Every world begins small.

Not with thunder.

Not with prophecy.

But with a notebook.

A stain of coffee.

A single question written in the margin:

What happens after the legends die?

---

I did not want heroes.

Heroes are statues.

Statues do not bleed.

I wanted survivors.

Men who laugh too loud. Women who smile like daggers. Crews held together by debt, not destiny.

So I drew a map.

Then erased it.

Then drew it again.

Islands moved.

Storms appeared.

Cities sank.

Until the ocean looked less like geography—

and more like memory.

---

Sebas came first.

Quiet as winter.

Rufo followed, laughing at gunpowder.

Lulue arrived smiling like salvation, which is always the most dangerous smile.

And somewhere between them,

a ship emerged.

The Black Wood.

Not built.

Remembered.

As if it had always existed, waiting for ink to give it form.

Perhaps that is what stories are—

not creations—

but discoveries.

Wrecks we uncover beneath the sand.

👉 Step aboard: [/tales/begin/]