The cavern stretched before Vesta like a dark throat lined with stone teeth, water dripping from the ceiling in irregular intervals that echoed off the walls. The sound of Ember's singsong voice bounced ahead of her, a high-pitched melody that twisted through the darkness like smoke through cracks in a wall.
"Ring around the ashes, pocket full of fire..."
Vesta's lungs burned. Her platform boots slipped on the wet stone, and she caught herself against the wall, her palm scraping against rough volcanic rock. Her rainbow hair, dimmed to a muddy grey in the low light, clung to her forehead in sweat-dampened strands. Mikasi bounced against her back, the guitar's weight pulling at her shoulders with every step.
"Ashes, ashes, we all fall down!"
Ember skipped ahead, her neon-pink space buns bouncing with each hop, her tattered black-and-crimson dress swirling around her thighs. The charred plush rabbit tied to her waist—Mr. Cinders—bounced against her hip like a silent passenger. She moved without effort, without breath, her mismatched eyes—one icy blue, one gold—glowing faintly in the darkness.
The cavern opened wider, and Ember paused.
Her head tilted. Her nose wrinkled. Her singsong voice cut off mid-note.
"Eww..."
Vesta stumbled to a stop, her hands braced on her knees, her chest heaving. She gasped for air, each breath a ragged pull that burned her throat. Her voice came out in fragments.
"Ember... wait... please..."
Ember looked over her shoulder. Her face was split by that disturbing toothy grin, too wide, too sharp, too full of teeth that multiplied in the dimness. Her mismatched eyes held no recognition, only a wild, burning light.
"As fast as fast can be, no one can catch me!"
She skipped through the opening ahead, her silhouette swallowed by the grey lthat spilled from somewhere beyond.
Vesta straightened, her hands falling to her sides, her chest still heaving. She muttered under her breath, the words meant for no one but herself.
"How is she so fast?"
She pushed off from the wall and followed, her boots splashing through shallow pools of water, her breath still ragged.
"Wait up!"
---
The opening spilled into a wide clearing, and Vesta burst through the rock face with her arms outstretched, her voice carrying a note of exhausted triumph.
"Finally! I caught up to you!"
Ember stood a few feet ahead, her head tilted, her mismatched eyes fixed on something in the distance. Her grin had faded to something closer to curiosity—though the edge of madness still lurked behind her eyes. She opened her mouth to speak.
"Eww, what is—"
A voice cut through the air like a blade.
Sharp. Authoritative. Backed by the distinct click of multiple rifles being cocked in unison.
"You there! Don't move! Identify yourselves!"
Vesta's head snapped up.
The river stretched before her, wide and slow-moving, its surface glittering with the reflection of the afternoon sun. The water was the color of old gold, thick with the strange yeast-rich plankton that gave the Fermentation Current its name. The smell of brine and decay hung heavy in the air, mixed with something sharper—the scent of gun oil and fresh laundry.
Beyond the river, a cluster of buildings rose from the shore—low, functional structures built from dark stone and reinforced wood, their roofs covered in solar dials. A flag flew from the tallest building, its fabric snapping in the breeze: the World Government's sigil replacing the Kaido's Beast Pirates flag that once flew, indicating their past alliance.
The Coast Guard Base.
And between Vesta and the base, arranged in a loose semicircle, stood at least two dozen armed soldiers.
Their rifles were raised. Their faces were hidden behind the glint of their barrels. Their boots were planted in the wet grass, and their hands were steady on their triggers.
Vesta's hands shot up. Her palms faced the soldiers. Her fingers spread wide. Her voice came out high and thin, stripped of its usual theatrical confidence.
"Um... hi. We come in peace."
Ember began to chuckle.
The sound was low at first, a rumble in her chest that built into something higher, wilder, a laugh that held no humor—only release. Her mismatched eyes blazed. Her jaw flexed. Her shoulders shook.
Vesta looked over her shoulder. Her rainbow hair shifted to a panicked shade of grey-white. Her voice dropped to a whisper.
"Oh, no..."
Ember reached behind her. Her hand closed on the grip of Helltide, her slingshot rifle, and she swung it off her shoulder with a motion that was almost graceful. Her grin split her face, too wide, too sharp.
"This is fun!"
Vesta's eyes went wide. She looked at the soldiers, then at Ember, then back at the soldiers. Her voice carried a pleading note.
"You may want to duck."
She dropped to a crouch, her arms covering her head, her fingers pressing tight against her ears.
Ember fired.
The first explosion was a flower of fire and sound, blooming in the center of the soldiers' formation, sending bodies flying in all directions. The second followed, closer to the river, sending a geyser of water and mud into the air. The third, the fourth, the fifth—a barrage of destruction that lit the clearing in strobes of orange and red.
Smoke plumed upward, thick and acrid, carrying the smell of burning wood and scorched earth. Soldiers shouted—orders, warnings, cries of pain. Boots pounded against the grass. Rifles fired at shadows.
Ember cackled, the sound high and keening, and skipped toward the base.
"This is fun! This is fun! This is FUN!"
Vesta straightened. Her shoulders slumped. Her rainbow hair flickered through shades of grey and white and a defeated beige. She watched Ember's retreating form—those neon-pink space buns bouncing, that tattered dress swirling—and sighed.
Then she started running again.
