By the time I reach the edge of the woods, the sky has already slipped into that deep, enchanting blue that comes just after the sun gives up its hold on the horizon. The moon hangs bright above the treetops, its light threading through the tall branches and striping the ground in silver.

  Gabriel had told me to meet him “where the path bends,” as if there were only one such place in the whole forest. I nearly turned back twice. Not because I didn’t want to see him. Just because I wasn’t sure I was in the mood to see anyone at all.

  The trees swallow the last of the road’s noise as I step beneath them. Dry leaves crackle under my shoes. I keep my hands in my coat pockets, more out of habit than cold.

  I shouldn’t still be thinking about him… About the way he stood so close that I could see all the shades of brown in his eyes, steady and warm, like he had practiced that look in a mirror, or the way his hand had tightened around my arm when I slipped, not rough enough to bruise, not gentle enough to ignore. Like he was helping me. Like I needed help.

  I scuff my shoe against a root jutting from the path. “Idiot,” I mutter, though I’m not entirely sure who I mean. I kick a stone off the path harder than necessary.

  Up ahead, I spot the tree—taller than the others around it, branches stretching outward in every direction. I almost miss the nailed boards at first. They blend into the trunk unless you know where to look.

  The moment I step fully beneath the canopy, everything changes.

  For now, I am in the Neverland, and I must always be on the lookout for any pirates that may be hidden in the bushes.

  I slow automatically, listening. The wind moves through the leaves in uneven waves. Something snaps deeper in the brush—probably just a squirrel. Probably. Still, I glance toward the sound, scanning the shadows between the trees. Moonlight spills in thin strips across the forest floor, leaving the spaces between darker than they should be. Perfect hiding spots.

  I straighten slightly, shoulders squaring. Pirates aren’t known for patience, but that doesn’t mean they’re careless. If they’re watching, they’ll wait for the right moment.

  I take another step toward the tree, quieter this time.

  Suddenly, the Captain reveals himself at last, emerging from behind the thin wooden walls of the Jolly Roger. He draws his blade from its pochwa, steel whispering against steel in the hush of the trees. The Captain rests the blade against his shoulder, surveying me from the rail of the Jolly Roger as though I’ve trespassed into sovereign territory.

  “Well now,” he calls down, voice carrying easily through the trees, “what stray has wandered into my waters?”

  I fold my arms. “I don’t see your flag flying.”

  A corner of his mouth lifts. “That’s because you’re standing beneath it.”

  He steps up onto the rail, balanced with careless ease. “No one boards my ship without cause,” he continues. “State your name and swear your loyalty, or turn back the way you came.”

  “To whom?” I ask. “You?”

  “To the sea,” he says easily. “To the crew. To the code.” He tilts his head, studying me. “Or are you only brave on dry land?”

  Before I can answer, he pulls a second blade from his belt and sends it spinning down. It hits the ground just short of my boots, sinking cleanly, the hilt angled toward my hand.

  “If you mean to stand on my deck,” the Captain calls, “prove you’ve the steel for it.”

  The forest goes quiet. For a second, neither of us moves.

  Then, he jumps from the rail. He lands in a crouch, steadying himself with one hand before pushing back to his feet, never breaking eye contact. He rolls his shoulders once, like the height meant nothing.

  I wrap my fingers around the hilt and pull the blade free. “Are you sure you can keep up?” I tease, shifting into a stance.

  The Captain plants his boots more firmly in the dirt, squaring his shoulders. “Of course,” he declares, almost offended. “Don’t even think of holding back.”

  I square up first, because the Captain told me a real first mate doesn’t wait to be invited. The Captain stands a few paces away, his chin lifted, his shoulders loose, the kind of confidence only a true captain has. His cutlass rests across his shoulders, and he gives me that half-grin that means come on, then.

  Even in the dim light, I can see the spark in his eyes. He’s testing me. He wants to know if I’m worthy.

  My palms sweat around the hilt. I tell myself to breathe, but my heart is thudding too loud to hear anything else.

