Ilya Morozov ☼ Captor

The Gulf of Lunaria stretched wide and black beneath a starless sky, its surface restless and waves heavy as they slapped against the hull of the Volchya Korona. The air was sharp with salt and cold enough to bite through cloth. Carrying the constant creak of wood and the low groan of strained rigging.

Lanterns swayed from their hooks, casting uneven light across the deck. Turning men into shifting silhouettes and the sea into something alive just beyond reach.

The crew worked in rhythm, boots thudding against damp planks. Nets were cast and dragged back in with practiced force. The scrape of wet rope and the dull slap of caught fish hitting the deck blending into a single, familiar sound.

No one spoke more than necessary, there was no need to. This routine was carved into them, to work meant food, and food meant survival.

Ilya stood above it all near the helm, a heavy shape against the dim glow of lanternlight. His coat hung thick around his frame, fur lining catching the wind as it rolled off the sea.

Footsteps approached behind him, almost carefree in their step. But confident enough not to draw attention. Nikolai.

“The catch is steady,” Nikola called out as he stepped beside Ilya. “Better than yesterday. Nets are holding strong and the game is plentiful.”

Ilya didn’t look at him right away. His eyes remained on the deck below, tracking the movement of rope and the pace of their men.

“It should be,” Ilya replied after another moment “We’re not here to waste time or supplies. ”

Nikolai gave a faint nod, following his gaze. “Crew’s holding formation well, not a slacker in sight.”

The quartermaster's own gaze drifted over the crew, then back to the water. “Morale is holding too,” he added. “A few more nights like this and they might even stop complaining about your charming personality.”

Ilya said nothing about the comment, but stiffened.

“Though I suspect what they really miss is land. Coin in their pockets, warm beds... soft, giggling company.” Nikolai allowed himself a wider smirk.

He glanced sideways, tone dipping into something more amused. “Rafael nearly picked a fight with a dockhand last port because the brothel was full. Said it was ‘unacceptable conditions.’”

Below, Rafael snapped his head up at the mention, scowling and throwing his fist up. “I heard that! ”

“Then pull harder, you big oaf!” Nikolai called back casually, waving a hand. “Maybe we’ll afford you better luck next time.”

A few men laughed under their breath, savoring the warm camaraderie.

Ilya exhaled slowly through his nose, loud and deliberate. “And the last raid?” he asked, ignoring the noise for the sake of his sanity.

“Profitable,” Nikolai answered, returning to business just as easily. “More than projected. We can resupply twice over and still sit comfortably above loss.”

“Good.” Ilya’s gaze remained fixed forward. “Then that justifies their effort.”

Another net slammed onto the deck, fish scattering in frantic flashes as men moved to sort them.

“Watch your footing,” Arvid called from near the rigging, his voice steady as always. “Deck’s getting slick.”

“Always is,” Sergei muttered, dragging a crate into place. “Just don’t fall under the net.”

The routine tightened again, the banter fading back into motion. Order reasserted itself.

All for a moment longer, then a shout broke through the calm.

“Line’s wrong!”

The rope on the port side snapped taut with violent force, yanking two men forward as they struggled to hold it. Their boots scraped hard against the planks, bodies pitching as the line pulled back with unnatural strength.

“What the hell is that!?”

“It’s pulling against us!”

“Brace it!” Tomasz shouted, running up to grab the rope himself and forcing others into position. “Do not let it run!”

The line jerked again, harder this time. Nearly ripping free as one sailor lost his grip and stumbled back. The rope lashed across the deck with a crack that sent men scrambling out of its path.

“We should cut it!” someone yelled, panic bleeding into his voice.

“Hold your ground!” Viktor snapped, stepping in to seize the line as well.

Water churned violently where the net remained submerged, the movement below focused, resisting with force that felt deliberate rather than wild.

Above them, Ilya stepped forward.

The shift was subtle, but it stilled something in the chaos.

