The Wayward's Heir

Chapter 1

The cat and the mouse

The sun bore down on her skin as an ancient sentence. Salt crusted over her arms, stinging where it settled, and the wind twisted her red hair with invisible, merciless hands. This was her world. She’d never known another life, and still couldn’t decide whether to love it or hate it.

Deirdre O’Malley was born aboard a ship. Not just any ship: The Wayward—the fastest vessel on the known seas, scourge of merchants, obsession of the Irulean and Albionese navies, and a name whispered with dread among seasoned pirates.

Being the captain's daughter wasn’t a privilege. If anything, it was a burden. She had to sweat twice as hard and bleed three times as much to silence the whispers that Peter O'Malley played favorites. The sea showed no mercy. Neither did the crew.

The wind caught the sails with a low groan. Behind them, trailing as a shadow that refused to fade, came Captain Enrique Mendoza aboard The Inquisitor. No one knew exactly why he chased them—was it the gold? Or for something far more coveted?

The Wooden Crown: a throne made of driftwood, invisible to most, yet heavy with legend. It held no power on its own, but every pirate with ambition dreamt of it. Mendoza wasn’t the first to chase it, and he sure wouldn’t be the last.

"Captain, I think we've lost them," Deirdre said , squinting against the glare, half hoping her hand could ward off misfortune.

"Helmsman! Westward!" the captain barked. Then, quieter, to her: "Mendoza’s not gone. He’s like a starving cat—never assume he’s done hunting."

Deirdre nodded, lips pressed tight.

"Move it, you bastards! The captain wants this beast heading west. Now!"

The crew sprang into motion with the precision of men who’d stared death in the face and weren’t eager for a second round. Ropes tightened, yards shifted, boots thundered across the deck. Within minutes, The Wayward veered west.

"There lie the Islands at the End of the World," she murmured. "What’s the plan, Captain?" she asked, eyes locked on the horizon where sea and sky blurred into a dull gray.

"If you can't dodge a fight," he said, voice rough with the weight of a hundred battles, "then pick the ground." 

"But we won't have the upper hand there…" she said, doubt creeping in.

"Neither will they." He stared ahead, daring fate to blink first.

Without another word, he vanished into his quarters. The door groaned shut behind him, as if the ship itself sighed.

Deirdre, first officer, took command.

"Twelve knots before sunset," she ordered. "Hold the course."

She dropped onto an ammunition crate near the sterncastle. A lute rested beside her—an odd relic among iron and black smoke powder. Still, she picked it up and began to play. The tune wasn't cheerful. It was a prayer wrapped in melody.

She’d had this gift since childhood. Her music could open doors others couldn't even see, summoning things that didn't always obey. She wasn’t a sorceress of Turesca, but her art could stir small wonders… or small terrors.

On deck, faces were tight with tension. Hands trembled. Eyes avoided each other. Fear hung in the air, corrosive as salt.

Her song drifted through the ship like a spell woven from mist, slipping through the cracks in the hull and into the hollow places in men’s souls. It climbed the rigging, curled around the sails, and whispered to the tattered flag that flapped with foreboding.

It wasn't a grand spell—just an old one. No fire, no shields of light. Just a balm for the heart. And sometimes, that was enough.

When the last note faded, Deirdre stood, her limbs heavy, as if the ocean itself clung to her.

"If there’s news, I’ll be in the captain’s quarters," she told the deck officer.

The cabin smelled of damp wood and stale rum. She entered without knocking. Though her own quarters were next door, stepping into his meant crossing into another world—one that still could be called home.

Peter O’Malley hunched over his desk, half-buried in maps, notes, and a bottle of rum that offered no comfort. He drank like a man trying to outrun time itself.

She collapsed into a chair, her arms hanging loose, as a marionette with its strings severed.

"When will they catch us?" she asked, rolling a bitter-leaf cigarette. A flicker of blue flame danced in her palm as she lit it.

"By nightfall, maybe later—if luck still remembers our name."

"The Wayward's fast," she said, trying to sound sure. "And we’ve got you."

"Sometimes that's not enough." His grim smile barely touched his lips. "Mendoza doesn't play to lose. We’ll need a miracle."

"Then let the gods send one—after dinner, preferably. We haven’t eaten in two days."

She chuckled, exhaling smoke that smelled of ash and surrender.

"Get some rest, First Officer. It’s going to be a long night… if we live to see it."

"Is it a promise... or a sentence?" she muttered.

He didn't answer. His eyes—resgined and resolute—belonged to a man who’d already made peace with death and just hoped hell would take its time.

Deirdre lay down on the narrow cot, but sleep only brought memories: cannon fire, shattered wood, blood spraying across the deck.

She jolted awake.

"Mendoza," she gasped.

