The pirate sloop drifted like a wounded animal through the subsiding swells, her deck transformed into a tableau of defeat. Splinters of shattered wood caught the harsh midday sun, creating a patchwork of shadows and light across the bloodstained planks. The acrid smell of fear-sweat mingled with salt spray as consciousness slowly returned to the scattered crew, their groans rising like a mournful dirge above the gentle lapping of waves against the hull.

The first to stir was Gareth Drudge, a grizzled Tier Two whose scarred hands had claimed more lives than he could count. His vision swam as awareness crept back, the world blurring between reality and nightmare. When his sight finally cleared, the Seahawk's distant silhouette mocked him from the horizon, untouched by their ambush, vanishing into the endless blue like a ghost ship departing the realm of the living.

"What... what in the depths happened?" Gareth's voice cracked like old leather as he pushed himself upright on arms that trembled with more than just physical weakness. The memory came flooding back, masked figures appearing from nowhere, moving with inhuman precision, dismantling their entire crew like children playing with dolls.

Around him, his comrades stirred with similar confusion, their faces pale beneath sun-darkened skin. Low curses filled the air as they surveyed the carnage, not the destruction of battle, but something far more unnerving. The other two ships of their proud fleet bobbed nearby like driftwood, their sails hanging limp as funeral shrouds, hulls bearing the scars of their humiliating defeat. Yet no fires raged, no critical damage marred their vessels. This hadn't been conquest, it had been something far worse.

Gareth stumbled to the rail on legs that felt like wet rope, his knuckles white as he gripped the worn wood. "The captain? Where's Brokenheart?" His voice carried across the deck with desperate authority, but the responding silence chilled him more than any winter gale.

The remaining pirates fanned out like nervous rats, checking every corner of their vessel. They descended into holds filled with the smell of rum and unwashed bodies and searched through cabins that reeked of desperation. The ship's treasures remained untouched, crates of aged rum worth a king's ransom, barrels of salted meat that could feed a crew for months, even the hidden compartments crammed with their most precious contraband. Spices from distant lands, gold, and jewels that had once adorned the throats of merchant princes, all left behind as if worthless.

A tentative cheer began among the younger crew members, voices cracking with false bravado. "They didn't take a bloody thing!" shouted Vilemm, a scarred Tier Two. "Beat us senseless and sailed away? What kind of fools leave behind a fortune?"

But the celebration died like a flame in a hurricane as something far more sinister settled over the deck. It started as a whisper in their minds, a crawling sensation that made their skin prickle and their breath catch. The feeling of predatory eyes watching from the shadows, of death circling just beyond sight. Paranoia crept through the crew like poison in their veins.

The sun seemed dimmer now, its rays failing to penetrate the growing dread that wrapped around them like a burial shroud. Every shadow stretched longer, every creak of timber sounded like footsteps in empty corridors. The gentle rocking of the ship became the rhythm of a funeral dirge, and the wind through the rigging whispered threats in languages they didn't recognize.

"Someone's watching us," hissed Marcus, a young Tier One whose hands shook as he clutched his cutlass. His eyes darted frantically across the empty deck, seeing threats in every shadow, death in every glint of sunlight on water. "I can feel eyes crawling over my skin like spiders."

The crew huddled together instinctively, weapons drawn but hands unsteady with terror. Their formation spoke of desperation, wolves backed into a corner, knowing the hunter approached but unable to see from which direction death would strike.

"How did two masked demons destroy our entire fleet?" Gareth's voice broke with shame and rage. "We're the Fractured Tide. Our very name makes merchants weep and naval captains flee. We've terrorized these waters for years, and we were played like green cabin boys on their first voyage."

"Aye," muttered Old Thamas. "Should've been us stripping their ship bare, not crawling around our own deck like beaten dogs."

The voice that answered them seemed to materialize from the very air itself, cold and mocking as winter death. "You should be embarrassed."

They whirled as one, hearts seizing in collective terror. Perched on the mast's crosstree like some supernatural predator was a masked figure, casually twirling a wicked blade that caught the sunlight and threw it back in blinding flashes. Soga's posture spoke of utter relaxation, almost playful in its nonchalance, but the aura that radiated from him was pure malevolence, death given form and purpose.

The pirates froze like prey animals sensing the approach of an apex predator. Some stumbled backward, their weapons suddenly feeling like toys in their trembling hands. Others gripped their swords tighter, knuckles white with desperate strength. The acrid smell of fear-urine filled the air as one man's bladder betrayed him, the stain spreading across his breeches like spilled wine.

"Y-you..." Gareth's voice emerged as barely more than a whisper, each word a struggle against the terror that threatened to silence him entirely. "You're one of them. What do you want? You already won!"

Soga dropped to the deck with liquid grace, landing without a sound despite the distance. The blade never ceased its hypnotic rotation, each revolution promising swift and final resolution to their fears. "I was hoping my young friend would have finished you properly," he said conversationally, as if discussing the weather with old acquaintances. "But it looks like he's still a softy. Reports weren't quite as accurate as I thought. He needs encouragement to develop the hardness he'll need in the upcoming years."

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The mage paused, tilting his head with the curious gesture of a cat studying wounded prey. "Fortunately, I don't suffer from such limitations."

In a movement too swift for human eyes to follow, Soga reached up and pulled off his mask. The face revealed beneath was beautiful in the way that winter storms are beautiful, terrible and perfect and utterly without mercy. Turquoise eyes blazed with ruthless intent, reflecting the pirates' terror like mirrors made of ice.

