Pain. Unbearable, sharp, deep pain. Byron felt as though an iron spike had pierced his chest. Cold spread through him, something precious bleeding away into the void. Every nerve screamed in agony, yet he couldn't wake. He was trapped in a long, fevered dream—more like a nightmare.
And in that dream, there were two of him. Two lives. Two fates.
One Byron grew up in an orphanage, shackled by reality but with dreams of adventure. Before he could begin his journey, life struck hard: he was diagnosed with ALS. His body failed him piece by piece until all he could do was wait for death in silence.
The other Byron, though born without a mother, had a family: a stern yet loving father, a wise uncle burdened by madness, a kind aunt, a cousin who taught him the sword and the sail, and a childhood friend who made life wild and joyful. Vassals, knights, loyal servants—the world of nobility surrounded him.
But the two lives were divided by a foggy glass, blurred and incomplete. Byron couldn't recall details, only the pain of something lost. A piece of his "memory palace"—the construct of his soul—had shattered. The orphaned life rose like a ghost to hold the ruins together.
He drifted, a boat without anchor, lost in broken memories. Only one image remained clear.
A stormy night. A warship beneath his feet, crowned with a mighty blue dragon figurehead. His father—this life's father—shouted something he couldn't hear. Then, the sea swallowed everything.
Byron believed that memory was the key. But the more he reached for it, the faster it slipped away.
Who was he? What happened that night? Where was his family?
Splash.
A basin of ice-cold seawater slammed into his face. He gasped, dragged back to reality. His right eye, sea-blue, flashed faintly as it opened.
Byron blinked and found himself lying on the wooden deck of a sailboat, bound hand and foot, surrounded by other soaked captives. Ragged, brutal-looking sailors loomed over them.
The leader—a towering man with a scimitar, pistol, and a reek of blood and rum—sneered.
"Get up, pigs. The captain's pets don't like their meat dead."
Byron's gut clenched. He scanned the deck: battle damage, fresh blood, ropes being re-tied, cannons reloaded, men patching hulls. Above, a black flag fluttered—a white skull riding a shark.
A pirate ship. Recently victorious.
Not far behind, a burning merchant vessel, half-sunk in mist, marked the end of a massacre. Its fate was clear—resistance crushed, no survivors spared. The flag told all: a warning to future foes.
Byron's breath caught. He wasn't just a prisoner. He was food.
"Man-eating Shark crew," someone whispered. The name chilled the bone.
Nearby, sailors begged. "Please, Mr. Bonebreaker, we surrendered! Don't kill us!"
"I'm a gunner! Let me join you!"
But Bonebreaker Miles, the first mate, was unmoved. He took another swig and sneered.
"Unlucky bastards. Only your cook has value. The rest? Captain Blood Eyes said feed you to the sea."
Sailors screamed as pirates dragged them away. Some cursed. Some prayed. Others broke.
One beside Byron trembled.
"We never should've sailed... The Red and White Rose war means nothing to us. We're just merchants... The Pelican's just cargo for Lord Crawford. We served Lancaster... now they're all dead…"
Through their pleas, Byron pieced it together.
They were in the North Sea, off the coast of the Old World, near the island kingdom of Hattings—where the Red and White Rose factions had warred for thirty years. The Lancaster family—Red Rose—had ruled, but a storm destroyed their fleet in the Dover Strait. The royal ship, Blue Dragon King, sank with the last of King Henry VI's line.
Those tied to Lancaster fled, including Lord Crawford. His ship, Pelican, aimed for the southern colonies—but fell prey to the Man-eating Sharks.
And Byron? He was found adrift near the battlefield, fished out by the Pelican's crew. No one knew who he was.
Now, tied among the captured crew, he listened.
"Red and White Rose... Blue Dragon King... Lancaster..." The names echoed in his mind.
Images surfaced: faces, some sharp, others hazy. Amid the memories, a crimson rose burned like fire. Emotions surged—longing, grief, love, fury.
A scream tore through the air. Byron looked up.
The execution had begun.
From one side of the ship to the other, a thick rope stretched across the keel. A sailor was dragged beneath the hull, shredded by barnacles. He surfaced in pieces.
Keel-hauling. A pirate's torture. And worse—sharks.
Black fins sliced the water, drawn by blood. The captain's pets.
A long wooden plank extended over the sea. Pirates shoved bound prisoners forward, cutting them to bleed as bait.
One by one, they were pushed off. The screams faded into silence, swallowed by the sea.
Byron stood last in line. He stared as lives were fed to the waves. This wasn't execution. It was ritual. Blood sacrifice.
Compared to that rubber boy who played at being a pirate, this was the real thing.
"Move!" a pirate barked, shoving him forward.
Byron staggered onto the plank. Below: crimson waves. Dozens of sharks. The reek of blood in the air.
If he fell now, his truth would vanish with him.