Magda is the one island the guards won’t touch. Too many pirates call it home, and even the royals know better than to test Neressa’s rule. If word ever spread that Magda was under attack, every pirate across the sea would return to defend it.
Coral Haven, though, is different. North of Magda, it’s the royals’ stronghold, where common folk live under their rule and pirates are nothing more than enemies to be hunted. The guards there would sooner string us from the gallows than let us set foot on their shores, though that doesn’t stop them from trading with the wealthiest pirates when it suits their pockets.
Magda is a safe place. It always has been. My home away from the ship. We spend most of our time here whenever we’re on land. The town is full of color, small, crooked buildings with no two alike, every corner painted in different shades and stories. Musicians line the streets, chasing silver and gold with battered instruments and hopeful eyes. Nearby, prostitutes lean against doorways, laughing and calling out, each hustling for their next quick coin.
There are no street addresses in Magda, only names for the buildings: The Crooked Tooth, Blackbone Alley, Wren’s End, Tarlock’s Teeth. And no one ever sleeps. There’s always something happening, parties, deals, fights, love, betrayal. Magda breathes. It lives and burns and sings louder than any place I’ve ever known. Like a raging fire.
It’s also home to one of the largest volcanoes in the sea. The last time it erupted, it scorched half the island into ash. But the locals didn’t flinch. They rebuilt in the lava’s shadow like it was nothing. That’s the magic of Magda, wild, dangerous, and definitely alive. Just the way us pirates like it.
The sun dips low over the ocean, casting fire across the waves. It’s time to pay our old friends a visit. I gather my crew and head down to the pub. Smith walks beside me, his hand resting near the hilt of his blade. I can feel it too, that sensation crawling up the back of my neck. We’re being watched. Someone’s lurking in the shadows.
A small smile tugs at the corner of my lips. “Hello, sister,” I say, voice laced with mischief. Neressa steps out of the alley like a cat, smooth and slow, leaning casually against the wall. She’s a sight to behold, obsidian curls framing her face, crimson lips that promise danger, and skin kissed bronze by the sun. Freckles scatter beneath her eyes, delicate and deceptive, and her gaze? The impossible color of a cool fog, unreadable, unshakable and rare.
She smiles slowly, then opens her arms for a warm embrace. “Mira, love. You’ve been docked all morning and didn’t come say hello?” Her voice is low and raspy, the kind that makes men and women swoon. Neressa has eyes all over this island. If you so much as breathe the wrong way in Magda, she’ll know.
She pulls me into a tight hug, holding me like it’s been years. “I was resting,” I say as I breathe her in. “It’s good to see you.”
Neressa looks at me with those dangerously gray eyes. “Always good to have you home.” She slings an arm around my shoulders, steering me toward the pub like she owns the whole damn island, which, in a way, she does. “Come grab a drink. You know you never have to pay.” She’s only a few inches taller than me, but somehow she still manages to look down with that same amused, wicked gleam in her eyes.
“Aye.” I smirk. “I could definitely use one.”
The moment we step inside, the live music playing from the drunken pirate band dies. So does the laughter. The air turns thick, and for a second, it’s like the pub itself is holding its breath. Usually, Neressa’s the one who stills a room; her presence alone is enough to make even the boldest men go quiet, not just from her piercing beauty but from her lethal reputation. But this silence feels different. Heavier. Wrong. They’re not looking at her like they usually do. No teasing smirks. No drunken attempts at flirtation. Just wide eyes darting between faces, as if they’ve all just seen a ghost.
A chill prickles at the back of my neck. Something’s off. Magic runs through our world like water, twisting everything it touches, bleeding into cracks it was never meant to fill. And right now, it feels like it's soaked into the walls. Then I see it. A woman, barely clothed and barely worth noting, glances to her right, then quickly back at me. Her gaze lingers just a second too long. I follow it. And there he is.
Kai.
He sits casually at the center of the room like he owns it, two women draped across him, laughing, whispering into his ear. His presence is a gravitational pull, and somehow, without saying a word, he has the entire pub in the palm of his hand.
