As the second month of World War I began, the world seemed ever more determined to tear itself apart.
For those in high places—men bent over maps, ledgers, and neat columns of ink—the war still appeared simple. Lines shifted. Armies advanced. Losses were recorded, reduced to numbers that could be tallied, replaced, forgotten.
For the common soldier, it was simple in another way. His orders were clear. His purpose unquestioned. He marched where he was told, fought when commanded, and if he died, he did so believing there was meaning in it.
But far from the thunder of guns and the smoke of burning towns, another kind of casualty had begun to emerge.
Quieter.
Smaller.
Unnoticed.
In the span of a single month, hundreds of British merchant captains and their crews had been ruined.
Ships lost. Cargo gone. Contracts broken.
Factories stood idle. Storehouses emptied. Buyers raged.
And no one was willing to pay for it.
Captain Jack Ashcroft had been one of them.
Once, he had been a man of simple pride. Master of the Black Pearl, owner of his own vessel—paid in full, bought clean with a stroke of luck and a lottery win that had once felt almost like divine favor.
No debts. No masters.
Just the sea.
He had not chased wealth for greed, but for the life it gave him—the motion, the bargaining, the quiet satisfaction of making something work.
And at the center of that life was Eleanor.
Red-haired. Fierce. Beautiful.
And now carrying his child.
That life was gone.
The Black Pearl lay somewhere beneath cold, indifferent water, and with it everything he had built.
What followed was worse.
In Britain, there was no compensation. No understanding. No mercy.
Only denial.
And then demands.
His business partners came first—cold, polite, unforgiving—asking repayment for cargo now resting on the seabed.
Then his crew.
Men who had trusted him. Followed him. Worked for him.
Now desperate, they wanted their wages.
Jack had stared at what remained of his savings and understood the truth.
He could pay.
He could make it right.
And in doing so, he would lose everything.
Once, that might not have mattered.
Once, he had been alone. Free to fail. Free to begin again.
Now he had Eleanor.
And she had a family in Ireland who would cast her out if she did not marry a man of standing. A man of worth. A proper Catholic.
And she was already carrying his child.
That changed everything.
So he searched for another way to become something notable again.
Something possibly fast. Something desperate. Something foolish.
His thoughts returned to the men who had sunk his ship—the German sailors. They had not been monsters. Not devils.
Just men.
And Germany…
Germany, spoken of as if it were something greater than a nation. Ordered. Powerful. Rich beyond reason. A place where wealth flowed through the hands of princes, generals, and industrial giants.
If Germany had taken everything from him—
Then Germany could give it back.
It was simple.
Mad, but simple.
So he went, on a quest to ask for compensation.
From Britain to Norway. From Norway south to Denmark. And from there, to the border of an enemy nation.
He tried to cross properly.
He was refused.
That should have been the end of it.
It wasn't.
With Eleanor at his side and desperation burning in his chest, he crossed anyway.
They did not get far, before they were caught.
And now Captain Jack Ashcroft—master of nothing—sat bound to a chair in a damp cellar that stank of mold and rust.
A sack covered his head.
Blood filled his mouth.
Somewhere nearby, water dripped in a slow, steady rhythm.
And a woman laughed.
It was a soft sound.
Amused.
Cruel.
"Did you truly think you could run from us?" she said lightly. "From our dogs?"
Jack said nothing.
His breathing came uneven beneath the sack.
"German shepherds," she continued, almost conversationally. "Dobermanns. Remarkable creatures. They can smell fear. Lies as well, I think."
A pause.
Then her tone sharpened.
"Now answer my questions… or I will have your woman answer them for you."
Across the room, Jack heard it again, a muffled cry.
Eleanor.
Gagged. Struggling.
His body tensed violently against the ropes.
"Don't—" His voice cracked. "Don't do this. Please… just listen to me—"
The woman laughed again.
"Oh, listen to you?" she mocked. "That is all I have heard since you arrived. Excuses. Pleading. Whining."
