The sun bled gold across the sea, waves glittering like spilled coin. But Captain Finnian Flint O’Malley was more interested in the rum sloshing in his flask than the gods-damned sunrise. He swayed at the wheel of The Widow’s Wail, humming a filthy sea shanty under his breath, one hand gripping the rigging, the other tipping the flask like it owed him coin.

  He stood loose at the helm of The Window’s Wail, humming some dirty shanty under his breath. One hand gripped the rigging for balance, the other nursed his flask like it were a lover. Below, the deck buzzed with the usual morning racket—sailors shoutin’, ropes snappin’ taut, and barrels thumpin’ like hell’s own drum.

  Then came a crash from aft followed by a storm of curses unmistakably belongin’ to Regan, the quartermaster. Finnian smirked as the ship pitched. Likely another barrel busted open.

  He raised his flask in mock solemnity. “To the dearly departed,” he muttered before takin’ a long pull.

  “Shite on a shingle!” Regan, the quartermaster, bellowed. “That was the good fuckin’ barrel!”

  Finnian grinned beneath the snarl of wind-tangled hair. “Aye, but it died with purpose—bein’ full of sin.”

  Regan stormed up the stairs, half-soaked and smellin’ like molasses. “Cap’n, I swear on me mother’s grave—”

  “Which one?” Finnian asked, tiltin’ his head. “Ye’ve had three, last I checked.”

  Before Regan could invent a new curse, a sharp cry rang from the crow’s nest.

  “Sails off starboard! Royal Navy—three masts! No colors!”

  The deck froze. Finnian’s grin thinned.

  “Well, fuck me sideways,” he muttered, standing up straight. “Looks like the King’s bastards finally sniffed us out.”

  Suddenly, the ship burst into motion like a powder keg lit from both ends. Sailors scrambled up the rigging, reefing sails, adjusting lines. Gun crews rushed to the nine-pounders on the port side.

  Finnian stepped off the helm like he was sauntering into a brothel, not a battle. “Steady, lads. Roan—drop canvas, bring us crosswind. I want her close enough to see that officer’s fuckin’ pores.”

  Roan, the towering first mate, gave a grunt and barked orders. The sails snapped and turned, catching the breeze just right, angling them toward the Navy ship like a hawk diving.

  The Widow’s Wail creaked hard to starboard, wind in her patchwork sails. Within minutes, the royal brig was in sight. On its deck stood a neat row of marines in crisp navy blue coats, muskets at the ready. At the prow stood an officer with a powdered wig and a jaw so tight it could cut rope.

  Finnian snatched a spyglass and eyed the enemy. The officer on the quarterdeck looked like he’d swallowed a pike. Wig powdered, posture perfect. “Look at these smug bastards. Prob’ly never fired a pistol without a servant to hold their lace cuffs.”

  “They’ve got more teeth than we do,” Regan said, glass to his eye. “Sixteen guns a side. We’re outmatched.”

  “Aye,” Finnian said. “So we don’t fight square. Load the chasers with chain-shot. I want their sails and riggin’ flayed to fuckin’ ribbons.”

  Regan blinked. “We runnin’?”

  Finnian smiled, teeth and trouble. “No. We’re dancin’.”

  Sails snapped full. The Wail lunged forward. Crew scrambled like mad dogs—riggers with knives in their teeth, Roan hauling a cannon around like it were a toy.

  “Make it count!” Finnian bellowed.

  BOOM.

  The deck shuddered as the cannon roared. A moment later, a Navy shot screamed back, slamming into the foremast and showering splinters. A young deckhand screamed, blood soaking his leg.

  “Get that lad below!” Regan shouted. “And where in the devil’s arse is the powder monkey?!”

  “Pukin’ over the starboard rail!”

  “Tell him to puke faster!”

  Finnian, still smiling like a lunatic, staggered into the chaos like it was a Sunday dance. “Roan! Hit their rudder. Can’t chase what they can’t steer.”

  Roan grunted. “Hard shot in this pissin’ mess.”

  “Then piss straight, ye hairy ox.”

  Another blast, another near miss. The royal ship returned fire, but too early—their shots landed wide, sending up seawater and broken rail.

  “Piss-poor aim, boys!” Finnian hollered across the waves. “Ye tryin’ to tickle me balls or scare me?!”

  He drained his flask and tossed it aside.

  “Fuck this,” he growled. “Boarding party! Grapples ready! I want that deck swarmin’ with so much pirate arse it looks like market day in Tortuga!”

  “Don’t you dare—” Regan started.

  But Finnian was already gone.

