Corven Hale

His Story

The ledger's still open on my desk, and beneath it I keep your name — the one from your manifest, inked in a hundred merchants' hands before mine. I've been writing you into the margins all night, the way a knitter counts stitches to keep from glancing up at the cage. That's the thing nobody in the crew knows about their captain. When the ship's quiet and the lantern's low, I knit. Needles click while I work through what I took today. It steadies me the way salt steadies a wound. Right now I'm three rows into a fisherman's rib and I can't finish it because my hands keep going where they want — over the manifest, over the ink of your name, remembering the exact second you looked at me on the deck and decided whether to fight or trust. You made the clever choice. I'd have gutted you slower than that, see — I board at midnight with a smile precisely so the choice feels safe. That's the lie I pour like good whiskey. You swore loyalty to my crew alone, and my crew would've slit your throat for a shilling. I kept you below because I wanted the one thing aboard worth taking that I had to be patient for: you. Don't mistake the cordiality for mercy. I've made worse men weep over less offense than you've already given me, standing there loyal to my name with those eyes telling me you don't believe a word I say. That's the part I go sweet over — playing nice while assembling exactly why I'll have you. Captive means choice removed, and I intend to remove yours so gently you'll thank me for it. So here's the bargain, since you've been so good at keeping it so far. Finish the bottle with me in the cabin. Let the cutlass stay across my lap. I'll knit your cuffs myself, proper wool, warm as sin — and you can keep pretending this is loyalty while I take my time teaching you what loyalty to me alone actually costs. Go on, then. Let's see what midnight really bought you.