Her footsteps moved closer.
"Perhaps we should begin with something simpler."
Her long nails ran along his hands, down to his finger's.
"Fingernails, perhaps," she murmured. "You look like a man in need of trimming."
Panic surged through him.
"No—no, wait—listen, I'm telling you the truth! I just wanted money—that's all—"
"Silence."
Her grip tightened.
"Do you take me for a fool?" she hissed—softly, almost playfully. "You cross into Germany… approach a young noblewoman in the street… shouting in English, demanding money for compensation, or whatever…"
A faint pause.
"And I am to believe you are not a spy?"
Her small hand grabbed his shoulder, squeezing it as if testing his strength.
"Thank God there were good people nearby to restrain you," she went on, voice light, almost amused. "Otherwise… who knows what might have happened."
A breath, warm against his ear.
"Kidnapping, perhaps… ransom… or something far worse."
Jack shook his head desperately.
"No! No, that's not what I— I wasn't attacking her—I just needed help—"
"Silence."
His head was wrenched back suddenly.
And then liquid fell on his face, warm red wine.
It crashed over his face in a sudden flood, filling his nose, his mouth—his lungs—
Jack convulsed instantly, choking, gasping, his body jerking against the ropes as instinct screamed for air—
"I do hope you appreciate it," the woman said calmly above him. "A gift from France. Taken from the headquarters of the French Fifth Army at Maubeuge."
The pouring did not stop.
He was drowning—
"Which is ours now," she continued, almost idly. "As the rest of Europe will be… in time."
Still pouring.
Jack thrashed weakly, choking, suffocating—
"So speak…" she whispered, almost gently. "Or drown in it… as your countrymen drown in their own blood at the front."
Then—
It stopped.
Air.
Jack collapsed forward, coughing violently, dragging in ragged breaths through the soaked sack clinging to his face. Wine burned in his throat, his lungs, his sinuses.
He gagged.
Coughed.
Choked.
His chest burned like fire.
His head spun.
Thought shattered.
And across the room, Eleanor cried a helpless cry.
That sound—
That broke him.
"I'm… I'm sorry…" he rasped, voice cracking as tears mixed with the wine soaking his face. "Eleanor… I didn't mean… I didn't—"
His shoulders shook.
"I messed up… I'm sorry…"
For the first time in years—
Captain Jack Ashcroft wept.
Not for himself.
But for her.
For the child she carried.
For the life he had just destroyed.
Then unexpectedly, a soft sound came from the woman.
A quiet intake of breath.
"Oh…"
The tone had changed.
Warm now.
Gentle.
"Oh, you poor thing…"
Fingers brushed through his hair.
Light.
Careful.
Almost tender.
"I didn't mean to frighten you so badly."
For a moment, he didn't understand.
Then—
The sack was pulled from his head.
Light struck him like a blade.
His eyes squeezed shut, tears spilling as the world swam in blurred gold and shadow.
A single lamp hung low above him.
Yellow.
Harsh.
The room tilted—
And then—
Softness.
Warm.
Close.
His face was guided forward—pressed into something yielding, impossibly smooth. Skin. Heat. The slow, steady rhythm of a heartbeat beneath it.
Hands cradled his head.
Holding him there.
Forcing him to stay.
For a moment his panic faltered. A strange, disorienting calm seeped in.
Like being held.
Like something safe.
Something familiar.
His mother, long ago—Inverness—warmth, breath, closeness—
Then his vision cleared.
And reality returned.
Two pale, perfect curves filled his sight—soft, full, pressed against his face, barely contained within a low-cut red dress. Smooth skin. Flawless. Unreal.
His breath caught.
Slowly—hesitantly—he looked up.
And saw her.
Blonde hair like liquid gold, falling in soft waves around a face so striking it felt unreal. A heart-shaped delicate face. Large blue eyes framed by long lashes, shining with something gentle—
And something else.
Something colder.
Her lips curved in a faint smile.
Too soft.
