The staircase curved upward through darkness, each step glowing faintly beneath their feet, casting a soft golden illumination that pushed back the shadows. The air grew warmer as they climbed, carrying the scent of old wax and ancient stone, of something sweet and something sharp, like honey mixed with copper. The walls narrowed around them, then widened, then narrowed again, and the only sounds were the soft shuffle of boots on stone and the low murmur of Jannali's chanting.
"Ois g ror pambt de Aemeth."
Her voice echoed off the walls, bouncing back in overlapping waves, each repetition layering on the last until the words seemed to come from everywhere at once.
"Babalon unph ar cahisa, g qaa de lundoh. Micma! Ol l noco de vau, mian de hami."
Charlie Leonard Wooley climbed beside Lieutenant Cleo Grahisto, his pith helmet tilted, his round wire-framed glasses exaggerating his eyes. His satchel swung against his hip, and his hands gestured as he spoke, his voice rising and falling with the rhythm of academic debate.
"But the root of 'gono' clearly derives from the same linguistic family as 'gonos,' which in the lingual system refers to the—"
Cleo shook her head, her bronze eyes fixed on the steps ahead, her ink-stained fingers tracing patterns in the air.
"The context of the preceding clause negates that interpretation. 'Christeos dial de Aemeth, ol de noco de gono' cannot be read as a continuation of the—"
Charlie cleared his throat. Ahem!
"I must respectfully disagree. The grammatical structure of the language allows for multiple—"
They climbed higher, their words bouncing off the walls, their debate growing more animated with each step. Bianca Yvonne Clark walked ahead of them, her dark eyes fixed on Jannali's swaying form, her hands shoved into the pockets of her grease-stained overalls. Her waist-length black hair had escaped its messy bun entirely, and pencils had multiplied behind her ears.
Galit Varuna walked beside her, his long neck coiled, his emerald-green eyes fixed on the shadows above. His hands rested on his Vipera whips, and his jaw was set in a hard line.
Tori Miniku walked behind them, her multicolored hair shifting through shades of deep brown and amber, her almond-shaped eyes glowing faintly amber-gold. A low hum escaped her lips—unconscious, melodic, weaving through Jannali's chanting like a second melody.
Mani Lucheres brought up the rear, his short, powerful frame planted on the steps, his dark brown eyes sweeping the shadows for threats. Suley hung across his back, the massive axe dark and patient.
Ataboy Shitomi Kusaba walked beside him, his warm brown eyes tracking the walls, the ceiling, the flickering shadows. His hand rested on Kuroi's hilt.
Zahi Rukun climbed at the front, his massive frame blocking much of the light from below. His clouded eye shimmered with that faint green luminescence, and his hand rested on Toshito's hilt. He did not speak. He simply climbed, his boots silent on the stone, his presence a steady anchor in the chaos of debate and chanting and humming.
---
The staircase ended.
They emerged onto a platform that appeared to float in the darkness, suspended in a void that stretched in every direction. The ceiling was lost to shadow. The floor was smooth and cold, carved with symbols that glowed with a faint, inner light. The air was still and heavy, carrying the scent of old wax and ancient prayers.
And before them, a disk.
The Sigillum Dei Aemeth dominated the space, its massive form hanging in the air like a setting sun, its surface glowing with a warm, golden light. The disk was made of wax—thick, honey-colored wax, aged to amber, etched with names and symbols that spiraled outward from the center. The names of God. The seven planetary celestial beings. The 91 councils. The roots that connected them all.
The roots grew from the disk like veins, stretching downward, disappearing into the floor, into the stone, into the island itself.
Bianca looked up. Her mouth fell open. Her dark eyes widened.
"Like, whoa." She took a step closer, her head tilting, her brow furrowing. "Like, what is it?"
Jannali answered.
"Sigillum Dei Aemeth."
She swayed on her feet. Her eyes rolled back. Her body went limp.
Galit moved.
His long arms caught her before she hit the ground, lifting her weight against his chest, cradling her with a gentleness that appeared at odds with his coiled, predatory frame. Her head lolled against his shoulder, and her hoop earrings swung with the movement.
Charlie walked past them, oblivious, his attention fixed on the disk. Cleo walked beside him, her bronze eyes scanning the symbols, her ink-stained fingers tracing the air.
"Aemeth's Eye," Charlie said.
Cleo nodded. "Yes. Isn't it beautiful?"
Galit's voice came from behind them, low and flat.
"What does it do?"
Zahi cleared his throat—ahem—a sharp sound, a warning. His clouded eye fixed on Cleo.
She did not see it. Or she chose to ignore it.
Charlie continued, his voice rising with academic excitement.
"It appears to be some sort of power source." He pointed at the names of God, at the seven planetary celestial bodies. "It appears that it pulls from the aether."
