The air in the brig was thick with the stench of bilge, damp oak, and my own sweat. Heavy iron shackles bit into my wrists as the Portuguese caravel pitched gently on the swell. Above, the muffled thud of sailors’ boots rattled the ceiling beams, but inside my dark timber cell, I had only my fury—and Senhor Silva’s insufferable smirk—to keep me company.

“They are savages, I tell you!” I spat, hurling my chains against the oak floorboards. “The creatures we met on that secluded beach yesterday were barely men! Clad in straw mats, clutching primitive bamboo sticks, cowering in dirt huts on a desolate strip of rock! You boasted of a grand eastern empire ruled by powerful shōguns, yet you dragged me across the globe in chains just to barter with wretched rustics!”