We don’t go far before I angle us back toward the docks.

  Jackson notices immediately. “Oh. Are we—”

  “Yes,” I reply. “We’re meeting Rocco.”

  He stops walking. Actually stops.

  “…Really?”

  “Yes, really.”

  He grins like a kid who just got told they’re allowed to touch the controls. “I’ve been thinking about them since last time. I looked up harbor seals. Did research. I know they’re intelligent, but what you’ve created here is…”

  “Criminal,” I say.

  He laughs. “I was going to say extraordinary.”

  “Also accurate.”

  The docks are louder now—crews moving, crates shifting, the organized chaos of construction happening nearby. And right on cue, the seals are still there, half in the water, half out, loitering like they’ve got nowhere else to be and all day to be there.

  Rocco spots me first. His head lifts. Whiskers twitch. He barks once—short, pleased—and slides closer to the edge of the dock with deliberate confidence.

  Jackson slows beside me, suddenly careful. “He’s… big.”

  “He knows,” I answer.

  Rocco hauls himself partway up onto the dock edge, water streaming off his bulk. He looks at Jackson, then at me, then back at Jackson—assessing. Measuring.

  I hold out a hand. “Easy. This one’s friendly.”

  Rocco inches closer. Close enough that Jackson can smell salt and wet fur. Close enough that the seal’s dark eyes reflect him back.

  Jackson swallows. “He won’t bite, right?”

  “Not unless you’re holding a wrench,” I say.

  That earns a nervous laugh.

  I summon a single fish into my palm and hand it to Jackson. “Offer it flat. Let him decide.”

  Jackson nods like this is sacred instruction. He kneels slowly, heart clearly pounding, and extends the fish.

  Rocco leans forward. Sniffs. Then—very gently—takes it.

  No snapping. No rush. Just careful teeth and a satisfied huff as he pulls the fish away and swallows it whole.

  Jackson exhales like he’s been holding his breath for years. “He’s incredibly gentle.”

  Rocco barks softly, pleased with the assessment.

  I nod. “He knows when not to push.”

  Rocco inches closer again, lifting his head just enough that his chin brushes Jackson’s knee.

  Jackson freezes. “That’s an invitation.”

  “It is.”

  Slowly—reverently—Jackson reaches out and places a hand on Rocco’s neck. The seal doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away. He leans into it, just slightly, enough that Jackson laughs under his breath, stunned.

  “I can’t believe this,” he whispers. “He trusts me.”

  Rocco closes his eyes halfway. Trust, maybe. But mostly curiosity. And food.

  Jackson pets him carefully for a few seconds longer, then pulls his hand back like he doesn’t want to overstep.

  Rocco opens one eye. Judging.

  I hand Jackson another fish. “For later. He’ll remember.”

  Jackson takes it like it’s a gift of state. “Thank you.”

  Then he hesitates, like he wants to ask for something and doesn’t want to sound ridiculous.

  “What?” I ask.

  “…Would it be stupid if I—”

  “If you hug him?” I finish.

  Jackson’s ears go red. “Yeah.”

  I shrug. “He’ll allow it if he chooses to. Don’t grab. Don’t surprise. Let him come to you.”

  Jackson nods once, then crouches again at the edge of the dock—slow, respectful. He doesn’t reach. He just waits.

  For a second, nothing happens.

  Then Rocco rises, powerful and quiet, and braces his front half up onto the dock like he owns it. Water sheets off his shoulders. He leans in close enough that his whiskers brush Jackson’s shirt.

  Rocco snorts once—soft, approving.

  Jackson’s face breaks into a grin he can’t hide. He slides his arms around Rocco’s thick neck and chest—not tight, not controlling—just… present.

  Rocco doesn’t fight it. He presses his weight forward and lets it happen, like he’s been hugged before. Like he understands it.

  Jackson closes his eyes, and something in him shifts—small but permanent. Not “this is impressive.” Not “this is a good interview.”

  This is the moment where the last layer of maybe peels off.

  His voice comes out quiet when he speaks, like he’s afraid loud words will ruin it. “…This isn’t myth.”

  Rocco huffs into his shoulder, warm and damp and real.

  Jackson pulls back just enough to look at him, still smiling—genuinely smiling—like he forgot he was tired. Like he forgot the outside world exists.

  He pets Rocco’s cheek once, gentle.

  Rocco leans into it again—then slides back down into the water with a satisfied splash, already drifting away like he’s completed his duty.

  Jackson stays crouched there a second longer, watching him go. Then he stands slowly, wiping at his eyes like he’s brushing off sea spray.