---
The office of Commander Phởlaurant Vanluc was a modest room, functional and unadorned, the kind of space that belonged to a man who valued purpose over decoration. The walls were bare except for a framed commendation—the silver wave awarded for the rescue at Fermentation Point—a photograph of his crew, and a crayon drawing of a ship that Misa had made for him. The drawing was crooked in its frame, the crayon lines wobbly and uncertain, and it was the most valuable object in the room.
King Vitis Koshu sat in a wooden chair across from Phởlaurant's desk, his hands folded in his lap, his gray-blue eyes fixed on the transponder snail that sat between them. His burgundy silk robes were rumpled from travel, and his silver-gray hair had escaped its practical tail in several places. He had not slept well in days. The shadows under his eyes were dark enough to be bruises.
Orianne Seine stood behind him, her leather portfolio clutched against her chest, her silver-white bob immaculate despite the humidity. Her ebony cane rested in her left hand, the silver handle pressed against her palm. Her pale blue eyes tracked the room with the alertness of someone who had learned never to let her guard down.
Phởlaurant sat behind his desk, his navy blue tunic crisp despite the late hour, his warm amber-brown eyes fixed on the King. His thumb ran along his wedding band—that nervous habit he had never been able to break—and his jaw was set in a line that spoke of worry carefully controlled.
Anmarie Lotuslys stood near the window, her arms folded across her chest, her sharp hazel eyes fixed on the river below. Her short dark hair was tucked behind her ears. Her foot tapped against the floor—once, twice, three times—in a rhythm that matched her impatience.
The transponder snail sat on Phởlaurant's desk, its shell painted with the Coast Guard insignia, its eyestalks swiveling lazily. The snail's face was neutral, waiting.
Koshu's voice was quiet, measured, the voice of a man who had spent his life choosing his words with care.
"The amount they are demanding... it is not simply unaffordable. It is impossible."
Orianne's voice came from behind him, clipped and efficient. "The World Government's formula is designed to be impossible. They do not expect compliance. They expect submission."
Phởlaurant's jaw tightened. His thumb stopped moving on his wedding band. "Then what do they expect us to do? Surrender our people? Let them take the children?"
Anmarie's foot stopped tapping. Her voice carried an edge of frustration. "The Marines have surrounded the island. We cannot fight them. We cannot negotiate with them. We cannot—"
The building shook.
The tremor rolled through the floor, through the walls, through the very foundation of the Coast Guard Base. Dust drifted from the ceiling in small grey clouds. The photograph of Phởlaurant's crew rattled against the wall. The crayon drawing of the ship wobbled in its frame.
Koshu's hands gripped the arms of his chair. His gray-blue eyes went wide.
Orianne's cane tapped against the floor—once, twice—as she steadied herself. Her expression did not change, but her knuckles went white around the handle of her portfolio.
Phởlaurant was already reaching for the transponder snail.
Another explosion. Closer this time. The windows rattled in their frames.
The snail's face shifted, its features morphing to mirror the speaker on the other end of the line. A voice crackled through, high and strained, carrying the particular edge of someone trying very hard not to panic
"Sir! We have a problem!"
Phởlaurant's voice was calm, measured, the voice of a man who had learned to keep his head when others lost theirs.
"Report."
"Intruders, sir! We have intruders! Two of them—civilians, maybe, we're not sure—but one of them is... sir, she's blowing things up!"
Anmarie stepped forward, her arms dropping to her sides, her sharp hazel eyes fixed on the snail. "Intruders? How did they get past the perimeter?"
The voice on the other end crackled with static, then returned, higher now, more strained.
"We don't know, ma'am! They just appeared—out of the caves, I think—and one of them just started... there's another explosion—" The sound of a distant blast echoed through the snail, followed by shouting, boots on stone, the clatter of falling debris. "—one of them appears to be a power holder, sir! A Devil Fruit user!"
Phởlaurant stood. His chair scraped against the floor, the sound sharp in the quiet room. His hand closed on the snail.
"We are on our way."
He hung up.
Anmarie moved toward the door, her hand reaching for the sidearm at her belt. Her voice was clipped, efficient, the voice of someone who had trained for this moment her entire career.
"Your Majesty, I strongly recommend you remain here. We do not know what we are walking into, and I cannot guarantee your safety."
Koshu stood. His chair scraped against the floor—a softer sound than Phởlaurant's, but no less final. His gray-blue eyes held Anmarie's, and for a moment, the weight of thirty-seven years of kingship pressed down on the room.
"This island may be in peril." His voice was quiet, but it carried. "The Navy surrounds us. The World Government demands our submission. My people are afraid." He paused, drawing a breath that filled his entire frame. "But if there is at least one situation I can help with—one moment where I can do something, anything—then I have to try."
Anmarie's jaw flexed. Her hand hovered over her sidearm.
Phởlaurant met her gaze. He gave a small nod.
Orianne adjusted her glasses with her middle finger—a gesture she had performed thousands of times—and stepped to the King's side.
"Then we should not keep them waiting."
The door swung open. The four of them stepped into the corridor, their footsteps echoing off the stone walls, their shadows stretching long in the torchlight.
Outside, another explosion shook the building.
And somewhere in the distance, Ember's cackle rose above the chaos, high and wild, a sound that held no fear and no mercy—only fire.
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