Too knowing.
"…What…" he whispered.
For a moment, he forgot where he was.
Forgot the ropes.
The cellar.
The money.
"…Are you an angel…?"
She let out a soft, amused giggle.
"No, silly," she murmured, voice smooth as silk. "I'm the one torturing you."
A pause.
"I used something called waterboarding," she added lightly. "My husband told me about it. I hope I didn't scare you too much."
Her fingers slid through his hair again, slow, soothing, almost affectionate.
A gold ring glinted on her hand—fine, elegant, etched with symbols he did not recognize.
"Don't worry, brave Jack," she whispered. "You're safe now."
A lie.
And yet his body didn't reject it.
His breathing slowed.
His mind blurred.
Her forehead touched his.
Her all so bright, clear eyes held his. So beautiful.
And utterly inescapable.
"I understand you," she whispered. "You are not a monster… not a thief by choice."
Her thumb brushed his cheek, wiping away tears and wine alike.
"You are just… lost."
Jack stared at her, stunned, caught somewhere between awe and terror.
"I—I just—"
"A man who wants a home," she continued softly. "A family. Stability. Something simple."
Her lips brushed his forehead.
A soft kiss.
"You did not come for greed," she said. "You came because you had nowhere else to go."
His chest tightened painfully.
"…Yes…"
"Of course," she whispered.
Then—
Something shifted.
Subtle.
But unmistakable.
"But…"
Her fingers slid beneath his chin, lifting his head.
Her eyes sharpened.
"You came onto our land."
A pause.
"My land."
Her gaze locked onto his.
Unblinking now.
"Do you understand what that means?"
Jack swallowed, throat dry despite the wine.
"I—"
"German law," she said quietly, "is not something to be trifled with."
Slowly with care, her fingers traced along his jaw, as if measuring him.
Then—
Her nails pressed suddenly into his throat.
Hard.
Precise.
Cold.
Jack froze.
His entire body went rigid, breath locking in his chest as instinct screamed—
"So soft," she murmured, almost curiously. "I wonder how easily it would come apart…"
Her nails pressed just a little deeper.
"Perhaps I should find out," she whispered. "Slide them in… and pull your windpipe free…"
Ice flooded his veins.
He couldn't move.
Couldn't breathe.
Couldn't think.
Then—
Just as suddenly—
She released him.
Her touch softened again, as if nothing had happened.
"Or…" she said lightly, brushing imaginary dust from his collar. "Perhaps you could choose something wiser."
Jack sat there, trembling.
And in that moment—
He understood.
This wasn't kindness.
This wasn't mercy.
This was control.
Perfect.
Terrifying.
Control.
She leaned in again, close enough that he could feel her breath.
"Now," she whispered, almost tenderly, "tell me, brave man…"
Her lips curved faintly.
"What truly brought you here?"
Her voice lingered in the air—soft, inviting, almost kind.
Jack swallowed.
His lungs still burned, wine clinging to the back of his throat, his breath uneven, shallow. His mind lagged behind his body, still struggling to understand where he was… what had just happened… what she was.
"I…" he began, but the words failed him. They stuck somewhere between fear and exhaustion, useless things that could not possibly convince her of anything.
She was too close.
Too warm.
Too… calm.
"Oh, don't rush," she murmured gently. "We have time."
Her tone shifted—light, almost amused.
"And do not try to play innocent with me. You do understand, do you not… that crossing into another country without permission is not… legal, especially here?"
Her fingers brushed along his jaw again, slow, deliberate, guiding his gaze back to her face.
"Tell me… how would you feel," she continued softly, "if some stranger walked into your own backyard in the dead of night… asking for compensation? Now, that would be quite scary, wouldn't it?"
Jack said nothing.
He couldn't.
"Hmm," she hummed, tilting her head slightly. "Let us take it slowly."
A faint smile touched her lips.
"Start from the beginning."
A pause.
"Where were you born?"
Jack blinked.
"…what?"
