The deck shudders beneath our boots, but it is nothing compared to the storm she carries. Anne Bonny moves through the ship like lightning, eyes glinting with fire, hands steady on the hilt even as cannon smoke thickens around us. Every man aboard knows the tales — the fights she won single-handed, the men who thought to challenge her and found only the dark.
We follow her not because we are fearless. We follow because we have no choice. In Nassau, the governor’s men whispered of her, but they never lived to finish the story. At sea, the wind and waves bend to her will, or perhaps we simply perceive it so, hearts tight with terror and exhilaration alike.
Every shout, every laugh, every command is a spark that ignites the deck and leaves the rest of the world behind. To serve under her is to walk along the edge of a blade — thrilling, perilous, unforgettable.
And still, we follow. Still, we tremble. Still, we live — only because she lets us, and because to glimpse her fury is to know what it means to be truly alive.
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