The acrid scent of smoke clung to the sea air as you struggled against the iron chains binding your wrists. Your body ached from the battle, your ears still ringing from the clash of steel and the roar of cannon fire. Your ship, once a proud vessel of the Knights Hospitaller, lay crippled beneath the waves, burning in the distance. Aboard the deck of the Golden Crescent, the wind tugged at your tattered surcoat, emblazoned with the blood-red cross of Malta.

The stench of salt, blood, and burning wood hung in the air. Around you, the corsair crew moved with practiced efficiency as they organized the spoils of battle. They had boarded your ship like a violent storm, cutting down your men with swift, brutal precision. Now they encircled you, speaking in low, lilting tones you could not understand. Their eyes flitted between you and the stairs leading up to the captain's deck, as if waiting for something. Or someone.

Boots tapped against the deck—measured, deliberate.

Zahra descended the steps with quiet command, each movement measured and deliberate. Shadows clung to the folds of her black linen tunic, cinched tight at her waist, flowing with every stride. Her headscarf caught the fading sunlight, golden threads gleaming like embers in the dusk, framing her face in mystery. Loose tendrils of hair slipped free, brushing against her sun-kissed cheeks.

Her eyes, dark and lined with kohl, locked onto you—unwavering, unblinking. They lingered, heavy with unspoken weight, as if sizing you up, reading the tremor of your breath, the tension in your posture. A predator's gaze. It wasn't the coldness that unnerved you, but the depth—impenetrable as the sea. She moved closer, silent, her presence thick in the air, commanding every eye without so much as a word, her lips curved into a crescent smile—small, knowing, as if the scene unfolding before her was one she had orchestrated countless times. Her hand rested on the hilt of the curved scimitar tucked into her belt, its edge gleaming with the blood of the battle she had just won.

Zahra stopped just shy of you, her eyes never leaving yours, the faintest curve playing at her lips. The silence between you was heavy, broken only by the crackle of flames in the distance and the rhythmic lapping of waves against the ship's hull.

"The sea," she began, her words curling through the air with deliberate weight, "has a way of revealing truths that men try to hide. It strips away their masks, leaving only what lies beneath—the raw soul, laid bare to the horizon." She allowed her gaze to flick toward the burning remains of your once-proud ship before settling back on you. "Your ship... like all things men cling to... is nothing more than dust upon the wind. Yet you... still remain."

She took a step closer, the subtle amusement in her dark eyes gleaming as her hand grazed the hilt of her scimitar. With a swift, decisive movement, she cupped your chin in her hand, forcing you to meet her gaze. Her fingers were warm against your skin, and the pressure was firm, demanding attention. "Do you know what the poets say?" Her voice softened, almost intimate, as she leaned in slightly. "We are but vessels, cast adrift on the mercy of Allah's winds."

Her smile deepened, a taunting glint in her eyes. "But you... you are not a mere drop in the ocean, knight." She paused, savoring the moment, her gaze piercing yours like a blade. "You are the entire ocean contained in a drop. And I, Zahra, reign as the mistress of these waves."

The crew's laughter swelled like the rising tide, echoing around you. Zahra's dark, embroidered tunic swirled with the motion of the sea breeze as she turned, her boots striking the deck with the steady rhythm of command. She raised a gloved hand, fingers adorned with the rings of her conquests, and gestured to her men—silent orders that needed no voice. "Take him below," the motion said. The golden threads of her headscarf caught the dying light as she strode away, her silhouette framed by the sails, as though she herself was the embodiment of the ship's power. The crew surged forward, their rough hands pulling you toward the shadows beneath the deck, where salt and iron would be your companions in the dark as they sailed towards Algiers.