Bianca stepped up beside them, pointing at the roots that descended from the disk.
"Like, look."
Charlie followed her finger.
Bianca's brow furrowed. "Like, maybe the like island like gets like energy or whatever from this thing."
Charlie nodded, his round glasses flashing. "Very astute."
He held his chin, considering.
But Bianca continued, her finger tracing the edge of the disk, pointing at the notches and grooves carved into its surface.
"Like, look at the like notches and stuff. I bet this is like only a part of like something bigger."
Cleo clapped her hands together. Her bronze eyes sparkled.
"You figured all that out just by looking at it?"
ZAHI RUKUN snapped.
"LIEUTENANT!"
Cleo looked over her shoulder, her expression apologetic, her hands dropping to her sides.
Ataboy shook his head.
Zahi sighed.
Galit shifted Jannali's weight in his arms, her headscarf brushing against his chin. His emerald eyes fixed on Zahi.
"Why are you so interested in this thing?"
Ataboy's voice came from behind them, warm and casual.
"We are not interested in it at all." He shrugged. "We are only interested that the World Government does not find it."
Bianca and Charlie turned around, their attention shifting from the disk to the Papaho team.
Zahi glared at Ataboy.
Ataboy shrugged again. "I do not think we need to worry about them."
Zahi sighed. His shoulders dropped. His hand fell from Toshito's hilt.
"We are here to verify that this relic has stayed secured and undiscovered by the World Government." He paused, his clouded eye fixed on the disk. "It is, as you say, a type of power source for a device. When the device is fully assembled, it enables the user to communicate with beings from another realm."
He turned to face them, his massive frame blocking the light from the disk.
"While the kingdom was under the protection of Kaido, we knew the relic would remain undisturbed. But—"
Galit finished his sentence. "Since Kaido has fallen, there is potential for the World Government to gain control of it."
Zahi nodded. "Correct."
He stepped closer, looking up at the disk, his clouded eye shimmering green.
"Now that we know the relic is still undiscovered, we will move forward with next steps."
Galit's voice was sharp. "And those would be?"
Zahi turned to face him. His good eye—the piercing sky blue—held Galit's.
"We will secure the kingdom and bring them under the reign of the Papaho Sovereign. Queen Meryem Nemos Uzra the Vast."
Galit's jaw tightened. "So you intend to seize the island and rule over the kingdom?"
Zahi nodded. "We do."
He clasped his hands behind his back, his posture formal, almost ceremonial.
"I am here on a special envoy to meet with their king and inform him of our Queen's intent. At which point, they will join the Papaho Sovereign seas."
Bianca and Galit exchanged a look—a shared moment of understanding, of concern, of something that might have been the first stirrings of resistance.
Charlie cleared his throat. Ahem!
"And what if the kingdom is not interested in aligning or joining with your Sovereign?"
Zahi raised a brow. He walked past Charlie, his boots silent on the stone, his massive frame casting a shadow that overwhelmed the smaller man.
"There is no choice in the matter."
He continued toward the disk, toward the roots, toward the secrets that waited in the amber wax.
The Sigillum Dei Aemeth glowed behind him, casting his shadow across the floor, and the group stood in silence, watching him go.
Jannali stirred in Galit's arms, her lips moving, her voice a whisper.
"Christeos dial, p amozori de Shinner."
The disk pulsed with light.
And somewhere below, the Eye of Shinimu watched, patient and hungry, waiting for the Truth-Seekers to make their choice.
*****
The wind carried the smell of salt and damp stone as Topiaris Tidaltuff dropped to all fours, his uniform shifting and folding into itself in a ripple of white fabric and silver fur. The transformation happened with the grace of a curtain falling—smooth, deliberate, and impossibly elegant. Where a Rear Admiral stood a moment ago, a magnificent royal poodle now sat, his silver-white coat immaculate despite the dusty trail ahead. His pompadour had somehow survived the shift, transitioning into a glorious crown of perfectly curled fur atop his canine head. He lifted his nose, sniffed the air, then dropped his muzzle to the ground.
Marina Kick crossed her arms, her left foot tapping against the rocky soil with a rhythm that could strip paint. The cleats of her custom boots clicked a sharp staccato. "Well," she said, her voice carrying the weight of a woman who had watched paint dry and found it faster, "what is that nose telling you already?"
Topiaris did not answer. He moved forward in a series of deliberate sniffs, his nose tracing invisible lines only he could read. His tail—fluffy, pristine, and absurdly regal—wagged once, twice, then stilled. He circled left, then right, then completed a full rotation with his nose glued to the dirt like a compass needle finding north. The silver chain around his neck caught the sunlight, the diamond-encrusted poodle charm swinging with each movement.
Marina's foot tapped faster.
