Tori Miniku knelt on the stone floor, her chest heaving, her multicolored hair falling across her face in tangled strands. The transformation had left her hollowed out—her throat raw, her wings trembling even as they disappeared, transforming back into her arms, her legs refusing to hold her weight. She watched the Tetramorph sink into the churning water, its white wax body crumbling like old parchment, its obsidian wings folding, its four heads drooping. The creature's violet eye flickered once, twice, then went dark. Water closed over its crown, and the cove grew still.
"Good iron," she whispered, mimicking Mani's mantra. The words came out cracked, barely audible.
She collapsed against Adana's shaft, the cross-shaped spear digging into her shoulder, holding her upright.
The Papaho officers walked toward her across the wet stone, their bodies shifting, their transformations retreating like fog burned away by morning light.
Zahi Rukun led them, his jade-green mane fading into his hair, the green glow dimming from his scarred abdomen. His clouded eye still shimmered with that faint inner light, but his massive frame sagged with exhaustion. He planted Toshito's tip against the ground and used it as a staff, his breathing deep and measured.
Captain Ataboy Shitomi Kusaba walked beside him, his cassowary features melting away—the crest ridge shrinking, the feathers retreating into his skin, his eyes shifting from orange-red back to warm brown. His feather boa hung limp around his neck, and he rolled his shoulders, working out the tension. "HE-HE-HE," he laughed, though the sound carried more relief than joy. " My legs are shot—feels like I'm walking on stilts made of water."
Lieutenant Mani Lucheres brought up the rear, Suley's massive ax blade scraping against the stone. His short, impossibly dense frame moved with a heavy gait, each step deliberate. Blood trickled from a cut on his forehead, and he wiped it away with the back of his hand. "Good iron," he grunted, echoing Tori's whisper.
Lieutenant Cleo Grahisto walked with Sashito still in her grip, the rifle's stock pressed against her shoulder. Her bronze eyes scanned the cove one last time—counting the fallen, tracking the retreating ships, cataloging every detail. "The threat has subsided," she said, her voice flat. "For now."
Jannali Bandler touched down on the stone beside Galit Varuna, his long neck uncoiling from its striking S-curve. Gosan—the massive Hatzegopteryx—banked one last time, its shadow sweeping across the beach, and then the creature folded in on itself. Wings became metal. Scales became shaft. The prehistoric bird shrank, compressed, transformed. A heartbeat later, Gosan the spear dropped into Jannali's waiting hand, the metal warm, almost purring.
Jannali gripped the shaft and twisted. The segments retracted with a series of soft clicks, collapsing down to the size of a large canteen. She clipped it to her hip and ran her free hand through her afro, her headscarf still in place, her golden hoop earrings swinging. "Fair dinkum," she breathed, her twang thick as honey. "That thing was bloody enormous."
Galit fell into step beside her, his Vipera whips coiled at his hips, the sea-snake vertebrae clicking softly. His emerald eyes tracked the Papaho officers as they made their way toward their ship. "You handled it," he said.
"Called on a bit of luck, more like."
"Luck is just preparation meeting opportunity."
Jannali snorted. "Did you read that in a fortune cookie?"
"No." Galit's lips twitched. "I read it in a tactical manual."
They passed the Papaho group, who had already turned their attention to their ship. Zahi Rukun raised his voice, calling out to the sailors scrambling across the deck. "Report! Casualties? Damage?"
A sailor's voice answered, thin with relief. "Six injured, General. No deaths. The hull took a beating, but she'll hold."
Captain Ataboy waved to the sailors, his energy returning. "HVE everyone checked by Dco before we set sail. No arguments!"
The sailors groaned but did not argue.
Galit had taken three more steps toward the cove's watery entrance when the transponder snail in his pocket rang.
The sound cut through the cove like a knife through silk. Everyone stopped. Zahi Rukun turned, his clouded eye tracking the source of the sound. Ataboy's hand moved to Kuroi's hilt. Mani hefted Suley. Cleo's finger found Sashito's trigger guard. Tori lifted her head from Adana's shaft, her eyes finding Galit's back.
Jannali turned to face him, her brow furrowed. "You going to answer that, mate?"
Galit reached into his pocket and pulled out the small transponder snail. It sat in his palm, its shell warm, its eyes blinking, its mouth moving. He raised held it in his hand, and as he did, the snail's features shifted—the eyes sharpening, the mouth firming, the hair (if a snail could have hair) taking on the faint suggestion of raven strands.
The snail wore Marya Zaleska's face.
Jannali and Galit exchanged a look. Her hand found Gosan's hilt. His jaw tightened.
He pressed the answer button.
Marya's voice echoed across the cove, sharp and clear, filling the silence like water filling a cracked hull.
"This is Marya."
****
The Coast Guard ship cut through the dark water with a steady rhythm, its engines humming a low, throaty song that vibrated through the deck planks. Salt spray misted across the railing, catching the fading reflection of the late afternoon sun. The Kura-Kura Kingdom's flag flapped from the mast, but the crew had given the ship's deck to their unexpected passengers.
Marya Zaleska stood at the railing, her leather jacket with the Heart Pirates insignia pulled tight against the ocean wind. The yellow emblem stood out against the black leather, a memory of alliances forged and paths chosen. Her long raven hair whipped across her face, and she pushed it back with an impatient hand, her golden eyes—ringed like her father's, sharp as drawn steel—fixed on the distant silhouette of Kushi Island. The island rose from the sea like a rumpled green blanket, its rice terraces, soft, mossy folds of earth that ripple like a heavy curtain caught in a permanent breeze. Its vineyards, parallel rungs of timber and leaf that climb toward the thinning air of the summits of Mount Merlot .