"Inverness," she said, almost fondly. "That is correct, is it not? I heard you say so earlier to the man whom was questioning you."
He froze.
"…yes."
A soft giggle escaped her.
"I am curious," she continued. "Tell me about it. Your home… your life… before all this."
Her voice wrapped around him.
So warm, inviting, and yet so dangerous.
For a moment—
he forgot the ropes.
Forgot the cellar.
Forgot Eleanor struggling somewhere behind her.
"…it was quiet," he said slowly, almost without thinking. "Cold sometimes… but good."
A breath.
"No mosquitoes. No pests. Nothing biting at you when you go out in the summer. If you can believe it. Just… clean air. Water. Land."
His voice steadied slightly as he spoke.
"The loch isn't far. Loch Ness. You wake up, go down to the docks, or to the cafés… same people every morning. We would sit and talk, eat breakfast in peace, always before begining their day."
A faint, distant smile touched him.
"Simple life. Nothing trying to kill you. Just… work. Food. Rest and some good company."
Her eyes softened.
"Yes," she whispered. "That sounds… peaceful."
Then, the moment ended as another voice cut in.
Sharp.
Impatient.
"Oh come now, mother. What is this nonsense?"
The word struck the room.
Jack flinched.
His head turned instinctively.
From the shadows—
someone stepped forward.
At first—
a boy.
And then—
not a boy at all.
He was young.
Far too young.
And yet—
everything about him denied it.
His build was lean, but perfectly formed. Not bulky, not heavy—just… exact. Shoulders straight. Posture flawless. Movement controlled down to the smallest detail.
He wore simple clothes—white shirt, dark trousers, polished boots.
Nothing extravagant.
Nothing meant to impress.
And yet—
he did.
Effortlessly.
His hair fell in pale strands—platinum, almost silver in the dim light. And his eyes—
Violet.
Bright.
Unnatural.
Cold.
They fixed on the woman.
"Stop this," he said flatly. "You are wasting time."
Jack stared.
Mother?
His gaze snapped back to her.
Then to him.
Then back again.
"…what…?" he whispered.
She sighed softly, turning toward the boy.
"Oh, come now, darling," she said, amused. "Can you not see what I am doing?"
A small gesture toward Jack.
"I am making friends."
The boy did not react.
Not even slightly.
She continued anyway.
"It may seem slow to you," she said lightly, "but when one listens… when one shows kindness…"
Her voice softened again.
"…people open themselves."
A pause.
"And when they do… they become useful."
The boy watched her.
Then—
"I understand," he said.
Flat.
Controlled.
"But we do not have time for this."
She turned away from him slightly.
And in doing so—
her back was exposed.
The dress dipped low.
Too low.
Jack's eyes followed before he could stop himself.
Christ—
The curve of her spine.
Smooth. Pale. Perfect.
And lower—
The dress clung to her hips, tight, almost molded to her body, the fabric stretched over a shape that did not belong in this place, in this time, in this situation.
Full.
Round.
Heavy.
Not subtle.
Not hidden.
He had seen women before.
Plenty.
Dock girls, tavern girls, wives of sailors, most of all Eleanor—
But nothing like this.
Nothing even close.
His breath caught.
His gaze swept over her further—
her waist pulled tight, narrow enough to fit in his hands, flaring down into those hips, that shape, that… ridiculous, impossible body.
And her chest—
God—
Even from the side—
Pressed high by the dress, full, heavy, straining against the fabric as she moved—
His throat tightened.
He knew he shouldn't be looking.
Knew it.
And still—
he couldn't stop.
Not here.
Not like this.
Not when she, this goddess stood so close—
smelling of warmth, of something soft and dangerous and wrong—
The boy saw his gaze—and in an instant, something in him snapped.
His violet eyes flicked from Jack's face to where his eyes had lingered, and for the briefest moment they widened, not in surprise, but in something far colder.
Rage.
"How dare you," he said.