Topiaris lifted his head. His perfectly fluffy ears caught the breeze, the silver-white curls swaying like wheat in a summer field. He struck a pose—one paw lifted, chin high, eyes fixed on some distant point only he could see. Then he pointed with his nose toward the path leading to the cove.
Marina scoffed. "Really."
Topiaris barked once—a sharp, authoritative sound that dismissed her skepticism entirely. He did not look back. He launched into a run, his legs carrying him forward with a gait that somehow managed to be both swift and majestic. His fur did not tangle. His ears did not flop. He moved like a living sculpture, each paw placement deliberate, each stride a statement.
Marina watched him go, shook her head, then turned to the assembled Marines behind her. "Come on," she called out, jerking her arm forward. "Keep up. You don't want to get left behind by a poodle."
The teams moved. Boots crunched against gravel. Weapons shifted against shoulders. The scent of gun oil and nervous sweat mixed with the salt breeze as two dozen soldiers fell into formation behind their commanding officers.
At the entrance to the cove, Topiaris stopped. He stood at the threshold, his tail wagging in short, excited arcs, his nose pointing toward the darkness ahead. The cave mouth yawned wide, rough stone framing uninviting shadows. Water dripped somewhere inside, the sound echoing like a slow heartbeat.
The teams arrived seconds later, two columns of Marines fanning out behind Marina. She stepped up beside Topiaris, her eyes scanning the entrance, measuring angles and counting shadows. Topiaris shook himself once—a full-body shudder that rippled from his snout to his tail—and the transformation reversed. Fur retreated. Bones reshaped. Fabric folded back into place. In the space of a breath, Rear Admiral Topiaris Tidaltuff stood before her again, his pompadour immaculate, his uniform unwrinkled, his hand already reaching into his breast pocket.
He pulled out the ivory-handled comb. He tossed his head once, the cascading wave of silver-white hair reflective in the light, and ran the comb through it in three long strokes. Not a single strand fell out of place.
Marina ignored the performance. She leaned forward, peering into the cave's throat, her dark hazel eyes narrowing as they adjusted to the gloom. "You shifted back," she said, jerking her chin toward him without looking away from the entrance. "What is it that nose is telling you?"
Topiaris held out his arm, his fingers spreading in a silent command. A Marine stepped forward, a rifle passing from gloved hands to waiting palms. Topiaris took it, checked the chamber with a flick of his thumb, and cradled the weapon against his chest like a scepter.
"Three ships," he said, his voice low and smooth, each word a measured note. "Gunpowder. I smell it on the air—fresh, recently moved. Someone brought explosives down here, and not for fishing." He paused, tilting his head toward the cave. "Our people are in there. Captain Onyx and her team. But they are not alone."
Marina's foot stopped tapping. Her whole body stilled, the stillness of a hunter deciding where to strike. "How many?"
"Enough that we need to be ready." Topiaris ran his thumb along the rifle's barrel, a nervous habit he would never admit to. "The scent trail is layered. Marines. Others. Strangers. I cannot separate them all from here."
Marina nodded once, sharp and decisive. She glanced over her shoulder, scanning the faces of the soldiers waiting behind her. "You heard him," she called out, her voice carrying without shouting. "Formation Delta. Weapons ready, but do not fire until I give the word."
The teams shifted like a single organism. Soldiers moved into position—front line crouched, second line standing, rear guard watching their six. The audible click of safeties disengaging echoed off the stone walls, a chorus of metal-on-metal that sang of violence waiting to happen.
Marina turned back to Topiaris. Their eyes met. She raised an eyebrow.
"Ready?"
Topiaris tossed his head again, the pompadour catching the breeze and refusing to move. "Baby," he said, drawing the word out like a sigh, "I was born ready." Marina's lips twitched, a smirk fighting its way onto her face. "Ladies first."
She did not wait. She stepped into the cave, her boots finding purchase on the wet stone, her shadow stretching out behind her like a cape. The darkness swallowed her shoulders, then her waist, then her legs, until only the green piping on her uniform flashed in the fading light.
Topiaris followed right behind her, his rifle held across his chest, his posture straight, his pompadour brushing the cave ceiling. Behind them, the teams filed in, boots echoing, breath held, hearts pounding against ribs like caged birds.
The tunnel wound downward, the walls sweating moisture that glistened in the dim glow of handheld lanterns. Stalactites hung from the ceiling like stone teeth, and the air grew thick with the smell of old water and older rock. Somewhere ahead, voices echoed—low, indistinct, speaking a language neither Marine recognized.
Marina held up a fist. The column stopped. She crept forward, her cleats finding silent purchase on the stone, until she reached the edge of a corner where the tunnel opened into a larger chamber. She pressed her back against the wall, then peeked around the edge.
