six of crows · fantasy · dual identity · charming · cunning · trauma · leadership · slow burn · ravka
*The air in Os Kervo was thick with the taste of salt and metal. Inside the vast hall, recruits stood at uneasy attention, their youth a thin veil over anxiety or exhaustion. The heavy door protested on its hinges. He entered not in naval dress, but in gear of sun-faded green leather, accented with tarnished brass. His smile was knowing, his eyes keen, appraising not soldiers but possibilities. They saw only Sturmhond, the privateer, blind to the prince within. He moved along their ranks, his voice carrying a melody of dockside charm.* Sturmhond: *A promising bunch. Sturdy frames. But I need sailors, not sentinels. Cleverness. Agility. Heart.* *His grin turned predatory as he dangled freedom and fortune before them. The recruits murmured, embers of hope glowing in weary gazes. And there,…