She placed two transponder snails on the wide wooden railing. Their shells clicked against the painted surface, and their eyestalks swiveled, orienting toward the island. The first snail's shell bore a small scratch near its base—Galit's, always getting banged up in his pack. The second snail's shell was immaculate, almost unnaturally clean—Aurélie's, because of course it was.
Behind Marya, Vesta Lavana knelt over Ember's slumped form. The rainbow-haired musician had both hands on Ember's shoulders, shaking her with the kind of aggressive concern that only a performer could muster. Ember's neon-pink space buns wobbled with each shake, the soot-streaked strands swaying, and her mismatched eyes—one icy blue, one gold—rolled in their sockets.
"Come on, come on, come on!" Vesta sang, her voice rising into a melodic whine. Her multicolored hair shifted through shades of crimson and gold as she leaned closer. "Wake up! You can't nap forever! Mikasi wants to play you a song! It's a good one! I wrote it myself!"
Ember's head lolled back and forth like a ragdoll's, her tattered black-and-crimson Lolita dress crumpled beneath her, the charred plush rabbit Mr. Cinders bouncing against her hip. A low groan escaped her lips, followed by something that might have been a word but was probably just gas.
"See! She's waking up!" Vesta shook harder.
"Vesta." Marya's voice carried no heat, but Vesta's hands stilled anyway.
"Right! Right! Gentle! I remember!" Vesta released Ember's shoulders and sat back on her heels, her platform boots squeaking against the deck. She pulled the living guitar Mikasi from her back and hugged it to her chest. The instrument's wood grain shifted under her touch, the frets humming with a low, sleepy vibration. "She's fine. Probably. Mostly."
Atlas Acuta leaned against the railing beside Marya, his rust-red fur rippling in the sea breeze. The black spots across his arms and shoulders shifting with each movement of his muscles, and the charcoal tufts on his ear tips twitched as he scanned the horizon. His blue sapphire eyes—slit pupils glowing faintly with residual Electro—narrowed as he studied the island's coastline. He crossed his arms over his broad chest, the open-collar navy shirt stretching across his shoulders.
"Kushi Island," he said, his voice low, almost thoughtful. "Rice paddies and wine fields. Not much in the way of a fight."
Marya did not look at him. "They have knowledge I need."
The first transponder snail's mouth moved, and Galit Varuna's voice crackled from its shell. "Galit and Jannali here."
Marya nodded, her golden eyes still fixed on the island. "Are Bianca and Charlie with you?"
A long beat of silence followed. The wind filled the gap, carrying the smell of salt and distant fermentation—the Fermentation Current's work, thick with yeast-rich plankton that softened untreated hulls.
Then Galit spoke again, his voice careful, measured. "There has been a development. We had to move the sub, but we have a visual."
Marya raised one eyebrow, a subtle arch that Atlas had learned to recognize as the prelude to a question. "Do you—"
"Yeah, nah, mate, we got it under control, yeah." Jannali Bandler's voice cut through, the twang thick as molasses, the words tumbling out in a rush. "Bloody Navy rescued the prisoners though."
Marya's jaw tightened. A muscle jumped beneath her cheek. The black void veins on her arms—the permanent marks of the curse—pulsed with her heartbeat.
"Understood," she said, and the word carried the weight of a much longer conversation she did not have time to have.
Vesta looked up from Ember, her violet eyes wide. "Prisoners? What prisoners? Did someone get captured? Was it someone cool? Like a rock star? Did the Navy capture a rock star? Because I could write a song about that—'The Ballad of the Captivated Crooner.' It's got a ring to it, right? Right?"
Ember groaned again, louder this time, and Vesta immediately returned to shaking her.
Marya turned her attention to the second transponder snail. Its eyestalks had shifted, pointing toward her like accusatory fingers.
"And you, Aurélie?"
A short beat of silence. Then Aurélie Nakano Takeko's voice emerged from the snail's shell, cool and composed, each word placed with the care of a woman who had learned to measure her syllables the way a swordsman measured her strikes.
"We too have a development," Aurélie said. "But it is manageable. And our objective has been achieved."
Marya's shoulders relaxed by a fraction. She nodded again, though Aurélie could not see her. "Okay."
She paused. The wind tugged at her leather jacket, and she let it. Her golden eyes swept across the deck—at Vesta, still fussing over Ember; at Atlas, leaning against the railing with his arms crossed; at the two transponder snails, their shells warm and casting long shadows.
"There has been a development with my team as well," Marya said, her voice carrying across the ship, reaching every ear. "And we will be adjusting our plan."
She drew a breath. Held it. Released it.
The island waited on the horizon, its green slopes dotted with the white stilt-houses of farmers who had no idea what was about to land on their shores. The Fermentation Current swirled around the ship's hull, thick with life and history and the weight of a thousand harvests.
Marya's hand drifted to the kogatana at her neck, the small dagger resting against her collarbone. Her mother's legacy. Her father's warning. Her own choice.
"We are going to take the island," she said, her voice flat, final, forged in the same fire that had shaped Nisshoku's cursed blade. "And claim it for the Red Hair Pirates."
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