(Flashback)
**Mainland – The Burning Coast, Ten Years Ago**
Smoke choked the sky above Saltmere. Flames devoured thatched roofs, turning the village into a roaring orange inferno. Knights in golden cloaks marched in disciplined lines, swords already dark with blood, banners snapping like whips in the wind. The Allthing had branded the coastal lords traitors for refusing to kneel. Saltmere paid the price first.
Nine-year-old Kael crouched behind a splintered cart, fingers locked around his mother's trembling hand. His father lay a few paces away—face-down in the churned dirt, armor torn open, blood pooling beneath him in a slow, accusing stain. His mother pulled Kael tighter against her side, voice a cracked whisper.
"Don't look, love. Just don't look."
A golden knight stepped over the corpse without breaking stride. Metal flashed. The blade fell.
His mother's grip loosened. She folded slowly, like cloth cut at the seams, and collapsed across his father's back. Warmth bled from her fingers, one heartbeat at a time.
Kael held his mother and father's body crying and screaming for the last time, before deciding to run from the burning house.
The world narrowed to ringing ears, choking smoke, and endless red cloaks.
Then—movement across the street. A boy stumbled from a blazing doorway. Thirteen years old, silver hair plastered with ash and sweat, eyes wide with the same mirrored terror.
Their gazes locked through the haze.
No words. No names.
They simply ran—two small shadows swallowed by the smoke.
Five Days Later – The Mass Grave
Hundreds of bodies lay in neat, terrible rows under a gray sky. The golden cloaks had left nothing breathing. Only two boys remained alive, half-crushed beneath the weight of the dead, too weak to drag themselves free.
Kael's fingers twisted in Sylric's torn sleeve. His voice was a fragile thread.
"We're gonna die here."
Sylric stared upward, past the corpses, at the indifferent clouds. His answer came flat and certain.
"We're not. I'll protect you."
The Black Maw – One Week Later
The pirate ship ghosted into the cove like a blade through water. Captain Varkis "Ironjaw" Thorne leaned on the rail—tall, lean, eyes the color of old bruises—watching his men strip the ruined village of anything worth taking.
A raider hauled the two half-dead boys aboard by their collars.
"Captain," the man grunted, "found these two still breathing. How the hells did they last?"
Another laughed. "Worthless. Toss 'em."
Varkis crouched. A gloved finger lifted Kael's chin, forcing the boy to meet his gaze.
"Worthless?" Varkis's smile was thin as a knife's edge. "Look at their eyes. They've seen death and didn't blink."
He shifted to Sylric. The older boy stared back—silent, unblinking.
"You two belong to me now," Varkis said.
The crew muttered. Rations were already stretched thin.
Varkis straightened, voice dropping to ice. "Anyone who complains can join the next pile on the beach."
Silence fell like a blade.
Years One Through Four – Life on the Iron Maw**
The boys grew hard aboard the Black Maw. Varkis trained them the way a man breaks dogs: fights drawn to first blood, starvation for every loss, nights chained to the mast for tears.
Sylric learned to wield chains—whipping them into deadly arcs, turning restraint into violence. Kael carved himself a speargun from scavenged wood and iron, something precise and personal.
Varkis pushed Sylric hardest. Older, stronger, faster—he pitted him against grown men, then lashed him bloody when he refused to kill.
Kael watched everything. Learned. Began to mirror the captain's wide, empty smile.
Yet when Kael does something bad, Sylric willingly takes the blame and carries the beating for him .
One such night, Kael—eleven, voice small—whispered into the dark,
"Why do you keep doing it?"
Sylric—fifteen, fresh bruises blooming across his ribs—answered without looking at him.
"Because someone has to."
Kael started calling him "big brother"—half tease, half prayer.
Sylric hated the name. It felt like chains.
But he never told Kael to stop.
Age Sixteen – The Fracture
Kael had shot up taller and broader. Sylric stayed lean, shorter, sharper. The crew noticed.
Whispers slithered across the deck. "Captain favors the younger dog." "Kael gets the soft watches. Sylric bleeds for every scrap."
One rum-soaked night, a crewman leaned close to Kael, voice oily.
