A bearded pirate-like man with an eyepatch sits in a dimly lit inn by a crackling fireplace, holding a staff.

The door of the Admiral Benbow Inn creaked open, and a shadow filled the doorway. Billy Bones stood there — a towering, broad-shouldered figure with a face as rough as the sea itself. His skin was leathery and sunburnt, his hands scarred and stained with tar. A jagged scar ran across his cheek like a lightning bolt frozen in time. He wore a faded blue coat, heavy with salt, and his sharp, pointy fingers gripped a wooden stick that tapped the floor with every slow, thunderous step. The old sailor’s eyes, cold and grey as storm clouds, swept the room. Every movement he made seemed to command silence. The inn itself seemed to hold its breath, the fire shrinking in fear. When he spoke, his voice rumbled like distant thunder. “Boy,” he growled, slamming his fist on the counter so hard the mugs rattled, “bring me a mug of rum — and none of your cheap stuff either!” Jim trembled as he hurried to serve him. Billy Bones snatched the drink and swallowed deeply, the sound echoing through the quiet room. “That’s better,” he muttered, wiping his mouth with the back of his rough hand. Outside, the wind howled against the windows as though warning the world of the danger within. Inside, the old pirate sat by the fire, the flames flickering nervously across his weather-beaten face. He was a storm in human form — fierce, unpredictable, and ready to break at any moment. See more