Peter slept in his chair, pistol and saber within reach. She draped a worn blanket over him. It had been just the two of them for so long she’d lost track.. Her mother had died in battle —like many—but hers was a death of legend: a woman who refused to leave the ship even to give birth. She lived, fought, and died as a sea wolf.

Deirdre stepped out onto the deck. The Wayward sailed cloaked in darkness; any light would betray them. She climbed to the mainmast, chewing bitter-leaf, watching the stars glimmer—cold, indifferent witnesses.

Two sailors whispered nearby.

"They say Mendoza leaves no survivors..."

"He carves them up, feds ’em to the sea."

Deirdre spat the bitter-leaf to the floor and glared.

"If no one survives, who’s telling the stories?" she snapped, "Mendoza’s after the Wooden Crown, not your sorry hides. Now sleep—if you can."

She climbed to the bow, savoring the night breeze and the hush of the water against the hull. Then, lightning split the sky. A roar followed.

"Mendoza!" she shouted, ringing the bell. "Up! Or die in your sleep!"

The ship came alive, thrashing as a wounded beast—shouts, boots, gunfire. Another blast hit the waves, closer this time. The Inquisitor was gaining, impossibly fast.

Peter stormed onto the deck with his spyglass.

"Hoist the sails! Battle stations!"

Deirdre began to hum an old tune—simple, potent. Another explosion rooked the ship, jolting screams from sailors still trapped in Somne’s grip. Splinters flew. A shard tore into her leg, but she kept singing.

"Spirits of the air, guide me onward…" she whispered.

The notes trembled through the chaos. To the crew, they were echoes. To her, they were spirits—shifting forms with hollow eyes and mouths that never closed.

"Blow, wind—blow hard!"

A sudden gust slammed into the sails like a divine shove. The Wayward surged forward. Another shot grazed the hull; the ship groaned, threatening to drag its crew into the abyss of Father Mare.

"Is…spirits of…" Deirdre faltered.

The magic clawed at her from inside. One spirit grinned and dove toward her mouth. She gasped—and the song broke.

Strong arms caught her.

"First Officer—hold steady," the captain’s voice cut through the chaos.

"Yes, sir..." she rasped, regaining control.

The spell had worked. The Wayward, lighter and smaller, pulled ahead of The Inquisitor.

For now.

The night stretched on, endlessly.

By dawn, The Wayward reached the Islands at the End of the World, chased by the fire the whole way. The men prayed or drank; both served the same purpose.

Deirdre had recovered. Magic always came with a price, and she’d paid it. If she hadn't, they’d be floating in the deep, their bodies bloated with salt and defeat.

The islands weren’t a refuge. They were a trap. Jagged rock formations rose from the sea, stripped of soil or greenery, bare and brutal, as if curved from the bones of a dead god. No map dared mark them. It was a place where logic was drowned in the fog, where ships vanished without a trace. Only the mad or the desperate ventured in.

Peter O’Malley was both

He gripped the helm, rum heavy on his breath.

"First officer—get to the bow! Guide me!"

Deirdre sprinted forward, grabbing the bowsprit, casting a quick glance at the looming silhouette of The Inquisitor, still closing in. The crew stepped aside as she passed, knowing full well that if Mendoza boarded, they’d be chum.

The first rocks were killers lurking just below the surface, waiting to gut the hull. Only Deirdre’s eyes and memory could navigate that submerged maze.

"Two degrees to port" she shouted.

The ship groaned but obeyed. The rocks scraped the hull with a screech sharp enough to raise goosebumps.

"Damage report!" Peter barked.

"Minor leak!" came the shout from below.

"Five to starboard!" Deirdre called.

Then—a crash. But not theirs.

The Inquisitor had struck a hidden reef. The sea seemed to roar in triumph as the beast bled. Mendoza veered off, while The Wayward slipped deeper into the stone labyrinth, where one wrong move meant death.

"Drop the sails! Keep her steady" Peter ordered.

They crept forward, inch by inch, between the stone jaws. Every groan, every scrape was a reminder of how close they were to shattering. The crew moved with haste. Men on borrowed time—patching leaks, whispering prayers, or simply waiting for the end.

When they reached a clearing, Deirdre handed the helm to the helmsman. They dropped anchor. Repairs would begin if Father Mare allowed it.

"Let's patch her up for her final dance," Peter said, voice rough with tired affection "This isn't over."

Only the clatter of hammers and saws broke the silence. No one spoke. All eyes fixed on the horizon, dreading the sight of The Inquisitor’s mast rising like a nightmare that refused to die.

Deirdre found Peter in his cabin, hunched over the maps, still plotting routes as if they still had choices left.

"Tell me you’ve got a plan," she said, stealing a final drag from her cigarette. The smoke reeked of doubt.

