The mouth of the cove's secret entrance spat them out like a whale exhaling after a deep dive.
Marina Kick stumbled onto the rocky path, her cleats scraping against loose stone, her green-trimmed Justice coat tangled around her shoulders. She caught herself with one hand against the cave wall, the rough surface scraping her palm, and bent forward at the waist. Her chest heaved. Her lungs burned. The taste of dust and salt water filled her mouth.
Behind her, Topiaris Tidaltuff emerged with considerably less grace than he would ever admit. His pompadour—miraculously—remained intact, but a thin film of grey dust coated his white coat, and his polished boots had lost their shine. He placed one hand on his chest, the other on his knee, and gasped.
Captain Onyx tumbled out last, her killer heels catching on a rock lip. She pitched forward, arms flailing, and landed face-first across Starfall's rotating barrel cluster. The massive Gatling hand cannon absorbed the impact with a hollow thunk, and Onyx let out a muffled groan.
A sailor rushed to help her up, gripping her elbow and hauling her to her feet. Onyx's dark blue eyes were wide, her choppy bangs plastered to her forehead with sweat, her freckles standing out against her pale, dust-streaked face.
Topiaris straightened, producing his ivory-handled comb from his breast pocket with a flourish. He ran it through his pompadour in three long strokes, dislodging a small cloud of dust, and tucked the comb away. Between gasps, he managed, "Did you... see that? What... was that thing?"
Marina shook her head, still bent over, her hands on her knees. "I have no idea." She turned her head toward Onyx, her dark hazel eyes narrowing. She opened her mouth to speak—
The ground quaked.
The tremor rolled through the path like a wave through water, rattling the stones beneath their feet. Behind them, the cove's entrance shuddered. Dust plumes erupted from the cracks in the rock face, and the distant sound of crumbling stone echoed through the passage. Marina straightened, her hand dropping to her hip where her soccer bag hung. She scanned the group—counting heads, checking faces, cataloging the living.
Her Marines stood in loose clusters, weapons lowered, faces pale. Some leaned against the rock wall. Others sat on boulders, their heads in their hands. A young ensign clutched his rifle to his chest, his knuckles white. An older lieutenant pressed a bloodied rag to a gash on his forearm.
Everyone had made it. Barely.
Marina nodded, her jaw tight. "Okay." Her voice carried across the path, cutting through the dust-choked air. "Let's get moving. We need to report in."
Topiaris fell into step beside her, his long legs matching her stride. He called out over his shoulder, his voice carrying the same authority he used to lecture subordinates about uniform maintenance. "You heard the Rear Admiral! Fall in! Move!"
The sailors scrambled. Boots scuffed against stone. Weapons shifted against shoulders. A loose formation—more of a gaggle, really—took shape behind their officers. They started back toward the dock, their pace quick, their eyes darting to the cave mouth with every rumble.
Marina and Topiaris walked at the front, their shadows stretching long in the fading light. Dust settled on their shoulders like grey snow.
"Rear Admiral!" Captain Onyx's voice cracked from behind them.
Marina and Topiaris looked over their shoulders.
Onyx had tripped again. Her heel—one of Casimir's cruel gifts—had snapped clean off, and she sprawled across Starfall's length, her arms wrapped around the Gatling gun like a child hugging a stuffed animal. The sailor who had helped her earlier rushed to her side, offering a hand.
Marina stopped. Topiaris stopped beside her.
"What is it, Captain?" Marina called out, her voice flat.
Onyx accepted the sailor's help, rising to her feet. She brushed dust from Teivel's oversized sweater—the cream-colored cable-knit that swallowed her frame—and swallowed hard. Her expression shifted. The wide-eyed worry faded, replaced by something harder. Something older.
"There's something else you should know," she said.
Marina nodded, her arms crossing over her chest. "And what is that?"
Onyx met her gaze. Her dark blue eyes did not waver. "She is here. I saw her."
Topiaris paused mid-comb. His hand froze, the ivory handle caught between two silver curls. His light blue eyes narrowed.
"She who?" he asked.
Onyx's voice dropped, low and steady. "Dracule Marya."
Topiaris's hand did not move. The comb hung in his hair like a broken promise. Marina closed the gap between them in three long strides, her cleats biting into the stone. Her shadow fell across Onyx's small frame.
"Dracule," Marina said, the name heavy in her mouth, "as in..."
Onyx nodded.
Marina spun away, her hand rising to her chin. She paced three steps one way, then back, her fingers drumming against her jaw. Her lips moved, but no sound came out—just the silent muttering of a woman turning pieces over in her head, trying to make them fit.
"This changes things," she said finally, more to herself than to anyone else.
Topiaris slid his comb into his breast pocket with a soft click. He smoothed his coat, adjusted his collar, and folded his arms across his chest. His voice was measured, tactical. "Those ships in the cove... could they be—"
Marina shook her head, cutting him off. "Why come here, though?" Her eyes found Onyx again.
Onyx hesitated. Her hand drifted to the star charm at her throat—Teivel's gift, warm against her skin. She touched it, then let it fall.
"I believe she is looking for something," Onyx said. "I don't know what. But she wasn't here by accident."
Topiaris reached into his pocket and retrieved a transponder snail. The small creature blinked in the fading light, its shell warm, its eyestalks swiveling. He held it out to Marina.
"We should call this in," he said. "Do you want me to—"
Marina squared her shoulders. She straightened her spine. The dust on her coat did not matter. The exhaustion in her legs did not matter. The weight of what she was about to do pressed down on her, but she did not let it show.
"No. The decisions were mine and so are the consequences." She walked to Topiaris and took the transponder snail from his open palm. Her fingers closed around the shell. "I will do it."
