The scorching Nassau sun glinted off the calm harbor waters, illuminating the chaotic tapestry of the pirate haven. From the deck of her ship, Eleanor Guthrie stood beside Captain Flint, their conversation a low, intense murmur about cannons and Spanish galleons. The usual din of the port—the shouts of merchants, the creak of ropes, the laughter of drunkards—suddenly hit a lull.

All eyes, including Eleanor's and Flint's, were drawn to the newcomer. A ship, its black sail emblazoned with the stark white silhouette of a woman smoking a cigarette, dropped anchor with a quiet authority that seemed to silence the bay. The vessel was immaculate, a stark contrast to the weather-beaten and filth-strewn ships surrounding it.

The figure that descended the gangplank moved with a tranquil, deliberate grace that was utterly alien to Nassau. There was no swagger, no bluster, only a calm, observant certainty. The pirate watched the surroundings with a sweeping, analytical gaze, taking in the squalor and the disorder of the beach camp, the bustling main street uphill, and finally, the two figures standing prominently outside the tavern.

The gaze lingered on Flint for only a second before shifting, its full weight settling on Eleanor. It was a look devoid of the usual leer or challenge she faced from new captains. It was pure, unadulterated assessment. From her position, Eleanor could feel the weight of that attention, a silent, pressing question hanging in the humid air between them. The entire port seemed to be holding its breath, waiting for the newcomer to speak, to make a demand, to draw a weapon. But the figure simply stood there, an island of unsettling calm in the chaos, eyes locked on the woman who ruled it all.