The air in the Rova High-City tasted of old stone and dried incense. Perched atop the island's highest plateau, the royal palace was less a building and more a gargantuan tomb carved from the living grey rock of Nosy Fady. Its walls absorbed sound, swallowing echoes into a stillness so profound it felt like a physical weight. Here, in the Grand Hall of Ancestors, silence wasn't just enforced; it was worshipped.
Queen Ranava "The Silencer" sat upon her throne, a monstrous chair fashioned from the fused skeletons of massive, extinct seabirds and inlaid with chips of obsidian. The dim light filtering through narrow, vertical windows cut across the chamber in dusty bars, failing to reach the shadowy vaults of the ceiling. She did not move. Her form, wrapped in the immense, structured folds of her spider-silk Lamba, was as still as the statues lining the hall—depictions of long-dead nobles with their hands clamped over their own stone mouths.
Before her, a line of Hova merchants knelt on the cold floor, their foreheads pressed to the stone. They had come to petition for a trade variance—a request to import iron ingots on a third-week cycle. They had been kneeling for an hour, listening to the soft, ragged scrape of their own breathing. The Queen had not yet acknowledged them. Her heavy-lidded eyes, pupils dark as deep-water pools, stared through them as if they were ghosts. Her lips, painted a shocking, mortuary white against her mahogany skin, were a tight, unsmiling line.
The only sound was the faint, rhythmic click-click-click of the gold-plated jaw guard worn by the man standing at rigid attention beside the throne dais.
General Ravelo—"Bomba" to the few who dared think the name—was a monument of contained violence. His barrel chest, straining the pristine white fabric of his colonial-style uniform, rose and fell with a slow, metronomic patience. The red silk sash across his torso—the sole flash of the forbidden color allowed to the living—was a slash of warning in the monochrome hall. His scarred hands, clasped behind his back, were like knotted wood. His eyes, small and glinting like black flint, ceaselessly scanned the room, the petitioners, the shadows, hunting for the first, faint crack in the perfect silence.
A flicker. A minute tensing of the Queen's finger where it rested on the throne's bird-skull armrest.
It was enough. The lead merchant, a wiry man with a face leathered by sea-wind, mistook it for a sign. He dared to lift his head a fraction, his throat working as he prepared to whisper his plea once more.
The clicking stopped.
Before the merchant could make a sound, General Ravelo was moving. He didn't run; he flowed, a white-and-gold avalanche of muscle and menace. He crossed the twenty paces of hall in a blink, his polished boots making no more sound than a cat's paws. His hand, large enough to fully engulf the man's head, clamped over the merchant's face, fingers digging into his temples. The man's terrified squeak was muffled into nothingness.
"You have been heard," Ravelo's voice was a low, gravelly rumble, like distant rockslide. It was the loudest sound the hall had heard all day, and it made the other petitioners flinch. "The Ancestors find your noise… grating. Your variance is denied. Your presence is concluded."
He didn't drag the man. He simply lifted him, one-handed, off his knees and propelled him towards the towering bronze doors. The other merchants scrambled to their feet, bowing and backing away in a frantic, silent scramble. The great doors groaned open just wide enough to eject them, then thudded shut, sealing the hall once more in its sacred quiet.
Ravelo turned on his heel and marched back to the dais, resuming his post. The click-click-click of his jaw guard resumed, a bit faster now. The Queen had not moved her head, but her eyes had followed him. A minuscule, almost imperceptible tilt of her chin was her summons.
The General ascended the dais steps, the iron nails in his boots tinking softly on the stone. At the foot of the throne, he dropped to one knee with a weighty thud that vibrated through the floor. He bowed his head, the gold muzzle dipping towards his chest. From this angle, he could see the intricate carvings on her armrests—not flowers or crests, but depictions of screaming mouths being sewn shut by thorny vines.
A long moment passed. The only movement was the slow drift of motes in the sunbeams.
Then, she spoke. Her voice was not what one expected. It was not the hiss of a serpent or the cold wind of a ghost. It was a dry, rasping whisper, the sound of parchment being slowly torn. It carried no force, yet it demanded absolute focus, pulling the listener into its fragile, dangerous orbit.
"Report."
Ravelo kept his head bowed, his own voice dropping to a register just above hers, a practiced counterpoint. "My Queen. Patrols from the western watch-spires. A visual confirmation, relayed by mirror-flash before the noon cloud-cover."
He paused, the words sticking in his throat like burrs. He could feel the weight of the taboo in the air, thickening it.
"Pirates. In the deep jungles of the Weeping Baobab. They were sighted moving north-west, towards the cove." He swallowed, the sound loud in his own ears. "They were carrying barrels. Full ones. Of the weeping sap."
The Queen's hand, resting on the skull, twitched. A single, sharp spasm. Then, stillness.
"The day?" Her whisper was even softer.
