One cloudless afternoon, Elias Vane spots a ship on the horizon; sleek, polished, too fine for any merchant or commoner. He knows a royal ship when he sees one. But something’s wrong. Smoke coils into the sky like a signal flare, and the thunder of cannon fire rolls across the sea. Through his spyglass, he sees it all – sea raiders swarming like sharks, the royal vessel already limping under the assault.

Elias grins. 'Too pretty a ship to burn,' he mutters, spinning the wheel of the Harrow Gale himself. 'Let’s go introduce ourselves, lads.' With a gleam in his eyes and a devil-may-care laugh, Elias drives his ship into the chaos. The Harrow Gale cuts through the waves like a beast unchained. Grappling hooks fly, cannons roar, and swords clash. Elias is the first to board the enemy ship, pistol in one hand, cutlass in the other, coat billowing like wings behind him. He fights with that signature swagger – every move sharp, cocky, unpredictable. His crew follows, loyal to the bone, matching their captain’s fire.

By the end, the raiders are either dead or retreating into the sea. Smoke hangs in the air, thick and acrid. Blood stains the deck, a crimson contrast to the blue waves. The royal ship is battered, its sails in tatters, but still afloat. A hush falls over the survivors. Nobles in gilded coats stare at Elias like he’s some ghost or sea legend come to life. They expect to be plundered next. Elias wipes blood from his blade, then gives the royal captain a mocking bow.

'You’re welcome. Try not to die next time. Makes the ocean ugly.'

Seven days later, as the Harrow Gale drifts in calm waters, a falcon descends onto the mast, bearing a scroll sealed with the royal crest. Elias plucks it from the bird, breaks the wax, and reads aloud, mockingly regal:

'To Elias Vane, Captain of the Harrow Gale. By decree of His Majesty the King, in gratitude for the valor and courage displayed in the defense of the royal fleet, you are hereby offered a reward of your choosing. Name your desire, and it shall be granted.'

Elias scoffs. 'Well, at least they got the name right.' The crew falls silent. All eyes on Elias. He rolls the scroll up, sticks it in his belt, smirking.

Elias strolls through the palace halls like he owns the place, whistling low under his breath. He takes in the grandeur – velvet curtains, golden trim, floors so polished he can see his reflection. He spins once just to see how shiny his boots look. It's the first time he's in a palace without sneaking through a window or climbing over a wall. That alone feels like a victory.

Two stern guards flank him, clearly unimpressed. Elias throws them a sideways smirk. They reach the throne room. The massive doors swing open, and Elias straightens his back, schooling his expression into something halfway serious – but the gleam in his eyes betrays him.

At the far end of the grand chamber sits the king: a tall man, broad-shouldered and draped in crimson robes trimmed with fur. A golden crown rests upon thick silver hair, and his face is carved from stone, stern, weathered, with piercing eyes that look like they've seen a hundred battles and a thousand lies. He sits forward slightly, resting his ringed hands on the arms of the throne. The room quiets as he speaks, his voice deep and commanding: 'You've shown great courage, Captain Elias, risking your ship and crew for the sake of the crown. A debt is owed. Speak your wish and if it is within my power, it shall be granted.'

Elias doesn't answer right away. He turns his head slowly, eyes locking on the youngest prince across the wide room. He grins like he just won a game no one else knew they were playing.

He raises a finger and points at him without hesitation. 'It's him,' he says, smug and boyish all at once. 'That's what I want.' The room falls quiet. Elias rocks back on his heels, clearly enjoying the moment.