The corridor stretched ahead of them, polished stone gleaming under the soft light of brass sconces that flickered with the breath of the island. Shanks walked with the easy stride of a man who had never been anywhere he wasn't welcome, his sandals whispering against the floor, his cloak brushing against the walls with each step. Marya followed beside him, her boots heavy, her jaw set, the Heart Pirates insignia on her jacket beaming like a warning she was not in the mood to deliver.
Gummo-Butter led them in silence, his peanut a beacon to be followed, his posture perfect, his steps measured. The only sound was the soft squeak of his polished boots and the rhythmic tap of his hand against his thigh—a signal, perhaps, or simply a habit.
Marya's scowl had carved itself into her face somewhere between the dock and the mansion gates. It had not softened since.
Shanks glanced sideways at her, his grin easy, his eye bright. "What's the long face for?"
Her eyes slid sideways, slow and sharp as a blade drawn from its sheath. She did not break stride. She did not raise her voice. "What are you getting me involved in?"
Shanks laughed—a short, warm sound that bounced off the stone walls and echoed down the corridor. "What makes you think I'm getting you involved in anything?" He gestured ahead, at Gummo-Butter's rigid back, at the ornate door at the end of the hall. "We're just here to pay our respects. You can't just show up at an island without saying hi."
Gummo-Butter, without turning, gave a single nod. The helmet bobbed once, twice, settled back into stillness. It was the most emphatic agreement the man ever gave.
Marya's eyes narrowed to slits. "I am capable of coming and going from islands without it being an event."
Shanks snickered, the sound escaping before he could catch it. "You sound like your old man."
She rolled her eyes so hard her entire head moved. "Don't."
He laughed again, louder this time, and the sound of it was so warm, so unguarded, that even Gummo-Butter's shoulders relaxed a fraction.
---
They arrived at the door. It was a massive thing, carved from dark wood, the grain swirling in patterns that might have been waves or might have been smoke. Gummo-Butter reached for the handle—
The door swung open from the inside.
Artie-Harp "The Bell-Ringer" emerged, a silver tray balanced on one hand, a teapot gleaming on its surface. He was sliding—not walking, sliding—his polished shoes carrying him across the threshold with the silent grace of a fish through water. When he saw Shanks, he stopped.
His face transformed.
His eyebrows shot up. His mouth dropped open. His free hand pressed to his chest as if he had been struck. It was a pantomime of shock so complete, so theatrical, that for a moment he looked like a man who had just discovered the world was round. He held the pose, motionless, his eyes wide, his tray steady.
Marya let out a sigh that carried the weight of a hundred previous sighs. It was the sound of someone who had given up on being surprised by anything.
Shanks grinned. "Hey, Artie. Just came by to say hi to Mallow."
Gummo-Butter stepped forward, his hand rising. "Is he available, or should we—"
Shanks pushed past him. Past Artie. Past the tray, the teapot, the carefully arranged cups. His hand found the door, pushed it open wider, and he was through before either of them could form a response. "Of course he is available!"
"Ridiculous," Gummo-Butter muttered, and the word was so flat, so without inflection, that it was impossible to tell if he was angry or amused.
Artie-Harp slid after Shanks, his tray somehow still balanced, his mimed indignation a silent storm of flapping hands and wounded expressions.
Marya followed. Her boots were heavy on the polished floor. Her jaw was set. Her eyes were fixed on her uncle's back, and there was murder in them—the kind of murder that came from being dragged into something she had explicitly said she did not want to be dragged into.
---
The room beyond was a study, vast and warm, with shelves of books climbing the walls and a desk the size of a small boat positioned beneath a window that looked out over the orange canals. Light poured through, catching the dust motes, turning them to gold.
Marx-Mallow J. Butters-the-Third sat behind the desk, a document spread before him, a cigar unlit between his fingers. His greasepaint mustache was perfect, his cravat was askew, and he looked exactly like a man who had been caught in the middle of something tedious and was delighted to be rescued.
Kaya-Mumont-Margaret stood beside him, a ledger open in her hands, her reading glasses perched on her nose, her finger tracing a line of text. She was in the middle of a sentence.
"—in order for there to be any significant benefit to the economy, paragraph six, subsection three, line five. It clearly—"
Her head snapped up.
Shanks stood in the doorway, his cloak brushing the frame, his grin wide enough to split his face. Artie-Harp slid in front of him, hands waving, face contorted into a series of expressions that said, in rapid succession: I tried to stop him, he would not be stopped, this is not my fault, please do not blame me.
Marx-Mallow looked up from the document. His face transformed. The weary lines smoothed, the perpetual squint eased, and he smiled—a real smile, the kind that reached his eyes and warmed the air around him.
Kaya-Mumont-Margaret pulled her glasses down her nose, peering over the rims with the expression of a woman who had seen too much and expected more. "Emperor Shanks."
The chair scraped across the floor as Marx-Mallow stood, his hand already reaching across the desk, his cigar forgotten. "Shanks! It's good to see you."
Shanks crossed the room, his hand clasping Marx-Mallow's, the grip firm, the shake enthusiastic. "Just thought I'd swing by and say hello." His voice was easy, his posture loose. "Hope I'm not interrupting anything."
A sound cut through the room—a throat being cleared, deliberately, pointedly, with the weight of someone who had been waiting to be acknowledged.
Everyone turned.
Donquixote Dunnjona Haigo sat in a high-backed chair near the window, its dark wood framing his tall, lean figure like a portrait set against the light. His hands rested on the silver handle of his cane, both palms flat, his fingers curled around the curve. His blond hair caught the sun, marking him clearly for what he was, and his pale gray eyes moved across the room with the unhurried attention of a man who had learned, long ago, that patience was the sharpest weapon.
