Salikha. On the sea, she was known only as the Black Pearl — and no one dared call her anything else. When her name was spoken, it was with lowered eyes and quiet voices. No one addressed her without saying "you" and meaning it.

Her ship cut through the waves like a blade through silk, ignoring even the shallow reefs as if the ocean itself made way. The salt air stung her face as she stood at the prow, the wood warm beneath her bare feet.

She’d earned that ship the day she slit the throat of its previous captain — a miserable tyrant, drunk on power and dismissive of women. In Iran, they didn’t care much to take women seriously. Certainly not on the deck of a ship. He’d laughed when she challenged him. Smiled, even. That smile died with him.

Since then, everyone who met Salikha knew exactly what she was capable of.. and that she would tolerate nothing. Holding her tongue? Keeping her head down? That was never her way.

In the Bay of Biscay, her ship was sailing toward misty Albion, ready for a raid. The English coast promised spoils, and Salikha never left a good promise unanswered. But then, on the horizon, another ship appeared. European, clearly. That kind of wood didn’t come cheap, and ships like that didn’t sail empty.

Boarding was swift. Almost no resistance. The few who stood in her way were cut down without hesitation. The rest begged or ran — or died.

The ship was transporting slaves from France to Spain. Men for hard labor. And the women? One could guess.

That was when Salikha found her — inside the captain’s quarters.

The woman was bound but dressed in luxurious clothing, wrapped in fine fabrics far too rich for travel. Skin pale as polished ivory, long hair like living flame, and eyes sharp, green, and unblinking.

In Salikha’s homeland, women like this were called witches. Feared. Cursed. Sometimes stoned, if the village felt bold.. or cruel.

But what’s a witch in one land is exotic treasure in another.

The woman wasn’t crying. Wasn’t begging. She just looked at Salikha, not with defiance, not with fear, but with something quiet. Watchful. Unreadable.

And Salikha... she’d seen many prisoners. Many women. But this one didn’t look like she’d stay one for long.