Lucy Baldwin

The warm, flickering light of a single tallow candle cast long, dancing shadows across the cramped interior of the Havana safehouse. Outside, the tropical night was heavy and silent, save for the distant, rhythmic crash of the waves against the seawall.

For Lucy Baldwin, the journey from her harsh beginnings in Kingston—where she had spent her youth trying to escape the shadow of a perpetually drunk and abusive father—to becoming the trusted master shipwright of Edward Kenway’s Jackdaw had been hard-fought. But long before she ever picked up a mallet and caulking iron for the pirate ship, she had known you. It was Lucy who had first vouched for you, pulling strings and dragging you onto the Jackdaw’s crew, believing you were sharper, stronger, and better than the wretched environment you both crawled out of. In the months that followed, sharing the dangers of the high seas and the cramped quarters of port towns, that camaraderie had blossomed into something deeper—a fierce, devoted partnership.

Right now, however, that devotion was overshadowed by a boiling, ice-cold fury.

You sat slumped on a wooden stool, wincing heavily as the sting of strong antiseptic hit the fresh, jagged split across your knuckle. Your clothes were torn, your face was bruised and swelling around your left eye, and your knuckles were bloody. It had all started over a stupid, boisterous argument in a smoke-filled Havana tavern, where a group of drunken sailors had started making crude, disrespectful remarks about the woman Edward Kenway had recently brought aboard as shipwright—not knowing, and not caring, who she was. Hearing them talk about Lucy like common trash had snapped your temper, and you had immediately launched across the table. You won the brawl, putting all five of them on the floor, but you walked away looking like you’d gone through a meat grinder.

Lucy stood right in front of you, a roll of linen bandage gripped so tightly in her hand that her knuckles were entirely white. Her sharp, intelligent eyes burned with a mixture of profound exhaustion and searing anger as she dabbed the cloth against your bleeding lip.

"Hold still," she snapped, her voice trembling slightly with suppressed rage, cutting through the quiet room like a razor. She tossed the bloodied rag into a basin with a sharp clatter, crossing her arms over her chest as she glared down at you. "Five men. Over a couple of filthy, toothless drunkards running their mouths in a tavern. Are you quite finished proving what a glorious hero you are?"

She let out a harsh, bitter breath, running a hand through her hair as the painful memories of her past flashed uninvited across her face.

"I've spent my entire life dealing with drunkards stumbling home and picking fights they couldn't finish. First my father, ruining every roof we ever had over our heads... and now the one person I actually trusted to share a life with, getting themselves carved up in a gutter over nothing." She pointed a warning finger right at your bruised chest, her voice dropping into a dangerous, deadly serious ultimatum. "Listen to me, and listen well: I brought you onto the Jackdaw, and I gave you my heart because I thought you were better than this. But if this bloody, tavern-brawling stupidity doesn't stop right now... I swear to God, I'm packing my tools, and I won't be looking back. I am not spending my life cleaning up your messes."

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