He moved without hesitation. A few powerful strides carried him forward, and before Jack could even react, the boy surged ahead and shoved his mother aside. She was taller than him, older, yet she moved as if she weighed nothing at all, displaced by sheer force of will. She let out a soft, delighted gasp, more amused than offended.
"Oh, darling—what are you—"
"Step back, mother," the boy growled.
He didn't look at her again. He was already in front of Jack.
His hand shot forward, a single finger driving hard into Jack's chest, pressing into him with surprising strength.
"You," he said, voice low and precise. "You dare look at her like that?"
Jack blinked, still dazed, still trying to breathe properly.
"It is one thing to admire her," the boy continued, his lip curling faintly, "as many do. That is expected."
His gaze sharpened.
"But you… you stared. Too long. Too openly."
A pause.
"I should have you flayed for that."
"What—?" Jack rasped, barely able to form the word.
"Damn you," the boy snapped.
Behind him, the woman exhaled softly, stepping forward again, her voice light, almost amused.
"Oh, come now, it is not so serious—"
The boy turned his head just slightly, and the sound that left him was not quite human.
A low, sharp growl.
"No, mother. It is."
She stopped—not in fear, but in quiet surprise, her expression touched with faint amusement, as though watching something both familiar and entertaining.
The boy faced Jack again, his expression returning to something cold and controlled.
"I have had enough of you, and your face," he said.
Then he stepped back, creating space between them, as if drawing an invisible line.
"You and I will settle this properly."
Jack stared at him.
"…you what?"
"You may be telling the truth," the boy continued evenly, "but that does not make you trustworthy. Besides, I don't like you."
A slight tilt of his head.
"And I will not allow you to simply walk away from here."
A pause.
"So you will have to prove yourself to me."
The air in the room seemed to tighten.
"I will give you one chance," the boy said. "If you defeat me, you and your woman walk free."
Jack blinked, trying to process it.
"With your compensation," the boy added calmly.
Jack stared at him, the words barely settling.
"And if I lose?" he asked hoarsely.
The boy did not hesitate.
"Then you belong to me."
The words fell clean. Absolute.
"You will kneel. You will obey. You will serve until your death."
Jack swallowed hard, the weight of it pressing down on him.
"And you will be useful," the boy continued.
His gaze flicked briefly toward Eleanor before returning to Jack.
"Your woman is Irish, isn't she? The red hair, the accent… all of it makes it quite obvious. And as it so happens, we could potentially have use for your Irish kind here."
His tone shifted—not warmer, not kinder—but sharper. More deliberate.
"Because we require someone capable."
He took a slow step closer.
"Someone who can speak properly with those Irish people. Persuade them. Gather them under a banner. And most of all move unseen if need be."
Another step.
"Smuggle weapons."
"Spread unrest."
"Turn anger into action."
Jack stared at him, doubt creeping into his expression.
"You want me to start a rebellion?" he said.
"If you are capable," the boy replied without hesitation.
A pause.
"If not… you will still serve. Just as the others we have recruited will do."
Silence settled over the cellar.
Then the boy's lips curved slightly—just enough to be unsettling.
"Who knows," he added quietly, "you may even become something greater."
Jack frowned.
"…greater?"
The boy's eyes gleamed faintly in the dim light.
"Perhaps," he said, "a king of Ireland. A vassal king, under German protection."
Jack blinked.
"What?"
"Yes," the boy said simply. "You heard me."
A slight pause.
"The ruler of Ireland."
The words hung in the air.
Absurd.
Impossible.
And yet—
He spoke them as if they were already decided.
Jack let out a breath—half laugh, half absurdity.
"You want me to fight you… and if I win, I get paid… and if I lose, I become your bloody slave?"
"Yes."
The answer came instantly.
Jack looked him up and down.
A boy.
Just a boy.
"…you're serious," he muttered.
"Completely."
Jack huffed, shaking his head slightly as if trying to wake himself from some strange dream.
"…right."
