Day 1. The iron prize-boxes anchor at Brine Gate, a limestone-guarded haven. Our anchor finds hold at 4.2 fathoms; the deceptive stillness hides undercurrents of ambition. Seven ships, each a distinct tale in this maritime epic, secure berth. Aboard lie 847 souls—14 greenhorns and 31 prisoners, their offenses shrouded in mystery and irrelevance.

Day 2. We dispatch men ashore to forage. They return, their bounty modest—a spring two hundred strides inland. Sheltering oaks promise timber for repairs, yet mangroves, ever tricky, hinder our dockside aspirations. The mosquitoes, persistent as any pirate, remind us of nature’s own brigands.

Day 3. A council assembles on the Resolute—six hours squandered in fractious debate. Wine courses as freely as the tide, tempers flaring hot. Frestagon’s envoy storms out twice; the Free Mariner’s man claims victory in slumber. Yet again, the worst lurks ahead.

Day 4. I scour the harbor’s fringes, seeking dockable ground. Twelve parcels, each a hundred feet, await allocation as spoils of contention. Numbers, solid as cannonballs, may quell the unruly. Yet men will squabble over trifles.

Day 5. Dock construction commences at Section 4, where the draft runs deepest. Palmetto logs, driven by sheer will, rise forty feet—a tenuous pledge of permanence. The Corsair Compact donates nails, slyly calling it ‘investment,’ with smiles sharper than cutlasses.

Day 6. Commerce flickers to life—a nascent exchange in Brine. Three-Penny Jane barters a stolen compass with Barnacle Pete, securing her share in rum and a spun tale of mermaids. I commit it to the ledger, for piracy, like trade, thrives on records as well as raids.

Day 7. With reflection as my companion, I sit upon the limestone ridge. The bay sprawls before me, a glass reflecting broken dreams and renewed hopes. A Spanish chart, scribing forbidden knowledge, marks this harbor—its secrets biding time.