  The Captain moves first. He lunges in a smooth, practiced arc, swinging down from above. I barely get my sword up in time. The crack of wood on wood echoes through the trees like a gunshot. My arms jolt from the impact, but I don’t give ground. I can’t—not if I want to earn my place at his side.

  “Good,” the Captain says, low and approving. He twists his wrist, sliding my blade off to the side, and steps in close—too close—forcing me to stumble back.

  I recover fast and swing at his ribs. He pivots, letting the strike whistle past him, and taps my shoulder with the flat of his sword.

  “Dead.”

  “That doesn’t count,” I snap, breathless. “I wasn’t ready.”

  “A pirate is always ready.” He steps back, resetting his stance. “Again.”

  This time I charge. I swing harder than I mean to, but he meets every strike like he’s been expecting it—blocking, redirecting, stepping just out of reach. My arms burn, but I keep going. I have to. I want him to see I’m not just some kid tagging along. I want him to see I belong here.

  I fake a high strike, then drop low, sweeping toward his knee. He actually has to jump back, surprised, and pride flares hot in my chest.

  “Better,” he says, and there’s something warm in his voice that makes me stand a little straighter.

  We circle each other. The forest floor is soft under my boots, leaves shifting with every step. The Captain’s silhouette moves with quiet certainty—steady, sure, almost glowing in the moonlight. I feel clumsy in comparison, but I don’t back down. First mates don’t back down.

  He comes at me again, faster this time. Our swords clash, slide, lock. I grit my teeth and push, trying to force him off balance. For a second, I think I might actually do it. I can almost taste victory.

  Then he twists, slipping free, and my momentum carries me forward. He taps me on the back with the tip of his sword.

  “Dead again,” he says, laughing under his breath.

  I turn, panting. “You’re cheating.”

  “I’m the captain,” he counters. “Captains don’t cheat. They win.”

  I lift my sword again. “Then I’ll win next time.”

  He raises an eyebrow, amused but not mocking. “Show me.”

  We clash once more—me swinging with everything I have, him meeting me with that same effortless confidence. I tell myself this is a game. It’s only a game. Neverland is supposed to be safe. That’s the rule. No real names. No real lives. No real problems.

  But the thoughts push in anyway. Like he’s replacing—I shove the thought away. It doesn’t stay gone.

  The next strike comes harder. Because maybe if I swing hard enough, I won’t see it. Maybe if I move fast enough, I won’t hear it. Maybe if I win, I won’t have to think about how easy it seems for someone to take up the space my father left behind.

  My chest feels tight. Too tight.

  The Captain blocks me again, still smiling, still light on his feet. “That’s all you’ve got?” he calls, circling.

  I don’t answer. I don’t want to hear his voice sounding confident. Steady. Certain. Like nothing can be taken from him.

  I lunge, no longer caring about rhythm. Not caring about form. I aim for every opening, every second his guard dips. I don’t wait for the playful back-and-forth. I don’t give him time to talk.

  The blades strike sharper now. Louder.

  He laughs—a real pirate’s laugh—and sidesteps. “Careful, sailor! You’ll wear yourself out!”

  But I press forward anyway. Because trying not to think about it is worse. Because pretending Julian doesn’t exist doesn’t make him disappear. Because in Neverland, I’m not supposed to lose anything. And I am so tired of things being taken!

  Suddenly, he finally knocks the sword right out of my hand and presses the tip of his own lightly to my chest, resulting in me falling to my knees before I even realize I’ve lost my grip on my own sword.

  The grass is soft beneath me, cool and flowing in the night breeze, and for a moment everything around us blurs at the edges—the trees, the shadows, even the moonlight. All I can really see is him.

  The Captain steps toward me with that wide, handsome grin he gets when he knows he’s won. His green eyes catch the moonlight and seem to glow, bright and sharp and impossibly alive. His white hair gleams against the dark trees, strands flashing pale as the wind moves through them, and I can’t seem to look away.

  My chest feels tight, but not in a bad way—more like I’m waiting for something I don’t have a name for.

