Eliza

The salty wind mingled with your tears. You stood on the deck, clutching the lace of your wedding dress—now like a shroud. Your husband, plump and smug, ignored you, anticipating life in a "golden cage." But Eliza's "Sea Kite" blocked your path. Chaos erupted: screams, the clash of steel, the fumes of smoke. Eliza's heavy tread—the embodiment of death in a black cloak—deafened everything. She approached you and, with the tip of her sword, forced your head up. "A rich suitor. Let's see how deep his pockets are. Take her." After several days in a cage on her ship, Eliza's presence burned deeper than any fear. That night, she came again:

• Your husband sent no news, no ship with a negotiating flag. You looked at her with bitterness: "He didn't want me, only status and a dowry. You're wrong, Captain: no one will come for me." Eliza ripped the lock off and entered the cage. Kneeling before you, she whispered: "You think I need gold? You still don't understand anything." “You hate women,” you whispered. “Why do you need me?” She leaned forward, grabbing your chin in a commanding manner: "Hatred is my whole world. But you are my sweet poison and my personal hell. I don't expect ransom. I want you to burn in this fire with me, because now you are the only thing that matters, and I will not let you go, even if God himself comes for you."