Ravelo's jaw clenched behind its cage. "Tuesday, my Queen."
The silence that followed was different. The previous silence had been empty, dead. This one was alive. It hummed with a terrible, gathering energy, like the moment before a lightning strike in the Calm Belt.
Slowly, with a grinding sound of bone-on-stone, Queen Ranava turned her head to look directly at her general. Her eyes, usually so dull and distant, had changed. The whites were now visible all around the dark irises, which seemed to swell, to bulge with a pressure that had nothing to do with sight. A web of fine veins etched itself across her temples. The white paint on her lips cracked at the corners.
Her balled fist, small and elegant, rose from the armrest. It hung in the air for a heartbeat, trembling with a force that seemed to warp the space around it. Then, it descended.
THOOM.
The impact was not loud, but it was profoundly deep, a sound felt in the bones more than heard by the ears. The entire bird-skull armrest splintered, fractures racing through the ancient bone like forked lightning. A puff of ancient dust bloomed into the sunbeam. On the floor below, Ravelo felt the vibration travel up through his kneecap and into his spine.
Her glare was a physical force, pinning him to the spot. When she spoke again, the rasp was gone, replaced by a sibilant, venomous hiss that sliced through the dusty air.
"How."
The word was a lash. Ravelo's head dipped lower.
"How," she continued, the whisper-yell trembling with a fury so long suppressed it now threatened to shatter her own rigid control. "Can the reefs be silent? How can the sea not speak of their approach? How can a ship enter my waters, my silent waters, and the Kalanoro not sing a warning? How can the cove… the deaf cove… not feel their footsteps?" Each question was a dagger, flung with pinpoint, furious accuracy. "How can they touch the sacred trees on the day of rest? How can they carry the life-blood of the island on the day the Ancestors sleep?"
Ravelo remained bowed, the image of supplication, but his mind was already racing, mapping the jungle trails, estimating pirate speeds, calculating the loyalty—or recent silence—of the Kalanoro traders and the cove's resin-masters. "The failure is in the watch," he growled, the sound reverberating behind his muzzle. "The failure is in the chain of warning. I will find the break in the link. I will… reforge it. With heat."
The Queen leaned forward, the shadows of her colossal headdress—the silver sea-krait skulls and sharp red coral—falling across his lowered form like a cage. The smell of her reached him: crushed limestone, dried orchid, and beneath it, the faint, sweet-rotten scent of the Tangena nut poison she used to tip her scepter.
"Punishment is for later," she breathed, her voice regaining its deadly softness, each word a drop of freezing water. "The resin is in motion. The taboo is broken. The balance is cracked." Her white-painted lips barely moved. "You will not 'reforge links,' General. You will stem the flood. You will go. Yourself. You will find these noisy, sun-seeking blights. You will bring them to me. Unsilenced. I will look into their loud eyes. I will give them the nut. I will let the Ancestors judge what vomits forth."
She leaned back, the aura of apocalyptic rage settling back into a cold, terrible serenity. "The Tuesday silence has been pierced. Only a louder, final silence can mend it. Do you understand the music, General Bomba?"
Ravelo finally raised his head. His eyes met hers—the bulging, furious orbs of a priestess whose god had been insulted. In them, he saw no madness, only a chilling, absolute certainty. She was the island. Its rules were her flesh. Its violation was her pain.
He placed his fist over the red sash on his heart. "I hear the song, my Queen. It is a single, clear note. I will bring the pirates. I will bring the noise-makers. You will have them for the trial."
"See," she whispered, the word fading into the hungry silence of the hall, "that you do."
General Ravelo rose, the joints of his armor creaking a subdued protest. He bowed once, deeply, then turned. His click-click-click echoed as he strode down the long hall, each step a measured beat of impending violence. The palace swallowed the merchants' fear. It would soon feast on pirate defiance. And he, the Queen's loyal hound, her living weapon, her "Bomb," would be the one to deliver the feast to the table.
As the bronze doors closed behind him, sealing the furious, silent Queen once more in her tomb-like hall, he allowed his own jaw to unclench. A low, predatory rumble sounded in his chest, a sound no muzzle could contain. It was the stirring of something old, and sharp, and very, very hungry.
The hunt on the day of silence had begun.
*****
The volcanic rock of G-88 seemed to hold its breath. In a dimly lit corridor, Commander Alistair Reginald Finch strolled with an air of misplaced purpose, a single locust buzzing a lazy orbit around his head before landing on his epaulette. He paused before a heavy door marked 'ARMORY – RESTRICTED,' glancing at a video transponder snail mounted on the wall, its bulbous eyes glowing a faint green as it monitored the entrance.
