Chapter 1:
“You Save Someone from Drowning, and They Demand Your Bundle”
The Esteia-Laurance Empire had no mercy for pirates.
That was something Astrid heard often whenever her father’s friends got drunk.
Thanks to that, she could easily recite at least five names of famous pirates who had met the executioner’s blade…
The fact that Astrid, who had actually been caught playing at being a pirate, still had her head neatly attached to her shoulders was a tremendous blessing.
“Oh! Listen to my tale, my friend,
This is a story that starts and ends at sea…
Oh! Like a silver coin, this tale rolls and rolls from my fingertips…”
Astrid hummed a sea shanty under her breath. Singing a sailor’s song inside a carriage—it was a strange combination.
But not as strange as the mismatch between the luxuriously decorated interior of the carriage and Astrid’s ragged appearance.
Her red hair was a tangled mess, her clothes stiff and wrinkled from salt… Yet, her voice as she sang was beautiful. Her hands, however, trembled as if gripped tightly—and so did her voice. Then—
Clunk!
The carriage jolted violently.
The song stopped. The tremble that had started in her hands now consumed her whole body.
“……”
Astrid wrapped her arms around her shoulders and took a deep breath. She repeated it five or six times to calm herself, then instinctively reached near her collarbone.
The place where her father’s amethyst necklace—her talisman—used to hang.
“Sasha! Think for yourself. As long as you think and decide on your own, no one can harm you easily.”
Just as her father, her guiding star, taught her—especially at times like this—she couldn’t afford to just sit and tremble. She had to retrace how she’d ended up in this situation.
Right before boarding the carriage, Astrid had been at the border between freshwater and sea. In other words…
An execution ground for pirates.
‘…Well, not bad. At least I’m not about to die. Though, the Emperor might be furious with me.’
At that time, Astrid had no idea—
That in just a few hours, a mere pirate like her would become the daughter of a war hero, “Lady del Ponto.”
And that it would take a long time before she could return to the sea, the place that had always been her home.
* * *
Florian was not in a great mood. Then again, he rarely was.
Standing on the deck, he was annoyed by the way the staff kept glancing at him while busy with their duties.
“…Haa.”
The sea breeze was salty and sticky. It was only April, yet Esteia’s sun blazed hot.
And Florian? He hated anything too passionate.
Sure, if he stayed in his private guest room below deck, he could avoid the sun, the wind, and the prying eyes. Since word had spread that the merchant lord’s son was boarding, the crew had even prepared luxurious chairs and rare trade books for him.
Still, he chose to stand on deck. Why?
‘Ugh!’
Florian lurched over the railing, retching.
He dry-heaved several times, but it didn’t get better.
Throwing up properly might’ve helped. From his earliest memories, Florian had always had awful motion sickness.
Tears welled at the corners of his golden lashes—just a physical reaction, but combined with his famously beautiful face, he looked like a sorrowful, tragic hero.
…Albeit one just seasick and retching.
‘I want to quit…’
His father, Mateo Ortez, was the kind of man who never let others win. Even knowing his son’s condition, he still sent him out to sea.
Before this voyage, Florian had insisted that the person in charge didn’t need to personally board the ship.
Delegating builds trust. Empowering reliable subordinates to manage tasks ensures things run smoothly without micromanagement. Many top trading firms operated this way.
Of course, his own introverted nature and “astonishing stamina”—pure sarcasm—may have influenced his argument.
But his father insisted on having his face present at every stage of decision-making. And by his father’s standard, Florian was one of his faces.
“Let me take the cargo wagon instead! I really can’t board the ship…”
“You’ll get used to it by riding more. Get on, Florian.”
He’d begged. But as always, when their opinions differed, Florian’s never won.
Now, with teary eyes, he gazed at the horizon. One crew member had told him it helped to look at the distant sea rather than the close waves to avoid nausea.
Scattered reefs began to appear. Judging by the increased commotion on deck—people shouting and moving faster—the destination, Rosada Port, must be near.
A relief to this suffering beauty.
Luz Rosada—the name meant “rosy light,” inspired by the pink glow of sunset over the sea as viewed from the city.
But to Florian, the sunset never looked pink. It was red. Like… like that person’s hair.
…Person?
Florian rubbed his eyes. It was faint, but yes—there was someone in the water.
Panicking slightly, he grabbed the small spyglass from his waist.
A soaked woman was clinging to a wooden plank, flailing one arm desperately.
Even with the warm sun, April sea water was frigid. Hypothermia would set in quickly.
Whatever superstitions existed about women on ships being unlucky, a drowning person had to be saved first.
Florian grabbed a passing crew member.
“There’s someone in the sea! Prepare a rescue!”
The man looked where Florian pointed, nodded quickly, and ran off.
Others, already busy preparing for port, sprang into faster action.
Florian stepped aside to avoid hindering them.
“Castaway spotted ahead! Prepare rescue!”
“Unfurl more sails! Speed up!”
“Get the ropes ready!”
The sails, half-furled, were released fully, catching the wind and accelerating the ship.
Some crew tied a small anchor to the end of a rope, threading it through a pulley system.
As the ship approached the castaway, Florian leaned over the rail and shouted,
“Hold on! We’ll drop a rope soon!”
The woman called back faintly but gratefully, “Thank you!”
To reach her more easily, the crew worked to slow the ship by drawing up the sails again. Florian tried to help, but was gently rebuffed—
“No offense, Young Master, but we’re not so weak we need your arms!”
Awkward, he rubbed his thin arm and stepped back.
Soon, the ship neared the woman. The rope with the small anchor was lowered slowly to avoid hurting her.
She let go of the plank, swam toward the rope, and planted her feet on the anchor.
“Pulling up!”
With a few rhythmic chants and coordinated heaves, two strong sailors hauled the soaked woman over the railing.
Her eye-catching red curls—perhaps what saved her by being so visible in the blue sea—dripped seawater.
She looked pale, but stood on her own.
Florian watched her silently. Blue eyes, freckles—she would have looked healthy if not for her pallor.
She wrung out her soaked hair and clothes while thanking everyone around her.
Still, staying in wet clothes wasn’t good for her health.
Florian thought of the spare dress shirt and storm coat in his luggage—men’s clothes, yes, but better than wet ones. He turned to head below deck.
Then—
“Young Master! She says she wants to thank the person in charge directly.”
“Directly?”
He turned. Someone had already given the woman a blanket, which she draped like a cloak.
She looked at him, smiling softly. Red hair and vivid blue eyes clashed intensely—but somehow harmoniously.
All in all, not a bad-looking face.
“You’re the master of this ship, right? Thank you so much for saving me.”
Her voice was rare—like a pearl rolling across a table.
“Think nothing of it,” Florian replied.
She held out her right hand.
Florian hesitated—was this for a handshake? Or a kiss on the hand?
He decided to respond and gauge from her reaction. He took her hand.
Or rather, she grabbed his.
In a blink, she yanked Florian toward her with strength no one would expect from her frame.
Suddenly, Florian was in her arms—his neck locked in her left arm.
He hadn’t had a chance to resist.
Clink!
Clink? A metallic sound—ominous.
He couldn’t breathe properly and only moved his eyes downward.
A rusty but deadly-sharp dagger was pressed against his neck.
With a bright, delighted voice, the woman shouted:
“This is the Ortez Trading Company, right?! I’ve got your young master! Hand over everything you’ve got!”
