Feathers poured another sample into a clean jar and held it up to the moonlight streaming through his distillery window. The liquid glowed pale silver, exactly as it should. He'd spent fifteen years perfecting his moonshine recipes, and tonight's batch might be his best yet—a blend he called Widow's Whisper that supposedly carried the last words of drowned sailors. His rivals had already tried to steal his secrets, costing him three fingers on his left hand, but the sea had given them back during a full moon tide. Now he wanted more than survival. He wanted the whole world to taste his spirits, to know his name, to fear and crave what only he could brew. Morning came with a plan burning in his mind. Fame required tasters, and tasters required knowing where to find him. Feathers carried a hand-painted board through town until he found a weathered wooden posting area covered in job notices and bounty papers. He hammered his sign between a cattle drive announcement and a wanted poster, the wood groaning under the impact. His board listed three of his finest flavors in bold lettering: Widow's Whisper, Devil's Dowry, and Storm's Confession. The real work waited at the Golden Stream, a river that cut through the rocks with water clear as glass. Feathers filled barrel after barrel, his boots sinking into the muddy bank. Pure water meant pure spirits, and pure spirits meant a reputation that could travel across oceans. He loaded the barrels onto his cart and hauled them back to his distillery, sweat soaking through his blue coat. His pirate moonshine still waited in the back room, a twisted maze of copper pipes and dented barrels that had survived storms and sabotage. Feathers ran his hand along the tarnished metal, feeling the heat already building in the coils. Tonight he'd brew something new, something that would make even the moon jealous. The world would taste his spirits soon enough, and they'd remember his name long after the last drop disappeared.