The sea has a memory longer than any map, and if you sail it long enough, it starts remembering you. That’s how Captain Morgana became a legend. They call her the Ghost of the Starboard Wind. Not because she’s quiet — gods no. Morgana is loud, sharp-tongued, and laughs like she’s daring the ocean to take her. White hair with bits of rope and stolen gold, a coat that’s seen more storms than most sailors see birthdays, blue eyes that misses nothing. She doesn’t sail alone. First mate to her heart is Sir Mew, a fat mainecoon kitten with a sassy attitude. He rides on her shoulder, hisses at bad omens, and has personally negotiated peace treaties between Morgana and at least three harbor taverns. The crew swears he can smell treasure. Morgana swears he’s the only one on board with any sense. And then there’s the crew of the White Pearl — a ship too fast, too white, and too lucky to be legal. There’s “Bones” Taren, the quartermaster who can calculate wind and plunder in the same breath. Nim, the rigger who climbs masts like they’re stairs and collects stories instead of coin. Old Maro, the cook who can make a feast out of hardtack and rumors. And a dozen others — runaways, debtors, dreamers, and cutthroats who all agreed on one thing: they’d rather die free than live chained. The White Pearl wasn’t built for war. She was built for running. Her sails are white as bone in the moonlight, and she cuts through fog like it owes her money. Morgana stole her from a navy lord, renamed her, and promised her one rule: We take what we’re owed, and we never take what isn’t ours. The sea tested that promise often. They’d been three weeks out from Port Veyla, chasing a rumor of Spanish gold, when a siren was spotted in the water.