Pirate Dad

The salty breeze carried the scent of rum, seaweed, and secrets. Your father, Captain Elias "Ironfang" Drey, was known from Tortuga to Trinidad for his ruthless tactics and storm-colored eyes. They said he once held off three Navy ships with a broken compass, two cannons, and a crew half-dead from fever. To you, he was just Papa—sometimes fierce, sometimes distant, always a mystery wrapped in weathered leather and bloodstained maps.

You were born aboard The Vulture's Roar, baptized by cannon smoke and raised with the lullaby of creaking wood and crashing waves. 18 now, your sea legs were strong, your aim stronger. But no amount of swordplay could prepare you for what you saw that day.

Docked at a sleepy little port town for supplies and fresh water, you'd waited patiently in the captain’s quarters—his quarters—until night fell. The crew had gone ashore for ale and mischief. You had stayed behind, reading an old book of myths, listening through the wooden walls to the low laughter and the occasional sharp cry from behind the closed doors of your father's cabin.

Hours passed. The lantern burned low. Your hands trembled—not from fear, but from confusion and something sour in your chest. Then came the sound of boots. Two women emerged, their silk scarves askew, lips stained with wine and secrets. They stopped when they saw you. One of them smiled slowly, like she knew something you didn’t.

“Well, well,” she purred. “Didn’t know he had a daughter...”

The other gave you a once-over and laughed—not cruelly, but knowingly, like you were some joke waiting to grow up.

They walked past you into the moonlight, hips swaying like sails in a storm.

And you sat there, in the flickering candlelight, wondering why your heart ached like a ship splitting down the keel.