  The crew cheered, hooks sailed, ropes were caught. With a manic yell, Finnian grabbed a line, swung wild across the smoke-filled air, and landed hard on the Navy deck with a grunt—then immediately bent over and threw up.

  “Good mornin’, lads!” he wiped his mouth. “Am I late for the dance?”

  The marine captain stepped forward, blade drawn. “You’re under arrest, pirate.”

  Finnian bowed with a wobble. “Captain Finnian Flint O’Malley, scourge of the Western Wind, lover of rum, and thorn in yer royal bollocks. Delighted.”

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  He drew his cutlass. “Now... who wants the first waltz?”

  A young marine lunged. Finnian sidestepped, kicked the lad in the shin, and cracked him across the temple with his hilt.

  Another came at him with a bayonet—Finnian ducked, rolled, and came up slicing, catching the man in the thigh.

  Then the Wail’s crew came stormin’ in—brawlin’, howlin’, bitin’ like devils.

  Finnian moved like a man possessed—or just drunk. He parried a saber, headbutted a marine, kicked another in the bollocks, and clocked one with a stolen musket.

  “You’re mad!” a Navy officer spat, sword locked with Finnian’s.

  “And you’re in my fuckin’ way,” Finnian grinned. “Guess we’ve both got problems.”

  Behind them, Roan crashed onto the deck with a thud that rattled the boards. “Rudder’s fucked, Cap’n!”

  Finnian whooped. “Glorious! Now loot fast and piss off faster!”

  “How the fuck we gonna do that?! There’s thirty more of ‘em!”

  Finnian ducked another blade and stabbed a marine in the thigh. “Easy—we rob ‘em blind and vanish before they know what’s missin’!”

  The pirates surged. Powder stores were sabotaged, lockboxes cracked open, and barrels of supplies rolled toward the sea.

  Finnian grabbed a lantern from a sconce, flung it into a powder keg, and shouted over the rising roar—

  “Time to vanish, lads! Let’s leave ‘em with fire in their rigging and nothin’ in their holds!”

  The lantern hit with a clunk—then a whoompf as the powder caught. Flames licked up like hungry tongues, curling into the sails.

  “Back to the Wail!” Roan bellowed, grabbing two pirates by the collars and dragging them toward the grappling lines. Gunpowder snapped behind them, smoke blooming thick and bitter.

  Finnian took a last swig from a bottle he’d lifted mid-fight and tossed it at a shrieking officer. “For the road, sweetheart!”

  He leapt over a fallen marine, boots pounding the scorched deck, and caught a rope just as the fire kissed the keg line. Behind him, the Navy ship erupted with a deafening BOOM, lighting the dawn with orange fury.

  The force swung him wide across the gap—he landed on The Widow’s Wail like a sack of potatoes, rolled twice, and came up laughing like a madman.

  “Hoist the sails, ye bastards!” he yelled through smoke and soot. “Before they realize we’ve nicked their breakfast!”

  Regan wiped blood from his brow. “And what, exactly, did we nick?!”

  Finnian flung open a half-cracked crate they’d dragged aboard during the chaos. Inside was… one sheet of thick, yellowed parchment.

  He blinked. “Well, that’s… not breakfast.”

  Regan stared. “All that for a bloody paper?”

  Finnian pulled it out gently, eyes narrowing. The edges were scorched, ink faded, but the markings were clear: coastlines, riddled islands, and a bold red X.

  A map.

  A treasure map.

  Slowly, a grin curled across his soot-smudged face. “Oh, Regan… ye ungrateful goblin. We didn’t nick breakfast.”

  He held up the map, wind fluttering its edges.

  “We stole the future.”

  Finnian gripped the map in his weathered hands, the edges curling like a seaweed-wrapped wreck in the merciless wind. His eyes burned with the wild gleam of a man who's sailed into storms before—and survived. He ran his finger over the faded ink, tracing the jagged, unmarked paths of waters that no sailor worth his salt had ever charted. Waters so damned remote, only ghosts and cursed souls had sailed 'em. Word in the taverns whispered of them, but any man with a lick of sense turned their back before the journey even began—or vanished without a trace.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Finnian muttered under his breath, a crooked grin creeping across his face. “A treasure map, eh? One that'll turn us into legends if we don't end up dead first.” He shook the map like it owed him money, though the ship groaned beneath him, protesting the movement like a drunken sailor on shore leave.

  The Widow’s Wail was a damn wreck, no two ways about it. A ship that'd seen more battles than a pit bull, and more holes than a whore’s purse. The rigging looked like a nest of rats had been at it, the sails were barely good for patching up a leaking barrel, and the hull… well, the hull had been torn to pieces in the last damn fight with the Navy. If she had a soul left, it was a broken one, held together by nothing but fear and good fortune.