I hate to admit it, but even now, after all these years of hating him, I can’t look away. His sharp jawline. That dark brown hair falling just to his chin. And those glowing hazel eyes, cuttingthrough the dim light like they can see every part of you. Even the parts you’d rather bury. The ones you’ve nearly convinced yourself don’t exist.
The scar down his right arm. A brutal, jagged thing. The kind that whispers of death and survival. A remnant from the siren battle that nearly ended him. I’ve heard stories about it, each more outrageous than the last. Some say he killed three sirens alone. Others say he never even bled. Hard to know which pirate tale is true. He was just a boy, after all.
He hasn’t looked at me. Not yet. Or maybe he has. His eyes haven’t moved, but his men have. They’re on alert. Tense. Watching the room like they feel it too. The shift as thick as morning fog.
Kai’s body is a map of violence. Muscles carved from years of battle, inked skin like scripture, with waves, storms, sea creatures, the Kraken he slayed to earn the title of Pirate Lord. Every inch of him screams survival. A legend in flesh. But not a single mark, not one, tells the story of a siren, from what I can see. He commands a room and expects to be listened to.
Kai rises from his chair like it’s nothing. The two women draped across him slide off with the wave of his hand, dismissed, discarded. He adjusts the weapon at his hip, casual and calculated. A predator playing dress-up as a king. He starts to slowly walk straight to where I stand.
My crew steps forward instinctively, closing rank. “Move,” I command. My voice slices through the pub like a blade. They flinch, then part. I step into the space between us, unflinching. Unafraid. The air stretches tight around us, taut as a drawn bowstring. “I want to see the bastard whose father killed my mother.”
His brows arch, slow, amused. That wicked gleam dances behind his hazel eyes. A slow, almost lazy smile spreads across his lips, like he’s savoring the challenge I’ve just laid at hisfeet. “Big words from such a tiny girl,” he purrs. His voice has been sharpened by years of danger and dark deals, laced with something older. Something crueler. He’s in front of me now, towering over me by a full foot. His presence wraps around the room, heavy, arrogant. Those eyes dare me to flinch. I don’t.
The scent hits me next, sea salt, tobacco, and something sweeter. Rum, maybe. Pirates aren’t supposed to smell like that. Not like power wrapped in sin. I refuse to back down. I meet his gaze head-on, heart pounding like war drums in my chest.
I don’t speak. I let the silence stretch. Let him feel the weight of me, the fury, the history, the name I carry like a weapon. He tilts his head, studying me like I’m a puzzle he’s halfway to solving. “So you’re the one who’s been following me…” A pause. “Captain Mira.” He drags out the title like it’s a joke and a compliment all at once.
“Don’t see many female captains these days,” he drawls. “Heard this dump is your usual haunt. Kind of dirty… but raw.” His grin is wolfish. “Just the way I like it.” I let my eyes drag over him, slow, deliberate, then flick to the two women he dismissed like afterthoughts. Then back to him.
“It seems you’ve made yourself quite at home,” I say, voice low but sharp enough to slice. I don’t blink.
He chuckles, deep, smooth, entirely unbothered. Like the whole room isn’t being crushed by just his presence alone. “Jealous?”
I roll my eyes so hard it almost hurts, disgust curling in my throat like smoke. “Please.” My lips twist into a sneer. “I wouldn’t touch you if you were the last man alive on a raft in siren waters.” That only makes his grin grow wider.
He stares straight through me. Those hazel eyes, flickering between green-gold and stormy brown, like the ocean deciding whether to drown or spare. My body stiffens. But my soul refuses to strike.
Not yet. My fingers curl around the hilt of my cutlass. His eyes cut that intense eye contact with me to see where my hand moved to. “I wouldn’t do that,treasure,” Kai says. The word drips from his lips like honey laced with venom. “I’ve got men at every corner of this pub. Let’s play nice, aye?”