  He looks at me with this bright, shaken happiness. “I’m sorry. I don’t think I’ve smiled like that in a long time.”

  I don’t answer with anything clever. I just nod, because I understand exactly what he means.

  And because now—now that he’s felt it—he’s going to ask better questions.

  I pull my phone out. “If we’re going to talk about the elves properly, we’re doing it right.”

  I send a message to Skifra Stormheart.

  ME: Skifra. Meet us. I’m walking Jackson through the first-contact story. I want it from the source.

  A response comes back almost immediately—because of course it does.

  SKIFRAttttt: Grods. Fine. I’ll be at the entrance to Pirate Bay. Don’t keep me waiting.

  I show Jackson the reply.

  His eyebrows lift. “She sounds… intense.”

  I smile. “She is.”

  Jackson looks back toward the water where Rocco disappeared, still wearing that small, unwilling grin like the world has finally stopped feeling fake.

  Then he turns with me. “Pirate Bay.”

  “Pirate Bay,” I confirm.

  And we start walking—toward the place where the story actually begins.

  SEALS’ RANSOM INN

  The inn isn’t just a building. It’s an agreement the island makes with itself—a place where chaos stays mostly outside, not because pirates respect rules, but because even pirates need somewhere the roof doesn’t come down every fifteen minutes.

  The sign swings crooked on iron chains. The walkway leading to it is damp and sticky with spilled rum and crushed fruit. Lanterns hang low, their light warm but sharp enough to make shadows feel dangerous.

  Jackson walks like he expects the ground to decide it’s done supporting him.

  We step inside.

  The smell hits first: rum, coconut oil, sweat, smoke, salt—then food, real food, spiced and hot. The air is thick with it.

  A man on a table sings a verse that’s more threat than music. A woman balances a mug on her head, laughing. Guests clap along, phones up, filming.

  Jackson’s eyes track everything, cataloging, trying to understand the rules.

  Then—silence.

  Not everywhere. Just a pocket of it. A dead space in the noise where people instinctively shift their attention.

  Skifra.

  She’s in the back, leaning against a beam like she’s part of the building. Not hiding. Not performing. Existing with the kind of calm that makes everything else look like theater.

  Arms folded loose. Boot braced behind her. A single lantern throws soft light across her face, leaving the rest in shadow.

  She doesn’t look up as we approach. She doesn’t have to.

  “Took you long enough,” she says, voice calm and amused. “Thought maybe the island finally swallowed you.”

  Then she shifts her eyes—just her eyes—toward Jackson. “And who’s the greenhorn?”

  Jackson stops. Not because she’s loud. Because she’s precise.

  “Jackson,” I say. “Historian. He’s recording the early history of the Realm.”

  Skifra tilts her head, studying him the way sailors study the horizon. “Gods. He’s green around the gills.”

  Jackson swallows audibly.

  “You gonna be alright there, boy?” she asks—not cruel, not kind. Just factual.

  Jackson glances at me, and I see it: his mind reaching for rules that apply. There aren’t any.

  “She’s… not going to hurt me, right?” he asks quietly.

  I grin. “To you? She’s harmless as a fly.”

  Skifra makes a sound between a laugh and a scoff. “Careful.”

  Jackson’s voice cracks slightly. “…to the British?”

  Her smile turns sharp enough to cut. “Different story.”

  She pushes off the beam and stands upright, and something in the room subtly shifts. Not fear. Recognition. Like a tide adjusting around a rock.

  Her wrist rolls. A dagger appears between her fingers like it’s always been there. It spins once, twice—clean, casual—then vanishes again.

  Jackson’s breath catches. His eyes track the empty space where it was, like his brain refuses to accept that a weapon can appear and disappear with no warning.

  Skifra looks at him now, fully. “I’m a real pirate. Not an actor. Not playing dress-up.”

  She glances around the inn like she owns it. “Back home, I had a bounty big enough to make kings nervous.”

  Jackson doesn’t blink.

  “Here?” She shrugs. “I get to be what I am. No bounty. No running. No waking up with my hand on a blade.”

  She pauses, and in that pause, Jackson sees something that doesn’t match the violence around us: relief.

  Then Skifra looks back at him. “So. How can I help you?”

  Jackson inhales like he’s about to speak in court. He chooses his words carefully. “I was hoping to hear the original story. How your people first encountered this place. How you met the Core.”

  Skifra’s eyes narrow—not in anger, but memory. “That was my fault.”