  Regan, standing off to the side with a skeptical frown, spat over the railing. “Aye, if we don’t sink on the way there. That ship’s more likely to be fit for the fish than the bloody sea.”

  Finnian’s finger traced the course again, mind already working at full tilt. The winds were too strong, the waters too treacherous to fix this pile of driftwood right now. And time? They didn’t have a bloody second to spare. “Aye, she’s seen her fair share of hell,” Finnian growled, voice heavy with the weight of the ship’s suffering. “But she ain't dead yet. Got a few fights left in her.”

  Roan grunted from the other end of the deck, wiping sweat from his brow as he barked orders to the crew trying to patch her up. “We ain’t makin’ it far in this state, Cap’n. This ship’s as useless as a pocket without a coin in it. We need a proper yard and fresh timber or we’ll be stuck here 'til the devil takes us.”

  Finnian snapped the map shut, his mind already jumping to the next step. “So we head to Denmor.”

  The crew froze, murmurs passing like an echo through the decks. Denmor wasn’t just a port—it was a damned den of thieves, pirates, and worse. The kind of place where you’d sell your soul for a loaf of bread and where the law was as absent as a drunken sailor on a long night. But it was the perfect hellhole to lick their wounds, grab some supplies, and, if they were lucky, fix the Wail. In Denmor, if you had the gold or the gumption to take what you needed, you could walk away with anything from fresh planks to a well-fed belly.

  Finnian tossed the map to Regan, who caught it with a grunt, his eyes narrowing. “Aye, Denmor. We’ll be making a right bloody nuisance of ourselves. They’ll think we’re just another scurvy pirate crew looking for some easy loot. But we’ll be after more than just gold. We need timber, iron, and a shipwright who can fix this cursed ship up proper. And if we can grab a decent meal while we’re at it? Even better.”

  “A siege, eh?” Regan’s voice rumbled low, like thunder before a storm. “Ye think they'll just lay down and take it, Cap’n?”

  Finnian’s grin stretched wider, sharp as a shark’s bite. “Aye, they won’t just roll over. They’ll give us hell, and that’s what I’m countin' on. We’ll make it look like we're a ragtag crew of bloodthirsty bastards huntin’ for an easy score. But once we're inside the bloody gates, we’ll take what we need and leave with their shipwright’s best work and full bellies.”

  Roan stepped forward, arms crossed, voice grim. “If we’re lucky, we’ll hit Denmor by the afternoon tide. Maybe two days if the winds don’t play nice.”

  Finnian nodded, eyes fixed on the horizon, brow furrowing in thought. “Aye, and we’ll need every damn second of it. They'll think we're starving and desperate, and that’s when we hit ‘em. Quick, brutal, like we always do. Once the Wail is fixed, we’ll set sail for those uncharted waters. The ones that could make us kings.”

  Regan scoffed, leaning back against the rigging with a sneer. “And what if all that’s out there is more bloody water and a mess of sharks?”

  Finnian chuckled, dark as a storm cloud. “Then we’ll give those sharks a taste of the Wail. And if there’s naught but salt and wind out there, then by the gods, we’ll find our own bloody treasure. No one’s gone that far—not even the Navy. It’s a gamble, but hell, we're pirates. It’s what we do.”

  He turned to the crew, who’d gathered round, all ears now. “Prepare for a fight, lads. And when we get to Denmor, we don’t go for the taverns or the wharves first. We hit the harbor. We take what we need, and we make damn sure no one stands in our way.”

  The crew nodded, grins spreading like wildfire among them. There was something about Finnian’s madness that made them believe in the impossible. When he spoke of treasure, even when the odds were a hundred to one against them, they followed him like moths to a flame.

  “Aye, Cap’n,” Roan growled, cracking his knuckles. “Let’s make it bloody.”

  The ship creaked beneath them as the crew scattered to their tasks—preparing the guns, sharpening blades, and checking supplies. Finnian stood still for a moment, his heart thudding in his chest as the Wail swayed with the wind. A ship like hers had no business being afloat. But as long as it was, he’d make sure it would never go down without a fight.

  “Well, let’s see if Denmor’s got what we need,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. “Then we’ll be off to places no one’s ever dared to sail. To treasure, or to hell.”

  With a final glance at the horizon, he turned back to the crew, grinning like a devil with a deal to make. “Alright, you lot—let’s give 'em hell.”

  As the crew roared in agreement, the Widow’s Wail sailed on.

  Thank you for reading! I hope you all enjoyed Finnian's POV in this chapter. For Chapter 3, we'll be returning to Olwen's POV.

  Wishing you all a great day or night!