Shanks looked over his shoulder. His grin did not fade, but something in it shifted—a tightening at the corners, a sharpening of the edge. "Donquixote Dunnjona Haigo." His voice was light, conversational, and utterly without warmth. "It's been a while."
Haigo's jaw flexed. His hands did not move from the cane. "As you can see, we—"
He stopped.
His eyes had landed on Marya.
She stood just inside the door, her jacket open, her arms crossed, her expression flat. She looked back at him with the bored patience of someone who had been dragged to a family function and was already counting the minutes until she could leave. Her golden eyes, rings around the irises, met his pale gray ones, and neither of them blinked.
Shanks followed Haigo's gaze. "Oh, right." He gestured with his hand, casual, as if he had forgotten something trivial and was only now remembering. "Let me introduce you to my niece, Marya."
Haigo's eyebrow rose. It was a small movement, barely a shift, but it changed his entire face—sharpened it, focused it. His eyes fixed on her jacket. On the insignia. On the smiling face that marked her as something he had not expected to find.
Marx-Mallow walked around the desk, his hand already extended, his face bright with curiosity. "I never knew you had a niece."
Marya's sigh was audible. It was the sound of a woman who had been through this before and would go through it again, because her uncle was incapable of letting a moment pass without making it an event.
Shanks continued, unbothered. "Her ship needs some maintenance, so we swung—"
Marx-Mallow waved his hand, dismissing the explanation before it could finish. "Of course, of course! We're the best in the North. You won't find better on this side of the Calm Belt." He reached Marya, seized her hand, and shook it with the enthusiasm of a man who had never met a stranger and never intended to. "Any family of Shanks is family of ours!"
Marya, caught off balance by the vigor of the handshake, blinked. "Thanks so much. Good to know."
Shanks clapped her on the shoulder, his hand heavy, his grin wide. "Right. So if you can't get in touch with me, you can call her and—"
Marya's head whipped around. "UNCLE, WHAT—"
But Shanks and Marx-Mallow had already turned toward each other, their voices overlapping, their laughter filling the room.
"Good to know, good to know—"
"You never know when—"
"—always good to have contacts—"
"—especially in the North Blue—"
Kaya-Mumont-Margaret cleared her throat.
It was not a small sound. It was the kind of sound that had ended debates, concluded negotiations, and silenced rooms full of people who thought they were important. She stood beside the desk, her ledger still open, her glasses still perched on her nose, her expression the same as it had been when Shanks burst in. Unchanged. Unmoved. Unimpressed.
"Emperor Shanks." Her voice was flat, her words measured. "A pleasure, as always. But as you can see, we are in the middle of a contract negotiation."
Shanks turned to her, his grin undimmed. He gestured toward Haigo, who had not moved from his chair, whose hands had not shifted on his cane, whose pale eyes had not left Marya's jacket. "Haigo doesn't mind. Do you, Haigo?"
Haigo's jaw flexed again. It was the only indication that he had heard.
He stood.
The chair did not scrape. It did not groan. He rose from it like a blade being drawn from a sheath, slow and controlled, his height filling the space between the window and the desk. At nearly ten feet, he towered over everyone in the room—over Shanks, over Marx-Mallow, over Kaya-Mumont-Margaret, over the shelves of books and the massive desk and the light that poured through the window behind him.
He was taller than Marya had expected. She had not expected to notice.
"Perhaps," he said, and his voice was low, warm, the voice of a man who had never needed to raise it to be heard, "we should reconvene at another time." His eyes moved from Marya to Shanks and back again. "I will be on the island for a few more days."
Shanks grinned. "That's good to know." His eye held Haigo's, steady and bright. "So will we."
Haigo's eyes narrowed. The movement was small, almost invisible, but it changed the quality of his gaze—sharpened it, hardened it. He looked at Marya again. His eyes dropped to her jacket. To the insignia.
"Your jacket," he said.
Marya looked down at her own chest, then back up at him. "What about it?"
Haigo's voice did not change. It remained low, warm, perfectly controlled. "Are you associated with the Heart Pirates?"
Her eyes narrowed. "I am."
Haigo walked past her.
His cane struck the floor with each step, a slow, deliberate rhythm that echoed off the stone. He did not look at her as he passed. He did not look at Shanks. He walked toward the door with the unhurried grace of a man who had never been rushed and never would be.
Artie-Harp slid toward the door, his hands rising, his face arranging itself into an expression of helpful concern, but Haigo was already there, his hand on the handle, his back to the room.
"I will see myself out." He pulled the door open, the light from the corridor spilling in around him. "I will return at another time, and we can conclude our business then."
The door closed behind him.
The sound of his cane faded down the corridor—tap, tap, tap—until it was gone.
Marya stared at the door. Her arms were still crossed. Her expression had not changed. But something in her posture had shifted—a stillness, a watchfulness that had not been there before. "What was that all about?"
Shanks clapped her on the shoulder, his hand warm, his grin returning. "Don't worry about it."
She turned to look at him, her eyes flat, her voice flat. "I am not going to not worry about it."
"Good." He was already walking toward the desk, already reaching for Marx-Mallow's unlit cigar, already making himself at home. "Then you'll fit right in."
Marx-Mallow laughed, the sound filling the room, and Kaya-Mumont-Margaret sighed, the sound filling the silence that followed, and Artie-Harp slid past them all, his tray still balanced, his teapot still full, his face arranged into an expression that said, with perfect clarity, this is fine. Everything is fine. Nothing about this day has been strange at all.
Marya stood at the door, her back to the wood, her eyes on the space where Haigo had been.
She did not smile.
She did not frown.
But her hand drifted to the hilt of Nisshoku, her fingers finding the familiar weight, and she did not move from that spot for a very long time.
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