𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐔𝐓𝐂𝐇𝐌𝐀𝐍'𝐒 𝐃𝐀𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐄𝐑 ▸ W. TURNER

𝟢. 𝑡𝘩𝑒 𝑓𝑖𝑟𝑠𝑡 𝑑𝑟𝑎𝑤

𝐏 𝐑 𝐎 𝐋 𝐎 𝐆 𝐔 𝐄 

[ 𝑝𝑜𝑟𝑡 𝑟𝑜𝑦𝑎𝑙 ]

𝐸𝑉𝐸𝑁 𝐴𝑆 𝐼𝑇 𝐵𝐴𝐾𝐸𝐷 𝐵𝐸𝑁𝐸𝐴𝑇𝐻 𝑇𝐻𝐸 𝑀𝐼𝐷𝐷𝐴𝑌 𝑆𝑈𝑁, 𝑃𝑂𝑅𝑇 𝑅𝑂𝑌𝐴𝐿 𝑆𝑇𝐼𝐿𝐿 𝐻𝑈𝑀𝑀𝐸𝐷 𝑊𝐼𝑇𝐻 𝐿𝐼𝐹𝐸.

The sounds of merchant sailors unloading their ships at the docks, deckhands hauling crates of every commodity available, carried through the winding streets. British Navy boots pounded the flagstones, leather sizzling in the heat. Flurries of dust whirled across the centre of town, sending those unsuspecting into fits of coughing and spluttering.

In fact, the sheer racket of everyday life in Port Royal was even strong enough to drown out the clang of the blacksmith's tools as they struck the anvil. It was also strong enough to divert attention from the epic duel which was currently taking place in the alleyway behind Mr Brown's workshop.

It was clear the two opposing parties had been battling for quite some time – one could see it in the heave of their chests and the way their shirts clung to their bodies, sticky with sweat from the boiling heat of the Caribbean summer's day. But neither lowered their blades as they circled each other.

Around the fighting pair, a group of other merchant children had gathered to watch the show. They cheered and shouted, the names of their preferred winner bouncing off the stone walls of the alley in a barrage of violent echoes.

In one corner, a collection of bedraggled-looking young boys had their fists raised to the sky, teeth bared as they egged on their champion – a slightly older boy, perhaps in his early teens. He was a good few inches taller than his opponent, with a shock of brunette waves held back from his face by a length of twine. Despite his age, it was clear he was already developing a fine physique thanks to his position as an apprentice in the very workshop they were all crowded behind. He twirled his sword – a finely crafted piece, and meant for a man much older and higher in status than any of those in the vicinity – expertly in his hands, and fixed his adversary with a knowing smile.

In the opposite corner, a couple of stragglers had made their camp behind the contender. It was difficult to see anything of their features, for the majority of their face was obscured by the wide brim of the hat they wore, but it was obvious they were a lot smaller than the blacksmith's boy. Their grip on the hilt of their blade visibly tightened as they noticed his expression.

"I swear it, I'm not letting you win this time Will." A voice growled from beneath the shadow of the hat, hostile but still surprisingly on the softer side.

The blacksmith's boy, Will, chuckled. "We'll see about that."

Within moments, a lightning-fast lunge had brought the two duellists into range of each other once again. Will brought the blade up in a sweeping arc amid the raucous cheers of the crowd at his back. The challenger stumbled on their feet for a fleeting moment, boots scuffing clouds of dirt into the air, but a loud clash still echoed through the alley as they countered the attack.

No longer content to stand around chatting, the next round of the battle commenced.

Though both were young, the room for improvement in their form still noticeable, it was obvious the two opponents had been practicing for quite some time. The blacksmith's boy's footwork was almost flawless, and the way he wielded his blade could've marked him a nobleman's son – or perhaps even a pirate's – but his adversary was considerably lighter on their feet. Not to mention unorthodox in their methods. Risky movements which might have sent one to an early grave in a real duel seemed to be their specialty. But that was the trouble with deception – sometimes it paid off. And sometimes it didn't.