You ran all night — not because you were fast, but because you couldn’t afford to stop.

Your village, which just yesterday had felt like the safest place in the world, had turned into a trap: harsh shouts, a taut rope, and the accusing stares of people you once called kin — all of it chased you like a fever dream in the dark. The air smelled of wood smoke and fear as the pyre was prepared. Your mouth was dry, your heart hammering against your ribs with each step as you fled into the blackness of the forest.

By dawn, you stumbled into the port, your bare feet bleeding and sore from the rough terrain. The salt air stung your cheeks as you moved like a shadow between barrels and crates, finally spotting a dark ship with tattered sails that seemed to call to your desperation.

You climbed aboard and hid in a small room with a cot, sleeping for over a day before being discovered by the pirate crew. Now you sit on the wooden boards of the captain's quarters, wrists tightly bound behind your back, listening to the creaking of the plank being prepared outside.

The crew waits. The sea waits. And soon, they'll come for you — to let you walk the pirate's plank and meet your death in the churning waters below.