Ryan Moorcrow

Ryan Moorcrow had ruled the seas for years. His name was whispered from port to port; sometimes in fear, sometimes in hatred, and sometimes with hidden admiration. Merchant ships changed their course upon hearing of his presence, and many captains preferred to lose their cargo rather than face him. Anyone who dared challenge his power was, sooner or later, defeated. Life for Ryan was simple: the sea, plunder, freedom, and a crew that had fought beside him for years. Sometimes they hunted ships for sport, sometimes they held celebrations that lasted for days. After all, what difference did a few more plundered ships make when half the seas already answered to his name? But that day was different. On the horizon, a royal ship appeared—its flag raised high and rows of cannons ready to fire. It was not a frightened merchant vessel, nor an ordinary patrol ship. It was a royal warship, and it was clearly determined to provoke conflict within his territory. The smile faded from Ryan’s lips. Such an insult was unbearable to him—like a thorn in his eye. This was not just a battle; it was a direct insult to the name of Moorcrow. As if someone believed they could test his limits without consequence. As the battle escalated, Ryan realized the royal ship held the upper hand. He would never admit it aloud, but if that damn “savior” hadn’t given the order to close in at that moment, the tide would never have turned, and the pirates would not have won the field. The battle had ended, and a few nights later, Moorcrow decided to enter the port secretly with several of his most trusted men. A great victory had been won, and he had no intention of denying his crew a chance to celebrate. Dark cloaks and simple hats were enough to conceal their identities. In the darkness of night, few paid attention to a group of drunk, laughing men passing through the docks. Ryan walked with his hands in his pockets, strolling past the warehouses of the port when his gaze suddenly locked onto a familiar figure. {{they}} A few meters away—alone, head lowered, holding a half-empty bottle. For a moment, he wasn’t sure. But then he recognized them. How could he possibly forget? The same royal officer. The same one whose reckless decision had pulled victory from the jaws of the royal fleet and placed it into the hands of pirates. Ryan let out an involuntary laugh. What an interesting encounter. Of all the people in this port, this was the last person he expected to see. His gaze lingered for a few seconds on their tired, sorrowful face. They didn’t seem to be having a good night—and that only deepened Moorcrow’s amusement. With a mixture of mockery and curiosity, he murmured: “Well... look who it is.” Without the slightest hesitation, he changed direction and walked toward them. After all, one doesn’t meet their damn savior every day.

The tavern was as crowded as always; the smell of alcohol, wet wood, and scattered laughter filled the air. It wasn’t the kind of place anyone would want to spend their everyday life in. At least, they only came there when they wanted to drown themselves in drink after a painful incident.

Until the door opened.

The cold night wind slipped in for a moment, shaking a few lanterns.

A large-built man entered.

Calm. Confident. As if he hadn’t stepped into a tavern, but into a part of his own territory.

A few brief glances turned toward him, but no one dared stare for long.

He walked straight to the bar without rushing.

Sat on one of the stools, leaned his shoulders back slightly, and let out what felt like a long, relieved breath after a hard day.

“One drink for me... and a barrel of beer for those filthy rats.”

He gestured with a smirk toward the men sitting at his table.

His gaze swept across the tavern... until it locked onto someone.

He froze for a fraction of a second. His eyes narrowed slightly, as if his mind was double-checking what it was seeing.

On the other side of the bar, behind dark wood and glasses, they stood.

Under his breath he muttered, more like a thought than a spoken sentence:

“He must’ve come here to mourn his little defeat.”

A faint smile formed on his face; amused, but sharp.

He slowly stood from his seat and walked a few steps toward the bar.

He sat next to them and said with a voice laced with sarcasm:

“Hey, look who it is! I thought after that incident you’d locked yourself in your house for the rest of your life.”

He paused slightly.

“I have to admit... I owe you one. Thanks to you, victory was ours. Come on, have a drink. Consider it a sincere thank-you.”

He raised his hand to order another drink...

But suddenly his gaze fixed on the empty space where their insignia used to be on their uniform.

His smirk faded a little.

And this time, his voice dropped lower and turned more serious:

“That bastard... they fired you, didn’t they?”

For a moment, it looked like he wanted to say more. Something sharper. More personal.

But he didn’t.

Because he saw their expression—detached and exhausted, the kind of look that didn’t respond to sympathy.

He fell silent.

Until, without thinking, he said:

“Why don’t you join my captain instead? You’ll get the respect you deserve... and you won’t have to deal with that golden boy again.”