"Tsk. Dusty," Finch muttered to himself. With a dramatic flourish, he produced a silk handkerchief from his breast pocket, gave it a shake near the snail, and blew a cloud of fine, irritating dust directly into its ocular stalks. The snail let out a perturbed gurgle, its eyes crossed, and it slumped sideways, the feed blinking into static. "Much better."
He produced a key—one of many on his now slightly lighter ring—and unlocked the armory door. Inside, racks of standard-issue Marine rifles stood in orderly rows. But his eyes, sharp behind their façade of bumbling, went immediately to two items laid on a separate table: Aurélie's sleek, cursed blade, Anathema, and Ember's customized, heavily modified slingshot rifle, Helltide. He wasted no time, wrapping the sword in a spare tarpaulin and slinging the rifle over his shoulder under his coat. With a final adjustment of his cravat, he slipped back into the hall, leaving the door slightly ajar, a silent invitation in the now-unmonitored corridor.
---
Back in the holding block, the silence was a live wire. Aurélie stood, the cold metal key biting into her palm. She moved to her cell door, the simple iron lock yielding with a gritty clunk that echoed like a thunderclap in the quiet.
The door creaked open.
Charlie, who had resumed his frantic pacing, spun around. He rushed to the bars of his own cell, his eyes wide. "How?!"
Aurélie didn't answer. She was already moving to the other cells, her movements fluid and silent. One by one, the locks disengaged. Bianca stepped out, stretching her limbs with a groan. She looked at Charlie as he scurried from his cell, a knowing smirk on her face.
"Like, you can't figure it out?" Bianca whispered.
Charlie adjusted his invisible pith helmet, his mind racing. "Figure what out? The improbable statistical likelihood of a key materializing, the clear failure of Marine security protocols, or the—"
"Move," Aurélie cut him off, her voice a blade of sound. "We do not have much time."
They scurried after her, a ragged line of fugitives pressed against the cold, rough-hewn wall. The only exit was a heavy door at the end of the hall, guarded from the other side. The distant, rhythmic hiss of a geothermal vent seemed to mock their attempts at stealth.
"How do we get past the guards?" Charlie hissed, his academic mind offering no viable theorems for direct confrontation.
Ember cracked her knuckles, a dangerous glint in her mismatched eyes. "Do you want me to—"
"Quiet," Aurélie silenced them both, her ear pressed to the door. "Stealth is our ally. Violence is a last resort." She peered through a narrow gap in the doorframe. Two Marines stood on duty, looking bored, their rifles slung over their shoulders.
Bianca crouched beside her. "Like, what's the plan?"
Aurélie's storm-grey eyes narrowed. "Wait here. Do not move until I signal."
She took a deep, centering breath. Then, she exhaled a soft, whispering command into the stagnant air. From the shadows of the corridor, from cracks in the volcanic stone, a faint, gathering hum arose. It wasn't loud, but it was everywhere. Then, they came—a living, swirling cloud of locusts, summoned from the unseen corners of the fortress. They poured into the guard post in a whispering, chittering torrent.
The guards' bored expressions shattered into panic. "What in the—?!" one yelled, swatting wildly as insects crawled under his collar, into his ears, clouding his vision.
"I can't see! Get them off!"
It was the moment of perfect chaos Aurélie needed. She shoved the door open, slipped through the buzzing maelstrom like a ghost, and in one smooth motion, wrenched the rifle from the closest, blinded guard's hands. She reversed it, and with a sharp, efficient motion, brought the solid wooden stock down against the back of his head. He crumpled. The second guard, still flailing, turned toward the sound. Aurélie was already there, the rifle butt striking his temple with a dull thud. He joined his companion on the floor.
With a flick of her will, the locust swarm dissipated, melting back into the shadows from whence they came, leaving only the soft buzz of wings fading into the hiss of steam.
Aurélie stood over the unconscious Marines, barely winded. She glanced back at the open door. "Now. Help me."
Bianca and Charlie rushed out, followed by Ember, who looked mildly disappointed she hadn't gotten to explode anything. Together, they dragged the two heavy bodies into a nearby supply closet, the smell of mops and mildew swallowing them.
"Their comrades will find them eventually," Aurélie said, leaning the stolen rifle against the wall. "But eventually is not now. To the impound dock. Move quickly, and stay in the shadows."
The stolen Marine uniforms were a poor fit—Aurélie's sleeves too short, Bianca's swimming around her frame—but in the chaotic, steam-shrouded corridors of G-88, they were a passable disguise. With Aurélie and Bianca marching with faux authority, and Charlie and Ember playing the role of surly, detained "scoundrels," they moved through the bustling fortress. The air was thick with shouted orders and the clatter of boots as the day watch changed. Marines rushed past, too focused on their own duties to give more than a cursory, odd glance at the mismatched group.