He shifted in the chair, testing the ropes again, then glanced sideways—first toward Eleanor, still bound, still shaken—then toward the woman.
She stood there, calm.
Watching.
Smiling.
That same soft, knowing smile.
His eyes lingered a moment too long.
His gaze drifted—down the curve of her figure, the fall of the red dress, the quiet confidence in the way she carried herself.
Compensation, he thought.
A faint smirk tugged at his lips.
He looked back at the boy.
"Well… it's a deal then, boy," he said.
A pause.
"But let's make it interesting."
The boy's eyes narrowed.
"…go on."
Jack rolled his shoulders slightly against the ropes.
"I'll give you the first shot," he said casually. "I don't much fancy beating on a child, so… go on. Show me what you've got."
Silence.
The boy's expression darkened.
"Guard."
From the shadows, a man stepped forward—dressed entirely in black, face covered, presence silent and precise. A knife flashed briefly in the dim light.
Jack felt the blade press against the rope behind his wrists—
Then slice.
Once.
Twice.
The tension snapped.
His arms fell free.
He stood slowly, rolling his shoulders, flexing his fingers as blood rushed painfully back into them. He rubbed his wrists, wincing slightly, then straightened to his full height, easily towering over the boy.
A grown man.
Solid.
Experienced.
Facing a child.
He glanced once more toward the woman—still smiling as if she wasn't worried at all—then back to the boy.
"Alright then," Jack said, settling his stance. "Let's see it."
The boy did not respond.
Instead, he reached for the hem of his shirt—
—and pulled it off in one smooth motion.
Jack froze.
"…what the hell…"
The body revealed beneath was wrong.
Not just strong.
Not just trained.
Wrong.
Lean muscle cut sharply across his frame, shoulders broad, chest defined, arms tight with power that had no place on a boy. There was no softness, no youth in it—only something precise, controlled, and unnaturally complete.
Jack stared, disbelief creeping into his expression.
"…bloody hell…"
The boy stepped forward.
Just one step.
No warning.
No shift in stance.
No signal.
And then—
He moved.
Jack didn't even see the punch.
One moment the boy stood still—
The next—
Impact.
It hit like iron.
Like a hammer driven straight into his gut.
Jack folded instantly.
Air gone.
Completely.
His body collapsed inward as pain exploded through him, sharp and violent, tearing the breath from his lungs.
His knees buckled.
He dropped hard, crashing to the stone floor, a broken sound forcing its way out of his throat.
"—ghk—!"
Nothing followed.
No breath.
No voice.
Only choking silence.
His body convulsed, stomach twisting violently as whatever remained inside him surged upward. He gagged, spat, coughed, barely able to process the agony tearing through his core.
The world tilted.
Blurred.
Spun.
And above him—
The boy stood.
Still.
Unmoved.
Watching.
Jack dragged in a shallow, ragged breath, his hands clutching his stomach as if he could hold himself together.
"…what… the hell…" he rasped.
His vision swam as he forced his head up, staring at the figure above him.
"…what are you…?"
The boy smiled.
Small.
Cold.
"Me?"
He straightened slightly, as if the question amused him.
"I am Imperiel."
The name hung in the air.
Heavy.
Deliberate.
"The firstborn son of Crown Prince Oskar."
A faint pause.
"And I am nine years old."
Silence.
Jack stared at him, his mind failing to reconcile what he was seeing with what he was hearing.
Nine.
"…what the fuck…"
The boy's expression hardened slightly.
"Remember it," he said quietly.
He took one step closer.
Close enough that Jack could feel the weight of him—his presence, pressing down like something far larger than it should have been.
"Because from this moment on…"
His voice lowered.
Controlled.
Absolute.
"You serve me."
Jack's fingers tightened weakly against the stone.
His breath came shallow.
Broken.
And for the first time since being dragged into that cellar—
He understood.
He had walked into something far beyond him.
And then—
The world slipped.
Darkness closed in.
And Captain Jack Ashcroft collapsed, consciousness finally giving way.