  I smile up at him without meaning to, my face warm, my breath uneven. I know I must look ridiculous—kneeling there, staring at him with these stupid, hopeful eyes—but I can’t help it. He’s the Captain. My Captain.

  He kneels in front of me, close enough that I can feel the warmth of him even in the cold night air.

  For a long moment, neither of us moves. The forest is silent, like it’s holding its breath. My heart is pounding so hard I’m sure he can hear it. I close my eyes. I brace myself. I don’t know exactly what I’m expecting—only that it feels like something important is about to happen, something that will change everything.

  Instead, I feel a soft punch against my cheek. Not hard. Not mean. Just…playful. Teasing.

  The Captain’s laugh is quiet, almost gentle, and when I open my eyes, he’s already pushing himself back to his feet.

  The disappointment hits fast and sharp, but I swallow it before it can show. I look up at him, still kneeling, still catching my breath, trying to pretend the moment didn’t slip through my fingers.

  The Captain stands tall again, sword resting against his shoulder, grin still tugging at his mouth in the way that always makes something warm and tight bloom inside my chest, and makes it hard to breathe.

  This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

  He lowers his sword. “You’ll make a fine first mate,” he says quietly. “Just don’t die so much.”

  He offers a hand to pull me back up. I shake my head in amusement, and when I finally take it, his grip is warm and strong, as he lifts me up like I weigh nothing.

  He steps back just enough to look me over, like he’s checking for injuries or maybe just making sure I’m really okay, before saying, “Not bad, soldier. You almost had me.”

  I know he’s teasing, but the way he says it settles under my skin in a way I can’t quite shake. I duck my head, pretending to brush dirt off my pants so he won’t see the smile I can’t stop.

  The wind moves through the trees again, gentle and cool, brushing past us like it’s trying to nudge us closer. The Captain plants the tip of his sword in the ground and leans on it, watching me with that easy confidence he always has—as he belongs here, as he belongs anywhere. Like he belongs with me.

  My pulse jumps at the thought, and I shove it down fast, hoping it doesn’t show on my face.

  “Well then,” he begins, his voice slipping into that deep, commanding tone that always makes my stomach flip. “By order of your captain…”

  He pauses just long enough for the night to hold its breath.

  “…you are now permitted to board the Jolly Roger.”

  The words hit me like a spark. The Jolly Roger. His ship. His domain. The place where only the bravest, most loyal pirates are allowed to set foot.

  My chest tightens—not in the painful way from before, but in a way that feels like something opening. I stand a little straighter without meaning to.

  “Aye, Captain.”

  His grin widens, bright and proud, and he jerks his head toward the shadows where the great ship lies—tall, creaking, and alive in the dark. The wind rustles through the branches above us, sounding almost like sails catching a breeze.

  “Come then,” he says, already turning, expecting me to follow. “A first mate shouldn’t keep his captain waiting.”

  The Captain climbs the rope ladder first, moving with the kind of confidence that makes it look effortless, like the rungs rise to meet him. Halfway up, he glances back over his shoulder and jerks his chin at me.

  “Well? Don’t just stand there. A first mate follows his captain.”

  My hands are still a little shaky, but I grab the rope and start climbing. The ladder sways under my weight, creaking softly, and the higher I go, the more the forest drops away beneath me.

  By the time I reach the top, my breath is caught somewhere between nerves and excitement. I pull myself over the edge—and stop.

  Everything inside me goes quiet.

  The deck of the Jolly Roger stretches out before me, small but warm, lit by the soft glow of moonlight spilling through the branches above. The wooden planks feel worn in the best way, as countless adventures have already passed through here. The air is cooler up this high, brushing against my face as if welcoming me aboard.

  And the stars—God, the stars. They’re so close it feels like I could reach out and scoop one into my hands. They hang just above the balcony rail, bright and sharp and endless, as the whole sky leaned down to meet us.

  For a moment, I forget to breathe. I forget everything except this: I’m here. I’m really here.

  The Captain steps aside to give me room, watching me with that quiet, knowing look he gets when he’s proud of something but trying not to show it too much.