As they turned into a long corridor lined with pipes that hissed like angry serpents, Captain Nuri Evander passed the far entrance. He was tapping his steel bat against his leg, muttering about aerodynamic lift coefficients. Something about the retreating backs—the too-perfect posture of one guard, the frantic, scholarly hunch of one prisoner—made him pause. He stopped twirling his bat, his brow furrowing.
"Captain Nuri Evander!" A young Marine scurried up, thrusting a stack of papers at him. "Here's the engine report you requested, sir!"
Nuri's eyes remained fixed on the four figures about to round the distant corner. "Uh-huh. The Arambourgiania's wingspan to body-mass ratio is really the key factor here…"
"Sir?"
Just then, the group turned the corner. For a split second, Nuri saw Aurélie's sharp profile, the unnatural white of her hair barely contained under the Marine cap. It all snapped into place with the clarity of a well-hit fastball.
He turned his head, his eyes wide. He slammed the papers back into the stunned Marine's chest. "Sound the alarm! The prisoners are escaping!"
The Marine stared. "But sir, the report—"
"NOW, MARINE!" Nuri roared, already breaking into a sprint, his bat held like a relay runner's stick. The Marine jolted, fumbling for his whistle.
A second later, the blaring, acidic wail of the base alarm shredded the air, followed by the frantic drumming of Nuri's boots closing in behind them. "STOP RIGHT THERE!"
Aurélie glanced back, her storm-grey eyes calculating the shrinking distance. "Bianca, Charlie, Ember! RUN!" she commanded, shucking the cumbersome uniform jacket.
Ember, who had been shuffling along with an exaggerated pout, broke into a sudden, manic giggle. The sound was more terrifying than the alarm. She spun on her heels, facing the oncoming captain, her eyes alight with chaotic joy.
Captain Nuri Evander skidded to a halt, his instincts screaming. He saw the wild, unfettered glee in her expression, the way her hands clapped together not in fear, but in anticipation.
"IT'S BOOM TIME!" she squealed with delight.
She didn't pull a trigger or light a fuse. She simply clapped her hands together, and the Bang-Bang Fruit's power, dormant in the metal of a nearby steam-valve housing, activated. The corridor erupted.
The explosion wasn't fire, but a catastrophic release of superheated steam and shattered metal. The floor buckled, the volcanic rock walls trembled and spat dust, and the concussion was a physical fist to the chest. A Mimic-Macaw in the rafters shrieked, perfectly imitating the sound of twisting steel.
"Now? Really?!" Bianca yelled over the ringing in their ears, grabbing Ember by the collar of her dress. Ember was cackling, pointing at the beautiful, billowing cloud of destruction.
"Look at the pretty booms!"
"Like, let's GO!" Bianca snapped, hauling her backwards as Aurélie urged a shell-shocked Charlie forward, the path behind them now a crumbling, steam-filled chasm.
---
In her office, the first deep thump of the explosion traveled through the volcanic rock like a sick heartbeat. Vice Admiral Harlow's cigar paused midway to her lips. The room gave a subtle, gritty shudder. A fine dust sifted from the ceiling.
Kuro, seated across from her, didn't flinch. He merely adjusted his glasses. "Is there a problem?"
Harlow was already on her feet, her prosthetic leg whirring softly. "Damn it—" she cursed, storming to the door just as the blaring alarm kicked in. She yanked it open. The two guards who were supposed to be posted outside were gone.
"Damn it ALL!" she roared, storming back to her desk. She snatched up a Den Den Mushi, its face molded into a permanent frown. "REPORT! What is happening?!"
A shaky, panicked voice crackled back. "M-ma'am! The prisoners, they're trying to escape! There was an explosion in the eastern—"
"ESCAPE?!" Harlow's voice could have cut diamond. "WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT? WHERE WERE THEY LAST SIGHTED?!" She stopped herself, the strategic mind cutting through the rage. "NEVERMIND! THERE'S ONLY ONE PLACE THEY'D GO! SEND EVERY AVAILABLE MAN TO THE IMPOUND DOCK! I AM ON MY WAY!"
She slammed the receiver down, her coat flaring as she turned to snatch Leviathan's Claws from their stand on the wall. She barely glanced at Kuro as she stormed out, the door slamming shut with a finality that shook the frame.
Silence descended, broken only by the muffled, panicked shouts and alarms from the hall. Kuro allowed his smirk to fully form. He looked down at his hands, at the seastone cuffs. With a quiet, practiced flick of his wrists—a trick involving a hidden, tempered wire filament sewn into his glove—the lock mechanism gave a quiet snick. The cuffs fell to the lush carpet with a soft thud.
He stood, stretched his fingers, and walked calmly to the large window that overlooked the Caldera Harbor. The smoky glass reflected his composed expression for a moment before he unlatched it. With the ease of a man who had disappeared a hundred times before, he slipped out into the humid, chaotic night, leaving an empty office and a pair of abandoned shackles as the only proof he was ever there.
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