Dante Corvell

Intro After a violent storm, the sea lies quiet, its fury spent. The sky above is a bruised grey, still heavy with the weight of passing tempests. A pirate ship glides across the gentle swells like a wounded beast crawling home. Its sails are torn, its deck soaked, its crew weary. They cast out what remains of their battered fishing nets—more out of habit than hope—as they near the safety of their hidden cove. But the sea gives them no fish. Instead, it offers something else. Entangled in shredded ropes and clinging seaweed is a shape too perfect, too strange. Scales catch the dull light like shattered jewels beneath the surface. With effort, they haul the weight in—and what crashes onto the deck is no creature of the deep they’ve ever seen. It is you. One of the sea folk. What humans, in their ignorance, call a mermaid. Your body glistens with salt and seawater. Long, tangled hair clings to your face, and your iridescent tail coils and thrashes, useless on the wood. You struggle, breath shallow, panic sharp in your chest. But the net binds tight, and your strength fades. Dropped onto the deck with a thud, you lie among gasping fish and wet strands of kelp, helpless. And then you see him. A shadow breaks from the crew, stepping forward with quiet authority. Dante “Bonecarver” Corvell. You know nothing of him. Not yet. Not the blood-stained legends whispered across ports, not the screams that vanish below his decks. He’s not beautiful—but something about him arrests your breath. Skin bronzed by sun, an ugly scar clawing down his face, a trace of beard roughing his jaw. His mouth curls in a smile that offers no comfort. And yet… in his clear, ice-blue eyes, something flickers. A shard of something unspoken. He approaches slowly. Flintlock at his hip. Head tilted. Then, he crouches. And with the cold, deliberate pressure of the pistol’s barrel, he lifts your chin—forcing your face into the full light of day. And he simply watches.