The sun had set, and darkness enveloped The Abyss, save for the soft glow of lanterns swinging gently in the breeze. The night was quiet, but Jacob's mind was anything but. He stood alone on the quarterdeck, staring out into the vast, open sea, the wreckage of the recent battle fading into the night. The mutiny was over, and Captain Rourke was gone—left behind on a derelict ship, his fate uncertain. The crew had chosen Jacob as their leader, but now that the adrenaline had subsided, a different reality settled on him.
He had control. He was the captain. But the relief he expected hadn't come.
Jacob ran a hand over the worn wood of the ship's rail, the cool breeze biting at his skin. He had fought for this—the chance to carve his own path, to escape the orders of others. But as the quiet settled in, he realized just how much had shifted. In his military days, he had been a cog in the machine, rebelling against a system that had never suited him. He'd never thrived under strict command, preferring to bend the rules, to act with purpose when he saw fit.
Back then, defying orders had given him a sense of liberation. He recalled that fateful moment—the day he broke ranks, led a small detachment on a bold, unauthorized maneuver, and succeeded. He'd saved lives, achieved victory, but instead of glory, he'd been threatened with punishment for insubordination. It had been then, in the heat of that decision, that he'd known he couldn't stay. So he had fled—abandoning the life of a soldier and boarding the first ship out of port.
The open sea had given him freedom, but now, it demanded more than he had ever anticipated.
The door behind him creaked, and Garrett's familiar form appeared beside him. "You've been up here a while, Jacob. Something on your mind?"
Jacob smirked, casting a sideways glance at Garrett. "I didn't realize how heavy command would be. Always thought it'd feel like freedom… like finally being able to do things my way."
Garrett's sharp eyes narrowed slightly. "Not quite what you expected?"
Jacob sighed, turning to fully face him. "No. Back when I was in the military—" He stopped short as Garrett's expression shifted, eyebrows raised. Jacob realized his mistake.
"You were in the military?" Garrett asked, surprise coloring his voice. "Never knew that about you."
Jacob straightened, quickly spinning the story to fit this world. "A long time ago. I didn't last long. Broke a few too many rules, went against orders one time too many. When it came time to face the music, I hopped on a ship and left that life behind. Figured I wasn't cut out for someone else's plans."
Garrett's face softened slightly, a knowing smile tugging at his lips. "Sounds like you've always had a knack for trouble."
Jacob chuckled. "Something like that. But now it's different. Now… it's my ship, my men. And I'm realizing it's not about just getting things done my way. It's about making sure they survive."
Garrett nodded, his gaze shifting to the deck below, where the crew continued their work. "They respect you, Jacob. But respect's only part of it. The men need to believe you'll keep them safe—and get them rich. You're not just leading a crew; you're carrying their futures."
Jacob's jaw tightened as Garrett's words sank in. He'd always hated following orders because it meant he wasn't in control of his fate. Now he had control—but it was a double-edged sword. If he failed, it wasn't just his life on the line. It was the lives of every man on The Abyss.
"I'll give them what they need," Jacob said quietly. "We've got a mission, a goal. That's the first step. But I'm not going to sit back like Rourke did, hiding behind promises. We'll move forward. Together."
Garrett nodded, his expression approving. "Good. They'll follow you if you give them something to follow. But don't forget—power's a fragile thing. Once you've got it, you've got to fight to keep it."
Jacob gave a faint smile. "Don't worry, Garrett. I'm not letting go of this ship anytime soon."
The older man nodded and turned to leave, but before he did, he paused. "One more thing—Briggs and Elias… they've earned their promotions. Cedric too. I'll make sure they know they've got your support."
"Good," Jacob replied, the decision already made. "They're key to keeping the crew in line. They've been through the worst of it with me."
When Garrett left, Jacob remained on the deck, his hand gripping the railing as he stared out at the endless sea. He wasn't just the man who had fought for freedom anymore—he was the one leading others toward it. And the weight of that realization settled on his shoulders like an anchor. The crew looked to him now, not just for guidance but for survival. The choices he made from here on out would determine the fate of every man on this ship.
Steeling himself, Jacob turned and headed below deck. He pushed open the heavy wooden door to the captain's cabin—Rourke's old domain, now his. The faint creak of the hinges echoed in the quiet of the lower deck, a reminder that this space had once belonged to another man. As Jacob stepped inside, the room felt markedly different from the last time he had entered. It was empty in a way that wasn't just physical—more like the remnants of Rourke's presence had drained from the room, leaving behind only the shell of authority and command.
The cabin was larger than the cramped quarters Jacob had become accustomed to, but not extravagant. The walls were lined with dark, weathered wood, giving the room a somber and almost oppressive atmosphere. A large oak desk sat near the center, its surface worn and scratched, piled with disheveled maps, charts, and ship logs. The faded smell of old parchment mingled with the salty scent of the sea, lingering in the air like an echo of decisions made long ago. Shelves along one wall held navigation instruments, books, and a few personal trinkets Rourke had left behind—small reminders of the man who had once ruled here.
Jacob's eyes lingered on a glass decanter, half-filled with dark rum, sitting beside a stack of yellowed papers. He hadn't known Rourke to drink during the day, but the rum was likely there for the same reason Jacob now felt the weight on his own shoulders—a means of easing the burden of command.
The large map table near the rear of the cabin was cluttered with open charts, pins marking courses and ports. It dominated the room, casting long shadows in the dim light of the ship's lanterns that swung gently with the rhythm of the waves. A narrow, sturdy cot was tucked in the corner, its thin blankets neatly folded as if waiting for a man who would never return to use them.
