I remember... nothing.

A rodent scurried across the narrow window frame, claws scratching against stone worn smooth by desperate fingers. It slipped through the bars with the fluid grace of something that had never known captivity, and Cal watched its vanishing with a bilious envy. He reclined upon the prison bunk—if such a charitable name could be given to the slab of mouldering wood he lay upon—tapping his forefinger against a worn playing card. The sound was barely audible, yet it anchored him. A whisper of cards shuffling, the soft percussion of coin against wood, the heartbeat of a life that seemed like someone else's dream.

The cell held the accumulated misery of countless condemned souls. A bucket squatted in the corner, reeking of human waste and despair. Upon the floor lay a chipped ceramic plate bearing the fossilised remains of bread so mouldy it had become a small ecosystem unto itself. The stones around him wept with damp, their surfaces stained dark with substances better left uncontemplated. This was a place meant for those whose dance with mortality had reached its final steps.

What have I done to earn such a fate?

Memories came in fragments, like light through broken glass. Floating—yes, he remembered floating beneath a canopy of stars, warm water against his skin. Then the night had torn apart, and horror had emerged from the depths.

"Seems your fortune has run out, swamp-rat."

The voice of Admiral Garn Tidemire had shattered the gentle music of the waves. Cal had looked up to see a terror given flesh standing above him: seven feet of nightmare draped in naval authority. The Admiral's beard writhed with the independent life of tentacles, each appendage glistening with phosphorescent slime. His eyes held the cold wisdom of abyssal trenches.

The deep blue coat that draped his massive frame bore gold braiding that caught moonlight like captured stars, though no amount of finery could disguise the monster beneath. He held a flintlock pistol, trained upon Cal's heart with the steady certainty of tides.

"No tricks and nowhere to run this time." The Admiral's voice carried the sound of grinding coral, a resonance that bypassed the ears and scraped directly against the soul.

"Where am I?" Cal had asked, though even then some deeper part of him had known the answer would bring no comfort.

The Admiral's face had contorted—a motion unsettling to witness, as though the features were struggling to remember how human expressions were supposed to function. What passed for a sneer crossed his cephalopod features. "That won't play, Splitjack. I've caught you at last, and now you'll hang for your crimes."

Crimes? The word had echoed in Cal's mind like a stone dropped into a deep well.

With a grunt, the Admiral had gestured for his crew. Two sailors had emerged from the shadows—beings shaped like men the sea had claimed and remade in its own image. One bore the scarred hide and dead eyes of a shark, whilst the other was all teeth and bulbous orbs, something drawn up from the black abyss of the sea. They efficiently, slapping an iron collar around Cal's neck, searching him for weapons, then hauling him bodily into the brig of the Admiral's Man o' War.

Four suns had wheeled overhead during his captivity aboard that floating prison, each dawn bringing him closer to this moment. Then they had transferred him to the Admiral's stronghold, a fortress that squatted upon the coastline like a barnacle upon a whale's back.

Cal slipped the card into his shirt-pocket as he stood and walked to the window, his movements limited by the chain connecting his collar to the wall. Through the barred slit, he could observe the Admiral's coastline spread below him. The fortress commanded a bay that served as home to an entire fleet, whilst amphibious creatures drilled upon the beaches.

Fishmen moved through the water and across the sand with equal facility, their forms as varied as the ocean's imagination. Some bore the sleek menace of predatory fish, whilst others displayed the bizarre beauty of deep-sea creatures thrust into daylight.

The fleet itself was a sight to inspire both awe and terror. Ships of familiar design floated alongside vessels that seemed grown rather than built, their hulls bearing the organic curves of massive shells or the scaled hide of leviathans. Some appeared to breathe, their sides rising and falling with a rhythm that suggested these were creatures of the deep pressed into naval service.

The wet slap of feet against the stone behind him announced a visitor. "Time to go, swamp-rat." The voice bubbled up from a throat designed for filtering water rather than speaking, each word a small drowning in reverse.

Three guards entered, their tridents pointed tips aimed at Cal’s throat. Am I truly so dangerous? Cal wondered, though the question carried its own answer in the careful way they moved, the respect they showed for his potential for violence.

One approached from behind whilst the others maintained their vigilance. The creature bound his hands, attached a chain to the front of Cal's collar, then removed the tether that had held him to the wall. Then placed a dark hood over his head, and the world became a suffocating darkness.

They frogmarched him through corridors and down steps, past chambers where he could hear the splash and murmur of the Admiral's strange household.

When they removed the hood, Cal found himself standing upon a platform overlooking a fortified square. The gallows rose before him as a monument to finality, its wood weathered grey by salt spray. Two bodies decorated its crossbeam, swaying with each gust of wind in a macabre dance. The ropes creaked a horrifying melody of death.

