Michael John Mayweather watched his brother die.

He saw the blade. He heard the struggle. And before he could reach him, before he could do anything at all, Nolan Baye Mayweather fell to the ground—his life taken in a moment of calculated violence.

What followed was worse.

The same men who killed his brother captured him, reshaped his fate, and erased his name. By nightfall, Michael John was no longer the son of Bon Abbi’s ruling family. He was cargo—sold and branded as an indentured servant aboard the Molly Red, a merchant vessel commanded by Captain Munro Evermore.

Eight years would pass before he set foot on Rylie Glen again. And when he did, he would return as someone else entirely.

Josah Evermore.

Michael John had never known his mother. Lady Silvi Willa Mayweather died bringing him into the world, leaving Lord Rando to raise his youngest son alone while carrying the weight of ruling Bon Abbi.

It was a duty that often took precedence over fatherhood.

Still, Michael was not alone. Nolan Baye—six years older, stronger, and destined to rule—became both brother and guide. Where Lord Rando was distant, Nolan was present. The people of Bon Abbi trusted him, relied on him, and in time, began to look to him as their future.

But as Nolan grew into that role, his time with Michael faded. The gap left behind was filled by Evelyn Miller.

Daughter of the master miller, Evelyn was nothing like the expectations placed on girls in Bon Abbi. She was bold, relentless, and unafraid to challenge anyone—Michael most of all. They argued often, laughed easily, and found in each other something neither fully understood at the time.

Neither of them realized how fragile that bond truly was.

When Nolan left for Mercil to study, Bon Abbi prepared for his eventual return as its next ruler. While abroad, he met Ayla Garran and declared his intention to marry her. The news brought excitement to the city—planting season would begin alongside a wedding.

Bon Abbi came alive.

Homes were repaired. The square was adorned. The people waited.

And when Nolan returned, they celebrated him as the son who would carry them forward. But joy does not linger long on Rylie Glen. The morning after his return, while Nolan hunted with friends, Ayla stepped into the city square. She was not alone.

Three young men stood waiting.

What passed between them was never fully known. Only that Luka Dey of Casselberry raised his bow—and loosed an arrow that struck Ayla through the heart. By the time the city understood what had happened, she was already gone.

Grief consumed the manor.

Lord Garran demanded justice. Lord Rando sought reason. Nolan demanded vengeance. The young man rode out before anyone could stop him.

Michael watched it all unfold—his father’s hesitation, his brother’s fury, the silence that followed. And when no one moved to follow Nolan, Michael made his own choice. He would go after him.

Armed with nothing more than a kitchen knife and a child’s determination, he set out alone, taking the dangerous path through Filgore Valley in hopes of reaching Southport before it was too late.

He did not understand the danger. Not yet.

Filgore Valley belonged to the Dragoons—massive, silent predators that hunted in shadow and moved as one.

Night fell before Michael could escape.

It was there, in the deepening dark, that he found a young Dragoon kit trapped in a wire snare. The creature fought him at first, snarling and striking, but Michael persisted. He freed it, bound its wounded leg, and stayed beside it through the night.

By morning, the rest of the pack had arrived. They surrounded him. The largest among them approached. Michael pressed his face to the ground, bracing for death. But none came.

When he looked up, the Dragoons were gone. And the path ahead was open. He reached Southport just in time.

On Pub’s Row, he saw Nolan—alive, standing, sword drawn. Hope flickered. Then it died.

Luka’s companions restrained Nolan, holding him in place as Luka drove his blade through his chest. The moment was swift. Final. Michael screamed and charged, grief overwhelming fear. He never reached them.

Luka struck him down with a single blow, the hilt of his sword crashing into Michael’s skull. Darkness followed.

When he woke, everything had changed. The air was thick with smoke and iron. His arm burned with a pain he could not understand—until he saw the mark. A brand. A number. He had been claimed.

Captain Munro Evermore stood over him, calm and indifferent, declaring what Michael had become: an indentured servant in service to the Evermore fleet. No trial. No truth. No name.

He was taken to the docks, forced aboard the Molly Red, its crimson sail marked with the image of a great whale. As the ship prepared to depart, Michael was dragged below deck, swallowed by darkness and the unknown. Behind him, Bon Abbi faded.

His father. His brother. Evelyn. All left behind.

For eight years, he lived under another man’s name, shaped by a world far harsher than the one he had known. The boy who once ran through fields and argued in the miller’s yard was gone.

In his place stood someone else. Someone harder. Someone quieter. Someone who understood what the world truly demanded.

So, when word finally came that Lord Rando had died—and that he was to return to Rylie Glen—he did not return as Michael John Mayweather.

That boy had died on Pub’s Row. The one who stepped back onto the island carried a different name.

Josah Evermore.