The morning Yusuf al-Hurnashi's life changed forever began like any other: with salt on his lips and sawdust in his lungs.
His hands, calloused and nicked from years of carpentry, moved instinctively over the half-finished tiller, the scent of cedar mingling with the brine-slick air drifting in from the harbor. His workshop sat nestled on the edge of Qasr Al-Bahr, a small port city wedged between sandstone cliffs and the ever-shifting Mediterranean. The sun had barely crested the horizon, but already the city was murmuring to life—fishmongers shouting, waves slapping hulls, ropes creaking like old bones.
Yusuf ignored the world beyond his door. The sea could wait. Wood had no deceit in it—only grain, knots, and the patient yield to skilled hands.
He preferred it that way.
The outside world was loud, full of expectations and memories he didn't care to revisit. His father, once a renowned shipwright, had vanished at sea a decade ago—lost to storms or politics or both. His mother died waiting. Yusuf survived by inheriting the family trade and avoiding the ambitions of men with power and ships.
Until someone knocked.
Three raps. Sharp. Purposeful. Not the clumsy thump of a drunk or the hesitant tap of a customer.
Yusuf set down his chisel. "We're not open yet."
The door creaked open anyway.
She entered like a shadow cutting across the sun.
A woman, tall and wrapped in a salt-stained cloak, her face obscured beneath a dark hood. But Yusuf's gaze locked on what she carried: a shattered ship's wheel, splintered clean through the center.
"My name is Amina," she said, voice smooth as worn marble. "I was told you're the best."
Yusuf frowned. "Who told you that?"
She dropped the remains of the wheel onto his workbench. The thud echoed like a war drum.
"Your reputation precedes you, Hurnashi. I need this fixed by sundown."
He studied the break. Jagged. Clean. As if something had torn it apart from within.
"This came from a warship." He didn't ask. He knew. The wood was blackened with powder burns. The etchings along the rim weren't local.
Amina didn't answer, just pulled back her hood.
Scarred. Weatherworn. Eyes like storm clouds, watching him not as a craftsman, but as a threat.
He swallowed. "I'll need payment."
"You'll get more than that." She turned. "If you survive the night."
The door swung shut behind her.
Yusuf stood motionless for a moment, heart pounding louder than the harbor bells. Then he looked back at the shattered wheel.
It was then he noticed the symbol burned into the wood—half-sunken beneath the scorch marks.
A serpent eating its tail.
The mark of the Corsaires Noirs.
Pirates. Ghosts. Assassins of the sea.
He should have refused. He should have burned the damned thing and never looked back.
But the craftsman in him saw a challenge.
And the man in him—
—smelled fate on the wind.
The day passed in tense silence.
He worked like a surgeon, hands steady despite the turmoil behind his ribs. Every tool had its place, every movement was precise. But his thoughts raced. Corsaires Noirs weren't legends. They were nightmares. The kind that raided imperial convoys and left no witnesses. Men spoke of them with trembling voices and fingers clutching talismans.
Why had one come here, to him?
By mid-afternoon, Yusuf had reconstructed the wheel's core. He'd replaced the fractured spokes, reinforced the burnt rim with iron nails soaked in vinegar to temper corrosion, and carved new grips. The wood—some kind of foreign oak—fought his blades, but yielded eventually.
It was masterwork.
And it would never be his.
He was finishing the final sanding when a second visitor arrived.
This one didn't knock.
The man pushed the door open without hesitation. He was dressed like a noble, but there was something off about him—his posture too stiff, his sword too worn. And his eyes… hollow, as if haunted by something he couldn't forget.
"Yusuf Hurnashi?" the man asked.
Yusuf didn't answer. He merely stared.
The man stepped forward. "Did a woman come here earlier? Tall, dark cloak, ship's wheel?"
Yusuf still didn't speak.
The man exhaled slowly. "You need to leave the city. Tonight. She's not who she says she is."
Yusuf narrowed his eyes. "Neither are you."
The man's smile was thin. "Fair. But you should know: that wheel belongs to a ship that shouldn't exist. The Reine des Mers was destroyed five years ago. I saw her sink with my own eyes."
Silence fell between them.
Outside, the wind howled through the narrow alleys of Qasr Al-Bahr, carrying the cries of gulls and something else—
A whisper of sails.
A premonition of blood.
The man turned without another word and vanished into the growing dusk.
Yusuf looked at the wheel.
Then he made a choice.
He locked the door. Grabbed his tools. And followed the wind.