They removed his collar—an irony not lost on him, as freedom came only at the moment when it ceased to matter. Around him, fishmen stood in ranks, their weapons trained upon his heart. There would be no escape through force, no clever trick to turn the tables. The Admiral had planned this moment with personal thoroughness.

Admiral Tidemire regarded him from a raised dais to his left, his deep-sea features arranged in an expression of terrible satisfaction. In the centre of the square, a crowd had gathered: villagers from the nearby settlement, sailors on shore-leave, merchants whose business was closed for the day. The air hummed with anticipation and a hunger for spectacle.

"Captain Sancal Caldeaux." The name fell from the Admiral's throat like a curse. "For the crimes of desertion, theft from the Royal Treasury, and adultery, how do you plead?"

The words hailed on Cal. Captain? Sancal Caldeaux? I have a rank, a name–a history I remember none of. The knowledge sat in his mind, familiar yet impossible to grasp.

"His silence condemns him," the Admiral continued, his voice carrying across the assembled crowd like thunder across water. "By testimony of witness, I pass judgement with the voice of His Majesty, King Yurstan of the line Caerstan. I sentence you to hang by the neck until death. Have you any last words?"

Cal opened his mouth to speak, to protest, to demand answers—but found that his voice had fled him. The enormity of his situation, the strangeness of being condemned for crimes he could not remember, left him as speechless as the swaying corpses above his head.

They threw the rope around his neck with the casual disregard of those who performed this ritual regularly. The hemp was rough against his skin, its weight a promise of the silence to come. They positioned him above the trapdoor, and Cal cast his eyes across the faces of those who had come to witness his ending. Not one showed recognition, not one seemed to know him as anything other than the condemned criminal the Admiral proclaimed him to be.

The executioner's hand moved towards the lever. Time stretched like hot glass, each second containing eternities of regret and confusion. Then came the sound—the slam of the world's door closing—and the trapdoor opened beneath his feet.

Cal dropped through space that seemed to extend forever, then the rope caught him with a violence that sent lightning through his skull. His feet began their desperate dance, seeking purchase in empty air, whilst his lungs burned for breath that would not come. Darkness crept in from the edges of his vision, and he felt the great stillness approaching.

S'il te plaît, he thought, though he knew not to whom he pleaded. Anything. Anyone. Help me.

Heat surged through his body like a tide of molten gold, racing along veins that felt too small to contain it. The rope—thick hemp that should have supported thrice his weight—began to fray. Individual fibres tore and snapped, one by one, then all at once.

Cal tumbled to the sand below, gasping air that tasted of miracles and impossible reprieve. Above him, the Admiral's roar shook the foundations of the fortress: "Seize him!"

Dazed and disoriented, Cal felt something beneath his hand. He grasped it instinctively as he spun to his feet, his mind struggling to process the reality of his survival. Around him, fishmen closed in with their tridents, their faces foreign but harbouring distinct hatred.

No escape. I'm going to die after all.

He looked down at the object in his hand. The playing card from his pocket—the Queen-of-Sands—regarded him with her painted eyes. As he stared, the card's red edges began to glow with a light that spoke to something deep within. Heat built in his chest, the same heat that had snapped the rope, the same heat that now whispered of possibilities beyond the reach of physical law.

He closed his eyes and wished to be far beyond these walls, far from this place of death and the Admiral's terrible justice.

The world dissolved into the sound of rushing water, and his face felt smothered. Weightlessness claimed him, then the sensation of falling, falling, falling—

His eyes snapped open to reveal branches whipping past his face, leaves and bark scoring his skin as he plummeted through a canopy of ancient trees. Instinct made him grab for a sturdy limb, and the impact drove the breath from his lungs. For a long moment, he simply hung there, gasping like a landed fish, trying to understand what had happened to him. When he could finally breathe without pain, he looked around to gain his bearings.

To his right, limned by the setting sun, stood the Admiral's fortress. Yet it was miles distant now, separated from him by forest and field and the impossibility of what he had just achieved. No shackles bound his limbs, no noose encircled his throat. In his hand, the playing card that had been his salvation was half-burnt, consumed in the act of deliverance.

Sacre bleu, he thought, borrowing an oath from memories that weren't quite his own. I have magic.

The implications of that realisation would have to wait. Even now, smoke was rising from the fortress, and he could hear the distant scream of orders. The Admiral would not be content to let his prize slip away.

Below him, perhaps a half-mile distant, lay a village. Thatched roofs caught the last light of day like golden caps upon mushrooms, whilst stone chimneys released threads of smoke into the evening air. There he might find the means of further escape—clothing to replace his torn outfit, food, perhaps even answers to the questions that multiplied in his mind.