"The plan was to run Mendoza aground. But his ship’s a monster. The man’s worse."

"So now what?" Deirdre ran a hand through her salt-stiff hair. "Tell me you’ve got something. Gods, give us a break."

"We fix what’s broken. Then we sail. That’s it."

"They'll be waiting, you know that." Her voice didn't carry fear, just doubt. Something she'd never felt under Peter's command.

"I hope he waits in the wrong place," he muttered, eyes still on the map. "I hope Father Mare gives us that much," He bit his lip, a silent prayer to Father Mare for mercy.

By midday, a thick fog swallowed the islands whole. It rose from the depths casting a curse. The Wayward, half-patched, couldn't sail blind. Peter stood on deck, staring into the gray wall.

"We'll anchor here," he growled. "Until the gods give us sight... or take it from us."

The sea roared and the rocks groaned beneath the crashing waves. Then came the thunder: a broadside from the fog—cannon fire howling like demons. The shot ripped through The Wayward, bow to stern. The ship bucked and screamed.

Deirdre clung to the desk, Peter crashed to the floor, glass shattering around him. Above, chaos: the mainmast came down. It was the sound of their end.

Smoke. Screams. Blood.

Dazed, Deirdre stumbled onto the deck. The air was thick with smoke. Through the haze, the enemy ship loomed, ready to board. Black-smoke muskets spat death. Some crewmen leapt into the sea, choosing the rocks over Mendoza’s mercy.

When the smoke cleared, only a handful of defenders remained. They fought like beasts. But for every man Mendoza lost, three of O’Malley’s fell. The deck ran red. 

Peter, Deirdre, and the last survivors barricaded themselves in the sterncastle—their final stand, their tomb. Mendoza came to finish it. Now, only the dying made a sound. 

He was massive: broad-shouldered, beard braided with colorful stones, bald scalp etched with ritual scars. His ears jingled with metal rings; Mendoza’s presence was menace.

His footsteps echoed across the blood-soaked deck. He climbed the slick stairs with four men behind him. Only Peter and Deirdre remained. The others had jumped overboard, choosing the tide over surrender.

"Take it," Peter said, holding out the Wooden Crown. "And go."

Mendoza sneered.

"I can have a dozen crowns."

"Then what in hell are you after?" Peter snapped, "Gold? Slaves? Glory?" He stepped between Mendoza and Deirdre.

"To humiliate you. To steal your ship. And to watch you kneel"

The smirk twisted his scarred face.

"You'll have to kill us first!" Deirdre shouted, sword raised.

She didn’t wait. She attacked. Mendoza raised a hand, signaling his men to stay back. He drew his saber with lightning speed.

She lunged. Mendoza met her blade with brutal precision. Sparks flew—then she began to chant.

Too late, Mendoza realized. Her voice sent ripples through the air. His saber flew toward her face but a glowing blue shield exploded between them, deflecting the blow with a blinding flash.

Deirdre seized the moment. She drove her blade toward his chest. He blocked with his arm, but the cut was deep, ripping through cloth, flesh, and sinew. Roaring, he brought his saber down with savage force.

Another magical shield flared. This time, Mendoza didn’t hesitate. He slammed into her, using his weight to drive her back. He created space, drew a black-smoke pistol, and aimed it at her temple.

"Enough!" Peter shouted. "Take what you want—just spare her!"

Mendoza’s grin was feral. "You’ll both serve me. On your knees, scrubbing my deck—or rotting beneath it."

"No! Take me!" Deirdre cried. "Sell me in Irule if you want—but let him go!"

"Who said I'd take one?" Mendoza chuckled, blood dripping from his arm.

His men seized Peter. He lowered his head, unable to meet Deirdre’s eyes. Mendoza stepped closer. His gaze gleamed a mix of lust and cruelty.

"You’ll serve aboard my ship," he said softly. "Bend or break. Your choice," he threatened with a dirty, yellowish smile.

And that was how Deirdre O'Malley lost her freedom, her inheritance, and her pride.

But not her life.

And that perhaps, was Mendoza's first mistake.

One that, in time, might cost him his life.

When they threw her into the cell, she felt nothing. Just emptiness. When he locked the iron collar around her neck and pocketed the key, something inside her snapped.

"By Father Mare's cock," Mendoza laughed, gripping the key. "Old O'Malley fathered a witch."

Deirdre looked up. Her eyes weren’t defeated. They were a storm waiting to break.

"I'm not a witch," she said, voice sharp as steel. "I'm worse."

Mendoza smiled, convinced he’d won.

Deirdre smiled too.

Because that night, in the dark belly of the ship, something inside her stirred.

Not magic. Not spirits. Just the will of a promise—that everyone who chained her would one day learn to fear her name.