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  She gestures with her chin. “Walk. I’ll tell it properly.”

  PIRATE BAY — ARRIVAL

  We’re halfway through Skifra’s retelling—she’s just described stealing the orb, the five-year chase, the storm, the moment when she and Rocfeathers both grabbed it and reality tore—when the first sound cuts through Pirate Bay like a blade.

  Not a shout. Not laughter.

  A low boom from offshore.

  The lantern flame flickers. The table vibrates. A few pirates stop mid-bite, not panicking, just listening.

  Skifra doesn’t even look surprised. She smiles into her drink. “Right on time.”

  Jackson’s head whips toward the bay. “What—”

  “British,” she says cheerfully, and takes another bite like she’s watching a play.

  Beyond the pier, out past the reef line, shapes slide out of the haze—three dark hulls cutting the water with surgical discipline.

  Frigates. British. Their sails trimmed, lines tight, approach calculated.

  Jackson’s mouth opens. “They’re—”

  “Attacking,” Skifra finishes, taking another bite.

  A cannon flashes. The boom hits a heartbeat later.

  The shot slams into the outer dockworks—wood erupts, spray jumps, guests scream and then laugh because laughter is how they keep from becoming afraid.

  Plates rattle. A bowl tips over on the next table, splashing a tourist who yelps and then starts laughing too.

  Jackson half-rises, frozen. “Core—”

  I’m already standing. Not rushing. Just standing.

  Because Pirate Bay is built for this.

  Cannons slide out of places that were empty a second ago—hidden ports in pier pilings, gun hatches in decorative barrels, artillery that was invisible until the moment it needed to be.

  Pirates stop being drunk.

  That’s the terrifying part.

  The laughter cuts. The chaos tightens into a machine.

  Orders fly, sharp and practiced:

  “GUN CREWS!”

  “LOAD!”

  “PORT SIDE—ANGLE DOWN!”

  “DON’T LET ’EM CLOSE THE PIER!”

  A pirate vaults over a table, boots landing on bench wood, and in the same motion snatches a pistol from under the bar like it was always waiting.

  A guest squeals as someone’s chair gets kicked out. A second later the guest is laughing again, taking pictures with shaking hands.

  I notice their bracelets—yellow. They’re in the chaos. Protected. Experiencing it.

  A pirate cannon answers the British shot. The pier shakes hard enough that Jackson’s glass jumps.

  Skifra casually picks up her plate, protecting it like property.

  A pirate goes flying past us—literally lifted by the shockwave of a near miss—hits the sand below, rolls, stands back up, spits, and charges back into the fight.

  Jackson’s eyes are enormous. “He—he should be dead!”

  “He’d be dead in your world,” I say calmly.

  Another cannon hits. Wood splinters. Smoke curls.

  Skifra laughs like she’s sixteen and invincible.

  Jackson stumbles backward as a table behind him collapses under a panicked scramble.

  Skifra reaches out, grabs his collar, yanks him back down onto the bench like he’s a child trying to run into traffic.

  “SIT,” she barks, and it’s the first time her voice sounds like a captain.

  Jackson obeys without thinking.

  Skifra leans in close enough that he can smell salt and rum on her breath. “This is the difference between a theme and a living island.”

  Jackson’s pen is still in his hand. He’s shaking. But he writes anyway.

  The British boarding boat drops—small craft racing toward the pier.

  Pirates surge. Swords flash. Pistols crack.

  A musket ball punches into a post near Jackson’s head—wood chips spray his face.

  He flinches so hard he nearly falls off the bench.

  But he’s wearing a green bracelet. The shot was never going to hit him. The island made sure of it.

  Skifra points. “See that?”

  Jackson looks where she’s pointing—a man with a red bracelet stumbling through the chaos, laughing, swinging a broken bottle at a pirate who ducks and grins and plays along.

  “Red bracelet,” Skifra says. “He gets to participate. Feel it. The island protects him from dying, but he gets the rush.”

  Another guest—yellow bracelet—stands frozen as two pirates crash past him in a sword fight, blades whistling inches from his face. He’s screaming. He’s also laughing. The fight flows around him like water around stone.

  “Yellow,” Skifra continues. “In it but untouchable.”

  And at the back of the pier, a couple huddles together—green bracelets—watching everything with wide eyes while combat consciously, deliberately avoids their space.

  “Green,” Skifra finishes. “Safe. Always.”

  Jackson writes BRACELET SYSTEM and underlines it three times.