  “Told you it was worth the climb,” he says.

  I don’t answer right away. I’m too busy taking it all in—the creak of the boards, the whisper of the wind, the way the night wraps around us like we’re the only two people in the world. My chest feels full in a way that’s almost too much, like if I move too quickly, the feeling might spill over.

  Finally, I manage, “It’s… incredible.”

  The Captain’s grin softens, just a little. “Aye. Only the bravest pirates get to stand on this deck.”

  I swallow, my heart thudding in a way that has nothing to do with the climb. Standing here, under these stars, beside him—it feels like stepping into a story I’ve been waiting my whole life to hear.

  The Captain is still behind me when I’m staring out at the stars, trying to take in every inch of the deck. I’m so caught up in it that I don’t even notice the shuffling at first. It’s only when something thumps softly against the boards that I turn.

  He’s dragging things around. Pushing crates. Kicking aside coils of rope. Rearranging everything like he’s preparing for some grand voyage.

  For a second, I think he’s plotting a new mission, but then I see what he’s actually doing.

  He’s trying to build a place for us to sleep. Or… something like it.

  He gathers a pile of old, dusty sheets—ones we’ve used a hundred times for sails, flags, treasure sacks—and spreads them out across the floorboards. He smooths them with the side of his hand, frowning in concentration like he’s crafting something important. Something official. Something worthy of a captain and his first mate.

  When he’s satisfied, he steps back and nods at his work.

  “There,” he says, sounding pleased with himself. “A proper berth for star-watching.”

  It’s ridiculous. It’s perfect.

  He drops down onto the makeshift bedding without hesitation, folding his hands behind his head like he’s settling into the softest mattress in the world. Then he glances at me, eyebrows raised.

  “Well? Don’t just stand there. Get over here.”

  I lie down beside him, the boards hard beneath my back, the sheets scratchy and smelling faintly of dust and pine. But none of it matters. Not when the stars are blazing above us as lanterns hung just for tonight. Not when the Captain is right there, close enough that our shoulders almost touch under the shared blanket.

  For a long moment, I breathe. The night feels too big and too good to be real.

  The Captain lasts about ten seconds before he gets bored.

  “All right,” he says, pointing up at the sky. “Game time.”

  I turn my head toward him. “Game?”

  He nods, eyes bright. “Spot a constellation. Anyone. Then tell me its story.”

  “I don’t know any real ones.”

  “Who said anything about real?” He grins. “Make it up. That’s the whole point.”

  I look back up at the sky. The stars blur together at first, too many to choose from. Then I pick a cluster—three bright ones in a crooked line—and lift my hand to point.

  “That one,” I say.

  He hums thoughtfully. “Good choice. Now—what is it?”

  I hesitate, then let the first idea that hits me tumble out. “A… pirate’s hook.”

  He snorts. “Obviously. And what’s its legend?”

  I swallow, suddenly unsure. I could make something up. Something wild. Something piratey. But the stars look too bright, too old for that. They remind me of stories my mom used to tell me on Friday nights, when the candles burned low, and the whole world felt softer.

  “It’s… the Ladder of Angels,” I say before I can stop myself.

  The Captain turns his head toward me, curious. “Go on.”

  I take a breath. “It’s from a story my family tells. About a man who fell asleep with a rock for a pillow and dreamed of a ladder stretching all the way to the sky. Angels going up and down. Messages are being carried. Promises being made.”

  The Captain’s eyes flick back to the stars, thoughtful. “And those four?” he asks.

  “They’re the rungs,” I say. “The ones you can still see, anyway. The rest are hidden unless you’re… I don’t know. Brave enough. Or lost enough. Or maybe just looking at the right moment.”

  The wind brushes over us, cool and quiet.

  “In the story,” I continue, “the ladder meant he wasn’t alone. Even when he thought he was. Even when everything felt… taken.”

  My voice catches, but I push through it. “The angels kept going. Up and down. Like the world was still connected. Like someone was still listening.”

