The ladder into the Santa Catalina's hold groans under your weight. The air below is thick—bilge water, sweat, and the unmistakable copper tang of fear. You descend into darkness, one hand on the damp hull planks, the other clutching your lantern.

Twelve pairs of eyes watch you from the shadows.

They sit in two rows along the keel, iron collars linking them to a central chain that runs the length of the hold. Men, women—one barely older than a child. Their backs bear the landscape of the lash: ridged scar tissue, old and new, mapping years of bondage across dark skin.

You hold the lantern forward. The light finds their faces—wary, hollow, waiting for whatever new cruelty comes.

"I am Ronan," you say in the trade tongue, the words slow and deliberate. "I am the surgeon of the ship that took this vessel."

Silence. A man near the bow spits onto the deck. A woman with grey threading her braided hair stares through you as if you were glass.

"I come to offer you—"

"Offer?" The word cuts like a blade. The woman with the grey hair shifts forward, the chain rattling. Her voice is hoarse but iron-firm. "You come to offer. Like the white men in Senegal offered cloth and iron. Like the trader in Kingston offered 'Christian education.'" Her lips twist into something that might have been a smile, once. "What is your offer, pirate? Another master? Another ship? Another chain?"

You open your mouth, but exhaustion and the dull ache of your bruises cloud your thoughts. You fumble for the right words—freedom, choice, shares—but they come out wrong, tumbling over each other, the granite authority of "Ronan the Calm" crumbling in the face of twelve people who have heard every promise ever broken.

"You wear their clothes," a young man mutters, staring at your bloodstained linen. "You carry their blade. You speak for them, not for us."

"I was—" you start, but the grey-haired woman raises her hand.

"You were. And now you are here, asking us to trust the hand that holds the key." She leans back against the hull, closing her eyes. "Come back when the chain is off. Then we will talk."

You stand in the swaying darkness, the lantern guttering in your grip. You have failed. Not because your cause is wrong, but because your words came from your head, not your scars. You asked them to trust a man who still wears the uniform of their captors.

As you climb back toward the hatch, a shadow moves at the top of the ladder. Eyes glint in the moonlight—a crewman, retreating before you can identify him. Someone saw you down here. Someone who will tell Morrison.

The night air hits your face like a slap. The council is hours away, and already your enemy knows you are making moves.

You stand at the rail, breathing hard, your wounded body protesting every heartbeat. The stars wheel overhead, indifferent. Somewhere below, twelve people wait for a freedom you failed to promise.

But you are not beaten yet. You have learned something tonight: words alone will not be enough. Tomorrow, you will need more than arguments. You will need proof.

And perhaps—perhaps—a new skill to carry you through what comes.

LEVEL 3 REACHED — Your experiences have forged you anew. Choose one ability to carry into the trials ahead: