The courtyard of the Coast Guard Base smoldered in the afternoon light, smoke curling upward from a dozen small fires that Ember had left in her wake. The smell of burning wood and scorched earth hung heavy in the air, mingling with the sharper tang of gunpowder and the distant salt of the harbor. Shards of broken crates littered the cobblestones, and a wooden bench had been reduced to splinters near the eastern wall. A water barrel lay on its side, its contents spreading across the stones in a dark, spreading stain.
Ember skipped through the chaos, her neon-pink space buns bouncing with each hop, her tattered black-and-crimson dress swirling around her thighs. Her mismatched eyes—one icy blue, one gold—sparkled with manic delight as she raised her slingshot rifle, Helltide, and aimed at a stack of empty barrels near the supply shed.
She fired.
The explosion was a flower of fire and sound, blooming against the wood, sending splinters flying in all directions. The barrels collapsed in a heap, their iron bands clattering against the stones. Ember cackled, the sound high and keening, and skipped onward.
"Too slow! Too slow! Can't catch me!"
She spun, raised Helltide again, and fired at a flagpole. The pole buckled, the flag fluttered to the ground, landing in a pile of ash and debris. Ember giggled and kept moving.
Vesta Lavana chased after her, her platform boots pounding against the cobblestones, her rainbow hair shifting through shades of orange and red and a worried grey. Her chest heaved, and her breath came in ragged gasps. She called out to the scattered Coast Guard members who had taken cover behind overturned carts and stone walls.
"Sorry! I'm so sorry! She doesn't mean it! Well, she does mean it, but she doesn't mean to—" Another explosion cut her off, and she flinched, covering her head with her arms. "Ember! Let's go play somewhere else! Please!"
Ember did not respond. She was already aiming at a stack of crates near the mess hall.
---
King Vitis Koshu stepped out of the Coast Guard Headquarters, his burgundy silk robes billowing in the hot wind, his silver-gray hair escaping its practical tail in several places. His gray-blue eyes swept across the courtyard, taking in the damage, the fires, the scattered debris. His jaw tightened. His hands, clasped behind his back, trembled slightly.
Orianne Seine stood at his right shoulder, her silver-white bob immaculate despite the chaos, her leather portfolio clutched against her chest. Her pale blue eyes tracked Ember's movements with the cold assessment of someone who had seen too much destruction to be surprised by it. Her cane tapped against the stone as she shifted her weight.
"What," she said, her voice flat and clipped, "is she doing?"
Phởlaurant Vanluc stood at the King's left, his navy blue tunic crisp despite the smoke, his warm amber-brown eyes fixed on the scene with an intensity that bordered on fury. His jaw flexed—once, twice—as he watched Ember skip past another burning crate. His hand rested on the sidearm at his belt.
Anmarie Lotuslys flanked the King's other side, her sharp hazel eyes narrowed, her arms folded across her chest. Her foot tapped against the stone in a rhythm that matched her impatience, her short dark hair was tucked behind her ears.
Phởlaurant stepped forward. Anmarie followed.
King Koshu's voice carried across the courtyard, sharp with concern. "What are you going to do?"
Phởlaurant looked over his shoulder, his amber-brown eyes meeting the King's gray-blue ones. His voice was low, steady, the voice of a man who had made a decision and would not be moved.
"Ending this."
He turned and walked toward Ember, his boots crunching against the shattered stone, his hand still resting on his sidearm. Anmarie matched his pace, her arms dropping to her sides, her posture shifting from observation to action.
Phởlaurant raised his hand, fingers spread, and called out to the Coast Guard members scattered across the courtyard.
"Flash bomb! NOW!"
A sailor emerged from behind an overturned cart, his arm cocked back, a small metal canister in his hand. He threw it with a grunt, the canister arcing through the smoke-filled air toward Phởlaurant's outstretched hand.
Phởlaurant caught it without looking, his fingers closing around the cool metal. He glanced over his shoulder at Anmarie, his voice low and urgent.
"Get a Seastone net."
Anmarie nodded, turned, and sprinted toward the supply shed, her boots pounding against the stone.
Phởlaurant stopped at the edge of the destruction, just out of Ember's range, and waited.
Ember paused.
Her head cocked to one side, the angle too sharp, too wrong. Her mismatched eyes fixed on Phởlaurant's face, and her grin widened—too many teeth, too much gum, the expression of someone who had forgotten how to smile properly.
"You want to play a game?"
Phởlaurant's jaw flexed. His voice was flat, cold, stripped of warmth.
"No."
He pulled the pin.
The flash bomb left his hand in a high arc, spinning through the smoke, trailing a thin stream of white vapor. Ember watched it fly, her head tracking its trajectory, her mismatched eyes wide with curiosity.
Then it went off.
The light was blinding—a white-hot burst that seared the air and turned the courtyard to daylight. Ember screamed, her hands flying to her face, her fingers pressing against her eyes. She stumbled backward, her boots slipping on the ash-covered stone, her slingshot rifle swinging wild.
Phởlaurant's voice cut through the ringing silence.
"Now!"
Anmarie emerged from the smoke, her arms raised, a weighted net spinning through the air. The net was dark—almost black—woven with thin strands of Seastone that glinted in the fading light. It spread wide, caught the air, and settled over Ember's small frame.
She collapsed.
The net pinned her to the ground, the Seastone draining her strength, her limbs heavy, her fingers refusing to move. She did not struggle. She could not. Her mismatched eyes blinked up at the sky, and her chest rose and fell in shallow, defeated breaths.
Vesta jogged up, her platform boots sliding on the ash, her rainbow hair flickering through shades of grey and white. She buckled over, her hands braced on her knees, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She looked up at Ember, pinned beneath the net, then at Phởlaurant's scowling face, then at Anmarie's sharp hazel eyes.
She grinned. It was a weak grin, apologetic, the grin of someone who knew she was in trouble and hoped that charm might save her.
"Sorry about my friend." She waved her hands in a small, helpless gesture. "She gets that way sometimes."
King Vitis Koshu appeared beside Phởlaurant, Orianne Seine a step behind him, her cane clicking against the stone. The King took a step forward, his gray-blue eyes sweeping across the courtyard—the fires, the debris, the scattered Coast Guard members picking themselves up from behind their cover.
He looked at Vesta, his voice measured, calm, the voice of a scholar assessing a new problem.
"Where did you come from?"
Vesta perked up. Her rainbow hair shifted to a bright, cheerful pink. She pointed toward the cave entrance, her arm sweeping in a wide arc.
"Oh! Our ship is in the cove."
King Koshu blinked. His gray-blue eyes narrowed.
"Ship?" He paused, letting the word settle. "You mean there are more of you."
Vesta shrugged, her hands dropping to her sides. "Like, yeah. They are probably looking for us right now."
King Koshu's eyes narrowed further. His voice dropped, softer, more dangerous.
"Really?"
Vesta nodded, enthusiastic, oblivious to the Coast Guard members closing in around her, their rifles raised, their boots silent on the ash-covered stone. She did not notice the circle tightening, the weapons aimed at her chest, the hands reaching for restraints.
King Koshu took another step forward. His voice was quiet, measured, the voice of a man who had spent his life extracting information from people who did not know they were giving it.
"Who are you with?"
Vesta beamed. Her rainbow hair shifted to a proud, vibrant gold. She placed her hands on her hips and lifted her chin.
"I am Vesta!" She paused, as if waiting for applause. "And I am with Dracule Marya Zaleska."
King Koshu's face went still.
His gray-blue eyes widened, just slightly, just for a moment. His hands, clasped behind his back, stopped trembling. His jaw tightened.
"Dracule?" His voice came out as a whisper, then strengthened. "As in Mihawk Dracule?"
Vesta nodded, still beaming, still oblivious. "That's the one! Marya is his daughter."
The silence that followed was heavy enough to crush stone.
King Koshu looked over his shoulder at Orianne Seine. Her pale blue eyes were wide, her silver-white bob still immaculate, but her grip on her portfolio had turned her knuckles white. She did not speak. She did not need to.
He looked at Phởlaurant Vanluc. The Commander's jaw was set, his amber-brown eyes fixed on Vesta with an expression that mixed shock and suspicion. His hand had moved from his sidearm to the transponder snail.
He looked at Anmarie Lotuslys. The Vice Commander's sharp hazel eyes were narrowed, her arms folded across her chest, her foot still tapping—but slower now, more thoughtful.
Phởlaurant's voice cut through the silence, low and commanding.
"Bring them."
The Coast Guard members moved. Rifles aimed at Vesta's chest. Hands gripped her arms. She did not resist—she was too confused, too surprised, too busy looking around at the faces that had shifted from suspicion to something harder.
"What did I say?" Her voice was small, bewildered. "What did I say?"
They marched her toward the Headquarters, Ember's netted form carried between two sailors, her mismatched eyes blinking up at the sky, her lips moving in a silent, manic whisper.
King Koshu stood in the courtyard, surrounded by smoke and ash and the wreckage of Ember's rampage, and watched them go.
His hands were still clasped behind his back.
They were still trembling.
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