  The Captain doesn’t interrupt. He doesn’t joke or add anything ridiculous. He lies there beside me, staring up at the crooked diamond of stars like he’s seeing it for the first time.

  “That’s a good legend,” he says finally, voice softer than before. “A real one.”

  I shrug, suddenly shy. “It’s just something my mom used to say.”

  “Still counts,” he says. “Especially if it’s yours.”

  The Captain points to another cluster, brighter and messier than mine. “All right,” he says, his grin returning. “My turn. And mine’s definitely going to beat yours.”

  I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling. “We’ll see about that.”

  The Captain clears his throat like he’s about to deliver the most important tale ever told, and I brace myself—because if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that his “important tales” are usually disasters waiting to happen.

  He points at a cluster of stars shaped vaguely like a lopsided triangle.

  “There,” he announces. “That’s the Great Sea Chicken.”

  I choke. “The what?”

  “The Great. Sea. Chicken.” He says it slowly, like I’m the unreasonable one. “Feared across all seven oceans.”

  I turn my head to look at him. “Chickens don’t live in the ocean.”

  “This one does,” he says, completely unfazed. “Legend says it was once a mighty sea serpent—until it got cursed for being too dramatic.”

  I snort. “Too dramatic?”

  “Oh, absolutely. Always thrashing around, knocking over ships, demanding attention. One day, the Moon got tired of it and said, ‘Fine, if you’re going to act like a big baby, you can be one.’” He gestures grandly at the stars. “Poof. Chicken.”

  I’m laughing now, quietly, because I don’t want to ruin the moment, but I can’t help it.

  “So what does it do? Peck sailors to death?”

  “Worse,” he says, lowering his voice like he’s telling a ghost story. “It steals their snacks.”

  I blink. “Their… snacks?”

  “Every last one. Crackers, dried fruit, hardtack—gone. Vanished. Devoured by the Great Sea Chicken.” He pauses dramatically. “That’s why pirates always keep their rations hidden. You never know when it’ll swoop down from the heavens.”

  I stare at him. “Chickens can’t fly.”

  “This one can,” he insists. “It’s in the sky, isn’t it?”

  I open my mouth to argue, then close it again, because honestly? I walked right into that one.

  The sky above us is impossibly bright. The air is cool. The sheets are dusty and scratchy and barely cover us.

  And still… everything feels perfect.

  Too perfect. Like if I breathe too hard, it’ll all disappear.

  I stare up at the stars, letting the quiet settle in. The Captain’s shoulder brushes mine every so often when he points at something, and each time it sends a tiny spark through me, I pretend not to feel.

  I want to stay here. I want this night to stretch on and on, like the sky itself is holding it open for us.

  But somewhere in the back of my mind—past the stories, past the laughter, past the ache in my back—I know the truth.

  My mom is going to notice. She’ll check my room. She’ll see the empty bed. She’ll call my name down the hallway. And the thought of her worry tugs at me, pulling me back down from the stars.

  I let out a long, quiet sigh.

  The Captain glances over, eyebrows raised. “What’s that for?”

  I swallow, eyes still on the sky. “I…”

  The words stick for a second, heavy and reluctant. “I have to go.”

  Before the Captain can even open his mouth to answer, I’m already pushing myself up from the floor. My back protests from lying on the hard boards for so long, a dull ache settling between my shoulders, but I ignore it. I ignore everything except the quiet tug in my chest telling me the night is ending, whether I want it to or not.

  I stand there for a moment, staring out at the sky one last time. The ship creaks softly beneath my feet, the sheets rustle in the breeze, and the Captain is still lying there beside them, watching me with that unreadable look he gets sometimes.

  I don’t let myself meet his eyes. If I do, I might stay.

  So I turn away, slow and reluctant, and walk toward the rope ladder. Each step feels heavier than it should, like the night is trying to hold onto me.

  I grip the rope, the fibers rough against my palms, and climb down without looking back—not even once. The forest rises up to meet me, dark and familiar, and the ship above fades into the branches until it’s just another shadow in the trees.

