The wanted posters changed after that. No more “Pirate B.” Now it read: B. — Traitor to Every Throne — Reward: Anything You Dare Ask.

“Here’s the B,” she said, quiet as a knife sliding home. “Bargain.”

At midnight, under a hacked moon, she slipped her little ship between the flagship and its lead escort. No cannons. No screaming. Just her and three hands, swimming with rope knives between their teeth. They cut the rudder chains of the Santa Cristina . They nailed the admiral’s door shut from the outside. And before dawn, Pirate B. stood on his quarterdeck, dripping salt, holding a lit slow-match to his powder magazine.

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