  A pirate charges past, cutlass drawn, and engages a British marine who just climbed over the railing. Steel rings. Boots scrape. They’re both grinning like this is the best day of their lives.

  The marine’s blade catches the pirate across the ribs—a deep cut, real blood.

  The pirate staggers. Falls to one knee.

  Jackson gasps.

  The pirate looks down at the wound, touches it, laughs, and says, “Good hit, mate.”

  Then he collapses.

  Dead.

  For three seconds, nothing happens.

  Then—light. Faint, golden, like sunrise compressed into a heartbeat.

  The pirate’s body dissolves. Not violently. Gently. Like it was never entirely solid to begin with.

  And thirty seconds later, he comes stumbling out of a side building, whole again, laughing, shouting, “WHO’S NEXT?”

  Jackson stares. “He… he died.”

  “He did,” I confirm.

  “And came back.”

  “He did.”

  “That’s…” Jackson can’t finish the sentence.

  Skifra grins. “That’s Pirate Bay.”

  The battle rages. Cannons boom. Smoke rolls. Blood stains the deck—real blood, from real wounds—but nobody stays down.

  A British officer climbs onto the pier, sword raised, shouting orders.

  Three pirates converge on him. The fight is brutal—no choreography, no safety, just steel and intent and the knowledge that losing doesn’t mean dying forever.

  The officer takes a blade to the shoulder, staggers, keeps fighting.

  A pirate takes a pistol shot to the chest, falls, laughs as he dissolves.

  The chaos is beautiful in the way storms are beautiful—dangerous, alive, honest.

  Jackson watches it all, pen moving across the page even though his hands are shaking.

  A cannonball screams overhead—so close Jackson feels the air pressure change—and punches through the inn’s second story. Wood explodes. Splinters rain down. A beam cracks and sags.

  Guests scream. Guests laugh. Guests take photos.

  A pirate swings from a rope, crashes into a British marine, both of them tumbling into the water with a massive splash.

  Another pirate—woman with a scar across her cheek and a grin like a blade—kicks a British soldier in the chest, sends him sprawling, then offers him a hand up because the fight is sport, not murder.

  The soldier takes it, grinning back.

  They face off again.

  Skifra watches it all with the satisfaction of someone who built this chaos and knows every moving part.

  “This island changes hands,” she says, voice cutting through the noise. “Pirates don’t own it forever. British don’t own it forever. Whoever wants it… takes it. Holds it. Loses it.”

  Jackson writes CONQUEST AS SCHEDULE.

  “The island stays alive because it accepts conquest as a cycle,” Skifra continues. “When the fight ends, the guests will eat again. The pier will rebuild. The vendors will come back. The music will return.”

  She shrugs. “Because the show must go on.”

  A final broadside booms from the pirate side—three shots in rhythm like a drumline.

  The frigates hesitate. Then, slowly—almost politely—they begin to turn away, slipping back into fog as if they were only here to remind Pirate Bay that nothing is permanent.

  A few pirates shout insults after them. A few guests cheer.

  The chaos doesn’t stop. It just… shifts. From combat to celebration. From violence to joy.

  Pirates who were fighting thirty seconds ago are now drinking together, toasting good hits, comparing wounds.

  Guests with red bracelets stagger around, breathless and alive.

  Guests with yellow bracelets stand frozen, hearts pounding, eyes wide.

  Guests with green bracelets watch it all, safe and awed.

  Skifra sits back down, sets her plate on the table, and begins eating again like nothing happened.

  Jackson stares at her. Then at me. Then at the pier. Then he starts to laugh—quiet at first, disbelieving, then real—because the only way his brain can process what he just witnessed is to accept that this realm doesn’t run on the same rules as Earth.

  Skifra watches him laugh, and her expression softens just a fraction. “There. That smile.”

  Jackson wipes at his face, still half-laughing. “This is insane.”

  Skifra nods, satisfied. “Now you understand why it works.”

  I look at Jackson. “And now you can hear the rest without thinking it’s myth.”

  Skifra wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and leans forward. “Alright, scholar. Write this down.”

  And as the island settles back into its rhythm—vendors returning, music starting, laughter replacing screams—Skifra tells him the rest.

  How she helped build Pirate Bay. How the rotation works. How the island became what it is.

  Jackson writes it all, still shaking, still grinning, still alive in a way he wasn’t an hour ago.

  And when we finally leave—when the sun is setting and the gas giant is painting everything copper—Jackson looks back at Pirate Bay one more time.

  “I’ll never forget this,” he says quietly.

  “Good,” I reply. “That’s the point.”