"The captain sees greater things in you, boy. All you have to do is seize them."
The next evening, Kael found Sylric on deck, coiling rope.
"Got to hit the mainland at dawn," Sylric said.
"I'm coming with you."
"No. We've talked about this."
"Stay here, you'll just get in my way."
Sylric says turning to leave
Kael's face twisted. "You think you're better than me, big brother?"
"I don't."
"Stop looking down at me. I'm not a child anymore."
Sylric turned away. "I'm not doing this now. Sun's coming. I have to go."
"You're not going anywhere."
Kael lunged. They crashed together—fists, elbows, blood—pure, wordless rage.
Varkis's laugh cut through the fight. He hauled them apart, still chuckling.
"Good scrap, brothers. Nothing strengthens a bond like a little blood, eh? I had brothers once." His grin sharpened. "I killed them."
Kael and Sylric froze, staring.
Varkis waved a hand. "Enough. I've got a real job for you both. Prove you're still my boys."
He sent them to lead separate crews of younger "sons" on a raid near Thornhold.
The Battle of Thornhold Outskirts
Greenwood's army collided with Thornhold's in a screaming chaos of steel and fire. Amid the slaughter, a massive silhouette—boldr—rose and fell, crushing skulls like melons.
Kael crouched behind a shattered wall, speargun trembling. "This is madness. How do we raid in the middle of a massacre?"
Sylric's voice was tight. "I told you to wait until it ended. You charged in anyway. Get back to the ship—now."
Kael bolted. He scrambled up a steep hill, lungs burning, nowhere left to run.
A crewman stepped from the smoke—knife already drawn. "Been waiting for this. Couldn't let you two finish each other, so I'll start with the favorite."
The blade flashed downward.
Sylric appeared like a storm—chains whipping, crashing into the traitor. They grappled at the cliff's edge, snarling, until Sylric heaved. The man plummeted, screaming, into the gorge below.
Before Sylric could turn, something heavy cracked against the back of his skull.
He staggered. Looked back.
Kael stood there, club in hand, face blank.
Sylric tumbled over the edge, body striking rocks, vanishing into the dark river.
Kael watched the water swallow him.
The crew whispered later: "Jealous little bastard. Wanted to be the only son."
Varkis believed every word.
He chained Kael to the mast for three days and nights.
"You killed your brother," Varkis said, voice like frost. "You're no better than the rest of us."
That day the boy's smile set—wide, permanent, hollow.
Years Later – A Coastal City
Kael—the Cowboy now—strode the docks, hat low, speargun slung across his back.
Golden cloaks were butchering a rival pirate crew in the street.
Among them: silver hair, chains coiled at his belt, eyes flat as slate.
Sylric.
Kael's breath caught. He ran forward, voice cracking like a child's. "Big brother!"
Sylric turned.
No flicker of memory. Just cold indifference.
A golden cloak seized Kael, forcing him to his knees before Sylric.
"Caught him eavesdropping," the knight sneered. "Pirate scum. I'll take his head."
Sylric's gaze drifted over Kael like he was driftwood.
"No," Sylric said quietly. "He's nothing. There's no use killing him. Let him go. And make sure he never comes back."
Kael stood frozen as the grip released.
The smile died on his face.
He turned and walked away.
That day the boy finally died.
Fury replaced him—fury that Sylric lived, that he wore the golden cloak they had both once despised, that he had forgotten everything.
The Cowboy was born.
End of Flashback.
Present – The Cove, Aftermath
Sylric knelt beside the Cowboy's broken body. He reached out and closed the dead man's eyes with careful fingers.
A single tear carved a clean line through the ash on his cheek.
"Rest, little brother," he whispered. "You've carried enough."
He rose.
Dren watched in silence.
Dot stood nearby, Yiva cradled on one broad shoulder, the little girl's small hand clasped in his.
Behind them the hideout burned, orange flames licking the night.
In the distance, villagers chanted—victory, grief, and rage all braided together.
A man dropped from his horse, katana at his side.
He gazed down at the corpse.
A low, amused laugh drifted on the wind.
He lifted his eyes to the horizon.
The assassin from Greenwood's face was revealed.
To be continued.