"So," Elizabeth said, peering into the thick fog curling around the ship, "we're near the Island of the Dead?"
"Aye," Jack replied, hands resting loosely on the helm, eyes fixed ahead as if he could already see through the mist. "Near enough."
He turned his head slightly. "Gibbs!"
Mr. Gibbs hurried over. "Captain?"
"Be a good man," Jack said casually, "and bring up the prisoner. If we're about to greet the dead, it's only polite to bring proper company."
Gibbs hesitated, casting a wary look toward the fog, then nodded. "Aye, Captain."
Gibbs returned with another sailor at his side, hauling Will up onto the deck. His hands were bound, but his mouth was free—clearly by design.
Will staggered once, then steadied himself, eyes darting from the crew to the fog, and finally landing on Elizabeth.
"You pirates—what do you want with me?" Will demanded, struggling instinctively against the ropes before realizing it was useless.
His eyes flicked to Elizabeth.
That confused him even more.
She wasn't bound. She wasn't panicking. She stood there in her usual clothes, steady and composed, as if being surrounded by pirates on a fog-choked deck was merely inconvenient.
Elizabeth held his gaze, her expression conflicted but calm.
Jack stepped closer, tilting his head, studying Will like an object he'd misplaced and finally found again.
"Easy there, boy," Jack said lightly. "No need to get dramatic. Dramatic leads to shouting, shouting leads to headaches."
Will glared. "Untie me."
Jack ignored that. "Tell me," he continued, circling him slowly, "how much do you know about your father?"
Will stiffened. "My father is dead."
Jack stopped in front of him, his smile faint but sharp. "Ah," he said lightly, "that's where you're wrong."
Will glared back. "About what?"
"Your father," Jack replied. "Before he was dead, he was a pirate."
Will's expression hardened instantly. "You're lying. My father was an honest businessman. Not a scum like you."
Jack chuckled, a soft, knowing sound. "Honest?" He shook his head. "No, no, no. He was many things—clever, dangerous, stubborn to the end—but honest wasn't one of them."
Will strained against the ropes. "You don't know anything about him."
Jack leaned closer, eyes suddenly serious beneath the humor. "I know more about your father than you ever did, boy. He was a pirate. A bloody good one, too."
Elizabeth watched silently, tension tightening in her shoulders.
"The blood that runs through you," Jack continued, tapping Will lightly on the chest, "that's pirate blood. Whether you like it or not."
Will's voice shook with anger. "I am not a pirate."
Jack straightened, grin returning. "You're a pirate's son," he said. "And trust me—denial never stopped the sea from claiming its own."
The fog pressed in around the ship as if listening.
Jack tipped his hat slightly. "And that," he added, "is precisely why we need you."
He turned, pacing a step along the deck as the fog thickened around them. "The blood of Turner," Jack said, almost reverently. "The last man who took a gold coin from the Cortez. The one thing capable of breaking the curse."
Will stared at him. "Curse?"
Elizabeth frowned. "I've read the stories," she said. "They never mention what the curse actually is."
Jack glanced at her, then out toward the mist-shrouded sea.
"Because it's not a pretty tale," he said. "Those coins were Aztec gold. Taken. Stolen. Each one cursed."
He paused, letting the words settle. "By moonlight, the men who took them are revealed for what they truly are—neither living nor dead. They can't feel pleasure, or pain, or warmth. Food turns to ash. Drink gives no comfort."
Will's eyes widened.
"They're immortal," Jack continued, "but not alive. And the only way to lift it is to return every coin… and repay the blood that was spilled."
His gaze flicked back to Will. "Which brings us back to you."
Elizabeth's voice was quiet. "Because his father was the last one."
Jack smiled thinly. "Exactly."
***
On the Black Pearl's side,
Barbossa dragged Daniel into the cavern, the ropes tight around his arms as he shoved him forward. Daniel stumbled but stayed on his feet, boots scraping against the stone floor as the cave opened up before them.
The Cortez chest sat at the center, lid thrown back, overflowing with gold coins that caught the torchlight and reflected it in dull, mocking glints.
Barbossa climbed onto the edge of the chest, towering above the treasure. He reached down, picked up a single coin, and turned it slowly between his fingers. With his other hand, he drew his knife, the blade flashing.
"Poor Captain," Daniel said, his voice calm, almost amused. "You've been fooled again."
Barbossa stopped.
"What do you mean?" he asked, though a sour feeling had already settled in his gut.
Daniel looked up at him, a small smile tugging at his lips. "My name is Daniel Haken," he said. "Not Turner."
For a moment, Barbossa didn't move.
Then his expression twitched, as though bile had risen in his throat. Rage surged, chased swiftly by disbelief, before settling into something cold and venomous. The knife shook in his hand.
Fooled once was misfortune.
Fooled twice—by the same man—was disgrace.
And Barbossa would not live with disgrace.
His pride recoiled at it, raw and wounded, his fury fed not by fear but by humiliation. A captain could forgive many things—but not being made a fool twice.
"You dare to fool me again?" Barbossa roared. "Do you not care for your life?"
He stepped back and drew his pistol in one sharp motion, arm steady as he aimed it straight at Daniel's head.
Daniel didn't flinch.
"Oh, I care," he said calmly. "I just don't think you can kill me."
Barbossa snarled and pulled the trigger.
The gunshot cracked through the cave.
Daniel was thrown backward as the bullet struck his forehead, his body hitting the stone floor hard. He lay still, torchlight flickering over him as smoke drifted from the barrel of Barbossa's gun.
*****
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