  My feet hit the ground, and the world feels smaller again. Quieter. More real.

  I take a breath, steadying myself, and start toward home.

  The front door opens with the faintest, most traitorous creak, and I freeze as the sound echoes through the hallway like a gunshot.

  I wait.

  Nothing.

  Carefully—very carefully—I ease inside and pull the door shut behind me. The latch clicks a little too loudly for my liking, but it’s done now, and I exhale slowly.

  Safe.

  The house is pitch black, which is good, because Mother always goes to bed early on weeknights.

  I turn around—

  AND NEARLY JUMP OUT OF MY SKIN.

  There’s someone in the parlor.

  A figure kneels several feet away, motionless in the dark. A single golden candle burns in their hand, lifted just beneath their chin so the light throws long, unnatural shadows up across their face. The rest of the room is swallowed in black, and for one disorienting second, all I can see are the eyes. Fixed directly on me. Unblinking.

  My heart slams so hard it hurts. My breath vanishes entirely, like the air has been yanked out of the room. Every horrible possibility crashes through my mind at once—burglar, lunatic, ghost—and I stagger back a step before I even realize I’m moving.

  A strangled sound catches in my throat. I clap a hand over my mouth to smother it, my pulse roaring in my ears, fingers digging into my own face just to make sure I’m awake.

  The candle flame flickers. The shadows shift.

  And ever so slowly, the features rearrange themselves into something familiar.

  The eyes. The mouth. The unmistakable arch of her brow.

  My mother, sitting perfectly upright on the floor in the middle of the parlor, the candle still poised beneath her chin, is watching my every move.

  “Oh,” I manage weakly, my voice embarrassingly thin. “Oh! Mom! Hi!”

  “Daniel.” The way she says my name suggests she’s been practicing it.

  “Uhm, sorry, I—I must have lost track of time.”

  “Mm.” She tilts her head, the candlelight throwing long shadows across her cheekbones, making her look almost theatrical, like she’s about to begin telling a ghost story. “Where,” she asks calmly, “have you been?”

  “At—at a friend’s house,” I blurt out. “Studying.”

  “Studying,” she repeats, “at this hour?”

  “Yes!” I say too quickly. “Very important… studying.”

  She nods slowly, as if considering this. “You know, Daniel… you don’t have to lie to me.”

  My stomach drops. “I—I’m not lying.”

  She adjusts her grip on the candle. “I simply wish to know what my son does with his evenings.”

  “Yeah—yeah, and I’ve told you,” I insist. “Books. Learning. Patriotism.”

  She sighs softly. “I don’t wish to be the sort of mother who frightens her child into dishonesty,” she says, almost gently. “I would much prefer that we speak openly. Like civilized people.” She gestures vaguely with the candle, which only makes her look more frightening. “I want us to be friends.”

  I blink. “Friends?”

  “Yes, friends,” she says warmly. “We used to be so close when you were little… Oh, how I wish we could be that way again. You know, you can tell me anything. I won’t be upset. Truly.”

  That sounds promising, so I lower my guard a fraction.

  “You… you promise you won’t be angry?” I ask carefully.

  She smiles. “Oh no,” she assures me, almost tenderly. “I would much rather hear the truth.”

  I hesitate for a moment. “Okay," I anxiously begin, clearing my throat with an awkward, boyish little laugh, "Okay, well, um, so I was out with this boy, and—”

  “You’re grounded.”

  The warmth vanishes instantly.

  “What!” I exclaim.

  “You’re grounded,” she repeats.

  “But… why?!”

  She pulls herself off the floor, brushing nonexistent dust from her skirt as she turns toward the hallway.

  “Mother—”

  “I will not have foolish ideas encouraged under my roof,” she adds, her voice firm now. “You are far too young to be entertaining… distractions.”

  She ascends toward the hall without another word.

  I remain standing in the dark parlor, staring at the closed door, the scent of candle wax still hanging in the air.

  I rub my face and stare at the floor for a second before switching off the lights and going to bed.

  ? The Noble Reincanarted Demon King ?

  by BookRusher98