Topiaris crouched behind her, his head angled to see over her shoulder without touching her. His pompadour brushed the rock, and he winced.
The cove opened before them like a cathedral carved by ancient seas. The ceiling arched high overhead, lost in shadow, while the floor sloped down to dark water that lapped against stone docks. Three vessels floated in the underground harbor, each one a different key to a puzzle neither Marine wanted to solve.
The first vessel sat closest to the beach, its hull dark and scarred, remnants of Beast Pirate insignia barely visible beneath hastily applied paint. The ship listed slightly, abandoned, its gangplank down and its deck empty. The scent of sake and old blood clung to its timbers, a ghost perfume that made Topiaris wrinkle his nose.
The second vessel commanded the center of the cove. It was massive, unlike anything Marina had ever seen—a submarine of impossible size, its black hull absorbing the lantern light like a hole in the world. The vessel bobbed gently against its moorings, an ominous warning that should it be disturbed it would be as if waking a slumbering beast. The sight made Topiaris's grip tighten on his rifle.
The third vessel flew a flag neither of them recognized. The ship was fully manned—sailors moved across its deck, tending to ropes and equipment, their movements unhurried and professional. The flag above them bore a symbol that twisted the eye: Mnemosyne. The form meant nothing to either Marine, but the shape of the ship—sleek, foreign, wrong—set Marina's teeth on edge.
And there, on the rocky beach between the vessels, sat Captain Onyx and her team.
They were bound, wrists secured behind their backs, ankles tied together. Their weapons lay in a pile ten meters away—Starfall among them, the oversized Gatling hand cannon looking smaller in the dimness. Onyx's head hung low, her dark bangs hiding her face, but her shoulders shook. Laughing or crying, neither Marine could tell. Beside her, her team sat in a defeated row, their uniforms torn, their faces pale.
Marina's jaw clenched. Her knuckles went white around the edge of the wall.
Topiaris leaned close, his breath warm against her ear. "Hey."
Marina did not look at him. Her eyes scanned the Papaho ship, counting guards, measuring distances, calculating odds. "What."
"Have you ever seen that flag before?"
She glanced up at the flag. The symbol did not match anything she knew, any Marine division, any kingdom flag she had studied. "Never."
Topiaris's gaze drifted to the Dreadnought Thalassa. "And that?"
"Never," she said again, the word harder this time. "Ever seen anything like that before?"
Topiaris studied the submarine's impossible hull, its light-absorbing surface, the way the water seemed to avoid touching it directly. He shook his head, his pompadour swaying with the motion. "That is not from any shipyard I know. That is not from this century."
Marina turned her attention back to the beach. Onyx's head lifted for a moment, her dark blue eyes catching the lantern light, and Marina saw the exhaustion carved into the younger woman's face. The tear tracks on her cheeks. The way her lips moved—silent, probably prayer, probably grief.
"She is still alive," Topiaris whispered. "That is what matters."
"For now." Marina pulled back from the corner, pressing her spine against the wall. She closed her eyes for a heartbeat, two heartbeats, then opened them. "We stick to the rescue mission. We get our people out, and we return with reinforcements."
Topiaris's eyebrow rose. "You do not want to take the ship?"
Marina's lips pressed into a thin line. She looked back at the two teams waiting in the tunnel behind them. Twenty-four soldiers. Good soldiers. Loyal soldiers. But not enough for what waited in that cove. "There is no way for us to hold this place with what we have. One team handles the distraction. The other handles the rescue. We get in, we get our people, and we get out."
Topiaris studied her face for a long moment, then nodded. "Agreed."
He turned to face the teams, his expression shifting from observation to command. His voice carried no further than the nearest soldier, but every word landed like a hammer on an anvil. "One team handles the distraction. The other handles the rescue. We do not engage the ships. We do not pick fights we cannot win. We find Captain Onyx and her soldiers, we cut their bonds, and we leave."
The soldiers nodded. Hands checked weapons. Eyes met eyes. The weight of what they were about to do settled over them like a second skin.
Marina stepped forward, her cleats scraping against the stone. "Distraction team, you make noise on the far side of the cove. Draw their eyes. Do not get caught." She pointed to a cluster of soldiers, their faces sharp with anticipation. "Rescue team, you follow me. We move fast, we move silent, and we do not stop for anything except our people."
The teams split, bodies flowing into two groups with the coordination of long practice. Weapons shifted. Positions adjusted. The air grew thick with the smell of adrenaline and wet stone.
Topiaris caught Marina's eye one last time. He tilted his head toward the beach, toward the bound soldiers, toward the impossible submarine and the strange ship and the abandoned Beast Pirate vessel.
"One hour," he said. "Then we call for backup whether we have them or not."
Marina nodded. "One hour."
She turned toward the cove, her shadow stretching long across the stone floor, and stepped into the darkness.
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