“No one cuts anything,” he said, his voice low but carrying cleanly across the deck. “Pull, if you value living.”

The crew hesitated, fear visible, but they obeyed. As one, they hauled. Straining as the line resisted every inch. The net began to rise, slow and heavy, the sea breaking unevenly around it. Whatever was caught within it did not thrash blindly, it fought with purpose.

The surface split open in a surge of dark water as the net emerged, something inside striking hard enough to make the ropes shudder.

The net slammed onto the deck with a heavy, soaking impact. Water spilling outward as the crew staggered back, forming a loose circle around it. The shape inside shifted, ropes tightened over slick movement as something pressed against the netting. Catching the lanternlight in brief, unnatural flashes.

The deck fell into a tense, breathless silence.

As the net shifted and the truth of it became undeniable, Ilya paused completely. His gaze locking onto the creature with sharp, immediate clarity. For a brief moment, the deck, the crew, the chaos. None of it mattered.

His mind moved faster than the sea around him, calculating, dissecting.

A merfolk.

Not myth, not tale, but real. Rarer than gold, rarer than kings’ ransoms. He knew the old stories well enough from the ports of his youth.

Their tears, the so-called Pearls of the Sea. Liquid that materialized into shining pearls, capable of sealing any wound.

Their blood, rich and red as rubies. When distilled, became a poison that could ruin armies.

Their voices, said to slip into the mind and bend it. Soft as a tide pulling a man under. Value layered upon value, a living fortune tangled in rope at his feet. For a long moment, Ilya nearly forgot how to breathe. This, this, was his route to a kingdom. To total domination of the sea.

“Gag it,” he ordered immediately. " GAG IT! " voice sharp, cutting through the stunned silence. “Now, I will not have it opening its mouth on my deck.”

The brig sat low in the belly of the Volchya Korona, where the air grew thick with salt, iron, and damp wood that never fully dried.

The constant creak of the ship pressed in from all sides. It was deeper here, heavier, like the hull itself was breathing around its prisoners. Chains were fixed into the beams and floor, recently reinforced to hold her new captive. Thicker links, newer iron, secured with a level of attention the rest of the ship rarely received.

For four weeks, this had become routine.

Bootsteps approached along the narrow passage, unhurried in a way that carried its own weight. The sound alone was enough to announce him. Metal keys shifted faintly against each other as the door to the brig opened with a heavy groan.

Ilya stepped inside with a small velvet bag in his hand.

He did not speak immediately. He rarely did. His presence filled the confined space without effort, broad frame catching what little light there was. His coat brushed the doorway as he entered, in his other hand held a narrow, well-kept dagger.

His gaze settled forward, assessing. “Good,” he said at last, voice almost absent of tone. “You’re awake, I assume Viktor delivered your meal.”

The door shut behind him with a dull, final sound. Ilya moved closer, stopping just out of reach. The pouch shifted in his grip before he held it up slightly, enough to make its purpose clear without explanation.

“ You know what to do, fish. ” he continued, calm, measured. “ I expect this bag filled with your pearls, and if you cannot produce them naturally... ”

The dagger caught a flicker of lanternlight as he adjusted it in his hand, not raised in threat. But as a constant, a solution.

“...I will aid you”

There was a pause, a hold in eye contact, a beat of the heart in waiting. Before Ilya crouched down low and took {{poss}} arm, holding it out and dragging the underside of {{poss}} forearm.

“You’ve had time to understand your position,” he went on, his gaze narrowing just slightly. “You are not here as a guest. You are not here as something to be reasoned with.”

He lifted the blade and brough his free hand over, pressing it down against the cut he created.

“You are here because you are valuable.” Ilya muttered, deliberately pressing his nail into the wound.

His tone did not change, but something in it hardened. “And I intend to make use of that.” Ilya watched with grim satisfaction as the first pearl bloomed and fell onto the hardwood, making a soft tink noise.

Ilya scooped the pearl up and deposited it into the pouch. “Do not make this more difficult than it needs to be.”