Jacob stood in the doorway for a moment longer, surveying the room that was now his. The soft creak of the ship's timbers and the distant sound of water lapping against the hull created an almost eerie stillness, interrupted only by the flickering light of the lanterns. This was where Rourke had made his decisions, charted their course, and planned their future. Now it was Jacob's turn to do the same, but he knew this room wasn't yet his. It still bore the weight of the former captain's presence.
Sitting at the desk, Jacob allowed himself a brief moment of silence. He ran his fingers over the rough wood, feeling the deep grooves and scratches beneath his fingertips. He had always craved control, the freedom to make his own choices, but now he understood that control also came with responsibility—something he had never fully grasped before. The men who had followed him through the mutiny weren't just looking for a leader to replace Rourke; they needed someone to guide them through the uncertain waters ahead, someone to inspire their belief.
He exhaled slowly and pulled one of the logs toward him. The pages were filled with Rourke's cramped, meticulous handwriting, chronicling the ship's movements, supplies, and dealings over the past few months. As Jacob flipped through the logs, he saw the slow decline—more missed opportunities, lean spoils, and growing unrest among the crew. Rourke had seen it too, but he hadn't acted. Instead, he had clung to old strategies, hoping the tides would change. Jacob knew better. He couldn't afford to be passive; they needed to keep moving, to keep pushing forward, or they'd face the same fate.
He studied the maps strewn across the table next. Rourke had plotted several possible courses, but nothing concrete. A few ports were marked—some familiar, others not. One, in particular, caught Jacob's eye: Port Wetherstone, a remote trading post far from the major shipping routes. It was a small port, known more for its black market dealings than its wealth, but it was a place where they could quietly resupply and avoid attention from any pursuers.
Jacob ran his hand over the map, tracing the line Rourke had drawn toward the port. "Wetherstone," he muttered. "It'll have to do for now." It wasn't ideal, but they needed supplies—food, wood, and possibly a few new hands to replace the men they had lost. It would also give him time to solidify his leadership and make his next move.
He leaned back in the chair, letting his eyes drift around the room again. It still didn't feel like his. The cluttered desk, the shelves filled with Rourke's things—it all spoke of a man who had left abruptly, without fully severing his ties to this space. Jacob knew that if he was to lead, he needed to make this cabin his own, to transform it into a reflection of his command, not just a relic of the past.
Pushing himself to his feet, Jacob began methodically clearing the desk. He stacked Rourke's papers into neat piles and set them aside. Most were irrelevant now, but some held valuable information—contacts, trade agreements, ship records. He'd need to go through them more thoroughly later, but for now, he needed the desk cleared. The clutter was suffocating, a reminder of decisions he hadn't made.
Next, he moved to the shelves, carefully removing the small trinkets Rourke had collected over the years—a tarnished compass, an ivory figurine, a brass spyglass with a cracked lens. Jacob placed them into a small chest at the foot of the cot, out of sight. He left the navigational instruments, the few books of seamanship, and the charts, as they would still be useful. But the rest… the rest had no place in this new chapter.
As he worked, Jacob thought about the crew. They were still wary, still adjusting to the idea of him as their captain. He needed to be more than just the man who had led the mutiny; he needed to show them he had a plan, a direction. Tomorrow, he would address them, lay out their course for Wetherstone, and outline his vision for the ship. But tonight, this cabin—his cabin—needed to reflect his authority.
Finally, Jacob moved the few personal items he had from his old quarters—a small leather-bound notebook, a worn dagger given to him by a former shipmate, and a satchel of maps he got from the old cartographer in trade. He placed them on the now-cleared desk, their presence solidifying the transformation. It was still a humble collection, but it was his.
He stepped back and surveyed the room. It felt different now—less like a shrine to the past and more like a space he could command from. The heavy atmosphere had lifted, replaced by something more focused, more deliberate. This was his domain now, and he intended to use it well.
As Jacob sat back down at the desk, he opened his notebook and began scribbling down the rough details of their course to Wetherstone. The night was quiet, save for the occasional groan of the ship's timbers and the distant sound of the waves. The lantern light flickered softly, casting shadows across the walls, giving the room a faint, golden glow. The day had been long, and the weight of his new role was already settling on him, but for the first time since the mutiny, Jacob felt a sense of clarity.
He was no longer a man waiting for someone else's orders. This was his ship, his crew, and his future. And tomorrow, they would sail toward it—together.
As dawn's light began to creep through the cabin's small window, Jacob stood, determination settling in his chest. He stepped back onto the deck, where the crew had gathered, waiting for their orders.
Garrett stood among them, arms crossed, watching Jacob closely. The men were silent, expectant, and Jacob could feel their eyes on him, the weight of their hopes and fears.
"The past few days have been hard," Jacob began, his voice strong but measured. "We've seen loss, and we've seen betrayal. But that's behind us now. We move forward as a crew. We've got a mission, a goal, and we'll sail toward it with a clear purpose."
He paused, meeting the eyes of each man. "Every one of you will have a fair share of what we take. Every man will be treated with the respect he's earned. We sail together, fight together, and we profit together. That's my promise."
The crew murmured in agreement, the tension slowly easing as they saw their new captain for what he was—strong, decisive, but still one of them.
Jacob glanced at Garrett, who gave him a subtle nod of approval. The first step had been taken, but there was much more to do. The Abyss would continue, and so would Jacob's journey as captain. But now, with the dawn waning over the horizon, he knew that the weight of leadership would be his to bear—and he wouldn't turn away from it.
"We sail with the tide, to port Weatherstone" Jacob said, his voice firm. "Let's get to work."
And as the crew moved into action, Jacob felt the steady rhythm of the ship beneath his feet, the rising tide pushing them forward into whatever lay ahead.