoff, now, knowing you search for the very thing he had cautioned you from?

Perhaps you should write of your journey. Of your search for the battlefield that may heal your broken spirit. You do not need to open the book to see its bare pages, like a held breath, waiting for your own words to blossom.

But you do not know what to write. You never do. So you put the book away once more into its perfectly-snug leather pouch. You do not glance down in the movement;
you do not want to see the barren wasteland the Scripture wrote for you, the harsh winds and floating crystals that have appeared by the Scripture’s design.
You stare instead at the barren wasteland you have chosen to walk for yourself. And then you take another step forward, your footprint lasting mere seconds before the sand whisks it away as if it never were.

Even a small glance can be an act of defiance.

The spirit kept their head bowed, their entire form quivering with the sickly green of fear.

The Captain paused, mouth open to issue a command, and looked the cowering sailor up and down. They flinched, feeling her gaze even without meeting it, and she closed her mouth with a frown. Her eyes flicked over the rail to their former ship thoughtfully; its sails slowly stained deep scarlet. It circled her storm, the first of her soon-to-be growing fleet.

She’d thrown their crass, brainless captain to the depths already and sent the first sailor she’d recruited to man its helm in his stead. The devil-bound bonehead had been screaming, spit flying and whip cracking as he hid behind his crew in a vain attempt to shield himself from her approach. He’d obviously ruled his ship through sheer terror and nothing else.

The Captain looked back to the former mate. Fear was useful. It gave her an edge over her enemies, kept them too panicked and shaken to form a proper defense. Her now-familiar smirk curled over her lips; half the ships on the sea were watching over their shoulder for the tell-tale sign of her crimson sails. She’d earned that. Earned the dread that cloaked her name and the terrified whispers landlubbers spoke of her storm. Earned the fear of those too foolish to respect the seas they sailed. But here…

Miriam’s shoulders eased, and she folded her arms behind her back, smirk gentling to something closer to a smile. Fear was useful - in her enemies. But for her crew it was… inefficient. It stifled creativity, suffocated potential. Respect - even admiration - was far more practical.

“A Captain’s word is law on their ship,” she spoke softly, eyes never leaving the recruit. “And my word is final upon the sea. But if you speak, I will listen.” The ghost’s aura flickered, streaks of white lightening the green as they looked up at her, startled. Miriam’s voice continued, tone serious. “I have no use for sailors who are too afraid to sail. If you fear the ocean, tell me, and I will have your spirit laid to rest on land instead.” Mismatched eyes, perfect orbs of black and white, held the sailor’s gaze calmly. “If you are too afraid, tell me. And I will listen.”

Miriam gave the same words - the same choice - many times over the years that followed.

Not one took her up on the offer to leave.