The deck had fallen silent, Captain Ander stood over Droskyn's lifeless body. The infamous pirate's blood had already soaked into the wood beneath him, pooling around his tangled hair and twisted sneer. There was no triumph in Ander's eyes—only the cold, heavy weight of justice long delayed.
Without a word, he knelt beside the corpse and drew a short, curved blade from his belt — a ceremonial knife once gifted to him by a fallen comrade. He gripped Droskyn's matted hair with one hand and set the blade to his neck. Each pull of the knife was steady, deliberate, the edge slicing through sinew and bone with grim resolve.
When the final ligament gave way, Ander stood and held the severed head high, the sea breeze catching strands of blood-damp hair.
"This," he murmured, more to himself than anyone else, "is for every soul you tormented."
And with that, he turned to his crew, the head of Droskyn dangling from his fist — no longer a symbol of fear, but a trophy of justice.