As dusk painted the world, the sky softened. Plum-coloured clouds drifted over pewter coloured fields where szēp grazed with the placid indifference of creatures whose concerns extended no further than grass and water. Cal made his way toward the village skirting the stone fences dividing the landscape into neat parcels–each a testament to generations of careful husbandry. The houses, when he drew near enough to study them properly, proved to be sturdy constructions of stone, with walls thick enough to withstand coastal storms and thatched roofs woven with the skill of craftsmen who understood that a roof could be the difference between life and death.

From washing lines stretched between houses like prayer flags, he liberated boots that fit well enough, trousers that would serve his purposes, and a shirt that smelled of soap and honest labour. The theft sat uneasily in his stomach but necessity overruled scruple. He would find a way to repay them, should fortune ever smile upon him again.

The village itself proved larger than it had appeared from his arboreal vantage point. Narrow streets wound between houses like streams, their surfaces worn smooth by generations of feet. Gardens bloomed behind low walls, their flowers releasing perfumes that spoke of peace and permanence.

Nestled at the village's heart was a tavern; windows glowed with warm yellow light. The sounds of conversation and laughter spilled into the street, and Cal found himself drawn towards it despite the danger such a place represented.

From a railing outside the door, he appropriated a coat of yærrskin and a wide-brimmed hat that had seen better days. Pulling the brim low over his features and raising the collar high around his neck, he slipped inside. The tavern's interior was a symphony of warm wood and warmer voices. Sailors sat beside merchants, their weathered hands wrapped around tankards of ale that gleamed like liquid amber in the firelight. Smoke from pipes and the hearth created a haze that softened harsh edges and muffled voices.

"—heard he disappeared in a gout of flame—"

"—cursed magic user, mark my words—"

Each word was a nail driven into the coffin of his anonymity. Half this village had witnessed his near-execution, had seen his impossible escape. His face would be carved into their memories. Food would have to wait; remaining here any longer was courting capture.

He left as quietly as he had entered, his new clothes blending with the evening shadows. The harbour lay downhill from the village centre, and towards it he made his way, cautious to avoid the pools of light that spilled from windows and doorways.

Fishing boats bobbed alongside merchant vessels, masts swaying in the gentle rhythm of sheltered water. But amongst the docks moved shapes belonging to the Admiral's fleet—fishmen in naval uniforms, their scaled skin gleaming wetly in the lamplight. They moved with purpose, examining papers, questioning the populace, searching for someone Cal suspected shared his visage.

He crouched beneath the weathered planks of the wharf, feeling the cold kiss of seawater against his cheek whilst he studied his options. Swimming was out of the question—the fishmen would be far more at home in the water than he could ever hope to be. That left the docks themselves, dangerous as they appeared.

At the pier's far end, a single-handed sloop rocked gently at its moorings. The vessel was small enough for one man to handle, swift enough to outrun larger ships, and best of all, it sat far from the main concentration of guards. If he could reach it, if he could cast off without being seen, if the wind favoured him—a lot of variables, but it was the only chance he had.

Cal emerged from his hiding place and began walking down the pier, portraying the confidence of someone who belonged there. His heart hammered against his ribs, but his face remained calm, his stride steady.

"You there, stop!" The voice belonged to a fishman whose scales bore a green-black sheen. "Have you seen this man?" The creature waved a poster in his direction.

Breathe, he told himself. Breathe and think.

Instead, he ran.

His boots drummed against wet planks as he sprinted towards the sloop, his stolen coat billowing behind. Shouts erupted in his wake, but he forced himself not to look back. The boat grew larger with each stride, its mast reaching towards stars that had begun to light the darkening sky.

He leaped the gap between dock and deck, his hands working frantically to cast off the mooring lines whilst his ears registered the pursuit growing ever closer. The mainsail unfurled with a snap, and he grabbed for the oars that lay ready in their locks.

One oar slipped from his sweating hands and disappeared into the dark water with a splash that sounded like doom itself. Fear coursed through him, hot and urgent, and his face began to burn. His veins cascading with the feel of lava, his heart like a forge working at full capacity.

Then the wind came—a blessed gust that filled his sail and sent the sloop leaping away from the dock like a frightened deer. Behind him, a fishman dove into the water, his forms slicing through the waves with terrible efficiency.

It reached him as Cal struggled with his remaining oar, hoisting it as a weapon. The creature's claws scraped against the hull as it attempted to haul itself aboard, but Cal brought the oar down hard on the fishmans’ head, and the stunned fishman fell back into the dark water.

Already, Cal could hear the alarm bells beginning to toll, their bronze refrain carrying across the water, a promise of pursuit to come.

But for now, he was free. The lucky wind—if wind born of magic could be called luck—carried him swiftly away from the harbour. Behind him, the lights of the village grew smaller and more distant. Ahead lay the open sea, dark and full of possibilities. The wind sang in his rigging, and Cal Caldeaux sailed into the night, carried by magic and hope in equal measure.