The blade moved in a silver arc that seemed to bend reality around it. Gareth's head separated from his shoulders with surgical precision, the cut so clean that for a moment both parts remained upright. Blood erupted like a crimson fountain as the body finally crumpled to the deck, the head rolling to rest against a coil of rope with eyes still wide in shock.

Screams tore through the air like the cries of the damned, raw and primal sounds that spoke of minds breaking under the weight of absolute terror. The crew scattered like startled birds, but there was nowhere to run on a ship surrounded by endless ocean.

Soga vanished in a flash of turquoise light, reappearing behind Vilemm like a nightmare made manifest. Twin strokes severed both arms at the shoulders before the pirate could even register the attack. A precise thrust through the heart ended his suffering before the severed limbs hit the deck, his blood mixing with Gareth's in a spreading pool of crimson judgment.

Panic consumed the survivors like wildfire. They fired crossbows at empty air, swung swords at shadows that danced just beyond their reach. But Soga had become something beyond human, a force of nature given deadly purpose. He teleported between them like death itself, appearing for just long enough to deliver perfectly placed strikes before vanishing again.

One by one, they fell. The deck became slick with blood that reflected the sky like a crimson mirror, and screams echoed across the empty sea until even the gulls fled in terror. When silence finally descended, it was absolute, the kind of quiet that follows total victory.

The sloop shuddered as deliberate breaches opened in her hull, seawater rushing in with eager hunger. As she began her final descent toward the ocean floor, Soga teleported away without a backward glance, leaving the Fractured Tide to join their victims in the eternal darkness below.

**

Belowdecks on the Seahawk, Fin's cramped cabin swayed with the ship's gentle rhythm. Lamplight flickered from a lantern secured to the bulkhead, casting dancing shadows that played across charts. He sat cross-legged on his narrow bunk, a small flower held delicately between his fingers, a vibrant sea bloom he'd plucked from a patch of floating kelp.

The question that occupied his mind was simple yet profound: could living matter survive the temporal suspension of his dimensional storage? He channeled mana, opening the pocket space and placing the flower within its timeless embrace. He would measure exactly one minute before retrieval.

When he withdrew the bloom, its petals had turned brown and brittle, life drained away like water from a broken vessel. "Temporal stasis appears incompatible with biological processes," he murmured, noting the observation in his leather-bound journal. "Perhaps after the skill evolves to higher tiers..."

A perfunctory knock preceded Soga's entrance, the mage entering without waiting for permission before flopping onto the opposite bunk with theatrical exhaustion. He pulled off his mask and ran a hand through hair still damp with sea spray.

Fin didn't look up from placing another specimen, a hardier weed from the ship's stores, into his dimensional space. "So, did you kill them?"

Soga stared for a moment, then burst into genuine laughter. "That perception skill of yours is absolutely ridiculous. I thought I'd slipped away without notice, but nothing gets past you, does it? But yes, I finished what you started. Sent their ships to the bottom too. Better they feed the fish than continue their careers in rape, murder, and theft."

Fin nodded with satisfaction, retrieving the second plant only to find it similarly lifeless. "I concur with your assessment."

Soga sat forward, turquoise eyes studying his companion with curious intensity. "Then why leave them breathing in the first place? You had them completely incapacitated."

Fin stretched languidly before sliding his mask back into place, the featureless visage snapping down like a closing door. He met Soga's gaze with what might have been amusement. "Because I knew you'd do my dirty work for me." With a casual nod, he left the cabin, the door clicking shut behind him.

Soga chuckled and shook his head in admiration. "You calculating bastard." He began emptying his spatial storage, dumping bags of gold onto his bunk where they clinked together in heavy, satisfying cascades of ill-gotten wealth finally put to better use.

The Seahawk's mess hall buzzed with the warm camaraderie of sailors celebrating another day above the waves. The smell of hearty stew and strong ale filled the space, while lanterns swung overhead in gentle arcs, illuminating weathered faces glowing with the satisfaction of survival. Captain Tatum held court at the head table, his booming voice spinning tales of past adventures that grew more dramatic with each telling.

The door creaked open on well-oiled hinges, and conversation paused as Fin entered with his mask firmly in place. "Lasair!" Tatum called out with genuine warmth, gesturing toward an empty space on the bench. "Join us, lad. After today's performance, you've earned a place at any table on this vessel."

Fin settled onto the worn wood amid the crew's approving murmurs. Tatum pushed a foaming mug of ale across the scarred table surface. "To our saviors!" he declared, raising his own drink high.

A burly sailor with arms like tree trunks lifted his cup toward the rafters. "To the Blink Brothers! May they always appear where our enemies least expect them!"

Laughter erupted like a breaking wave, mugs clinking together in metallic celebration. Tatum joined the merriment, delivering what he intended as a friendly slap to Fin's back. The blow carried enough force to stagger most men, but Fin didn't budge.

"Sturdier than you appear, young Lasair," Tatum observed, eyebrows rising with newfound respect.

Fin tilted his head with curious interest. "Blink Brothers?"

The crew exchanged knowing grins. "Aye," explained the first mate. "After watching you and your companion vanishing and reappearing across those pirate decks like vengeful spirits. One moment here, next moment there, gone in the blink of an eye. The Blink Brothers seemed fitting."

Fin shook his head but didn't want to express his disinterest in the name. He simply raised his mug toward the assembled sailors. "To smooth seas and fewer interruptions to our voyage."

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