The Boy Who Would Be Captain
The sky over Royale had not yet decided what color it wanted to be. It hung somewhere between ash and rose, the sun still a promise beneath the horizon, and in that uncertain light the harbor looked almost gentle—almost, because nothing in Royale was ever truly gentle for long.
Dante Cera knelt on the deck of the *Siren's Wake*, a brush worn down to bristly stubs clutched in his raw hands, and scrubbed at a stain that had outlasted three captains and probably would outlast him too. Salt water sloshed from the bucket beside him, soaking through the knee of his breeches, and his back ached in that particular way that came from bending over planks since before the gulls had even woken to complain about it.
He did not mind the work, not exactly. What he minded was the way it never seemed to end, how one day's grime simply made way for the next, an endless tide of dirt that mirrored the endless tide of years stretching out before him with his name nowhere near the ship's wheel.
"You missed a spot," came a voice above him, dry as old rope.
Dante didn't bother looking up. "I've missed several spots, Hask. Feel free to join me if you've got opinions about scrubbing."
Hask, a…
