It was a stadium.

And from the surrounding coves, three real buccaneer ships—friends of Silas, retired raiders who missed the old days—raised anchor. They’d come to watch the match. Now they came to fight.

Not a wooden bleacher or a repurposed bullring, but a full-blown, sea-going, ship-shaped coliseum. Three hundred feet of black oak and iron, built in the carcass of an ancient Man-o’-War. The hull was scarred with cannon ports that now held torch sconces, and the upper decks rose in concentric tiers like a wedding cake carved by a berserker. At the prow, a gilded kraken clutched a massive brass bell. At the stern, a pirate flag—the Jolly Roger with a crossed cutlass and pennant—snapped in the hot wind.

Finn was skeptical until the first match.

“They’re not here to destroy the stadium,” Finn realized. “They’re here to steal the audience.”

The idea was absurdly simple: a stadium that sailed from port to port. Every full moon, The Crimson Wake would anchor off a lawless island or a contested coastline, and two rival crews would fight for a chest of silver. Not to the death—that was bad for repeat business—but to the “first blood, first flag.” The winner took the purse. The loser paid for repairs. And the crowd? The crowd paid in gold dust, rum, and futures in plunder.