Topiaris studied her face for a long moment. Then he nodded. "If you say so."
Marina looked down at the snail. Its eyes blinked up at her, patient and uncomprehending. She drew a breath—deep, slow, steady—and held it.
She pressed the button.
The transponder snail began to ring.
*****
Vice Admiral Casimir's personal cabin smelled of aged leather, polished brass, and the faint, metallic tang of the Seastone weave in his eyepatch. The ship creaked beneath them, a slow, rhythmic groan that matched the rolling of the coin across his knuckles. Click. Click. Click. The silver Mariejois-minted quarter glinting in the lamplight, flashing with each rotation, a hypnotic metronome in the otherwise still room.
Petra Ven stood on the other side of his mahogany desk, her oversized olive-green sweater hanging off her wiry frame, her dark eyes half-lidded in their perpetual expression of weary observation. She spoke in a low whisper, the kind of voice that forced men to lean in or be left behind.
"The intel was correct," she said, her West Blue accent softening the edges of her words. "We found the prisoners exactly where the tip indicated. Charlotte Amaretto is secured in the brig. The others—distillery workers, associates—are in holding."
She reached down and lifted a katana. The blade was long, the scabbard dark wood wrapped in black cord, the tsuba plain. She placed it on Casimir's desk with a soft thunk that interrupted the coin's rhythm. "And this."
Casimir's pale blue eye fixed on the blade. His fingers stopped rolling the quarter. He picked it up—the sword, not the coin—and drew an inch of steel from the scabbard. The metal was dark, almost black, with faint ripples in the grain. No markings. No insignia. But the weight of it, the way the lamplight refused to reflect...
"Kaburo Gusaki's," he said. It was not a question.
Petra nodded. "He was more trouble than anticipated. The Stonefish's venom slowed him enough for the restraints."
Casimir slid the blade back into its scabbard and set it down. His jaw flexed once, twice. "The woman?"
"Amaretto? Cooperative. Frightened. She asked for sugar three times."
"Denied?"
"I gave her a piece of hard candy from my pocket." Petra's lips twitched, the closest thing to a smile she ever offered. "She stopped shaking."
The door swung open before Casimir could respond.
The figure that filled the doorway was tall—taller than Casimir, and the Vice Admiral was not a small man. The CP agent wore the standard white mask and flowing white robes of his office, but the fabric was stained dark red along the seams, scorched by years of internal heat. His features were hidden behind the featureless mask, but his amber-yellow eyes burned through the eyeholes like embers left too long in a dying fire. The air around him shimmered, distorting the lamplight.
Alejandro Fuego glided into the room. His boots made no sound on the wooden floor. He stopped in front of Casimir's desk, his towering frame casting a shadow across the Vice Admiral's face.
Casimir scowled, his good eye narrowing. "I don't recall summoning you."
Alejandro's voice emerged from behind the mask—low, measured, each word placed with the care of a man who had been trained to never waste a syllable. "I have intel. We need to make a move."
Casimir's jaw flexed. The coin reappeared in his hand, rolling across his knuckles again. Click. Click. Click. "I am the one who gives orders on this ship. Not you. Not CP-0. Me."
Alejandro did not move. "The situation has evolved beyond your jurisdiction, Vice Admiral. You would do well to listen."
The transponder snail on Casimir's desk rang.
The coin stopped mid-roll. Casimir's eye flicked to the snail, then back to Alejandro, then to the snail again. He reached out and pressed the answer button.
"Report."
Marina Kick's voice crackled from the snail's shell, tinny and distant but unmistakable. "Sir, we may have a situation."
Casimir growled, a low sound that vibrated through his chest. "Continue."
Marina's voice dropped, as if she was reporting something she did not want to believe herself. "Sir, we received intel about a possible Beast Pirate ship location in a secluded cove. A team was dispatched to verify the information and—"
"And what." Casimir's voice was flat. Cold. The coin disappeared into his palm.
Marina swallowed. The sound carried through the transponder. "And the intel was confirmed. The location is hot, but we found more than just the Beast Pirate ship, sir. There were two other vessels. One flew a flag we did not recognize. The other... we believe could belong to Dracule Marya."
Casimir's eye narrowed. His hand tightened around the edge of his desk, the wood groaning under the pressure. The name hung in the air like smoke, acrid and choking.
Marina continued, her voice steadying. "What are your orders, sir? We can hold this location until reinforcements—"
"No." Alejandro Fuego stepped forward, reaching across the desk. His gloved hand hovered over the transponder snail, not touching it, but close enough to be heard. "She is not going anywhere. It serves no purpose for you to hold the cove."
Casimir glared up at the CP-0 agent, his jaw flexing so hard the muscle stood out like a cord. "What do you know?"
Alejandro's amber eyes did not blink. "Everything."
The word hung in the air, heavy and absolute.
"She is on her way here," Alejandro continued, his voice flat, uninflected. "And she intends to take the island. Claim it for the Red Hair Emperor."
The chair screeched across the floor.
Casimir launched upward, both hands slamming onto his desk. The mahogany shuddered. The katana jumped. The coin fell from his palm and rolled across the wood, wobbling in a tight circle before falling to the floor with a soft clink.
"WHAT!"
Everyone in the cabin turned toward the transponder snail, where Marina's voice echoed, uncertain. "Sir? Your orders?"
Casimir snarled, his eye blazing. "Fall back. We need to regroup."
"Yes, sir." The transponder snail went silent.
Casimir leaned forward, bracing his arms on the desk, his weight pressing into the wood. His eye locked onto Alejandro Fuego's masked face, burning with a fury that had been simmering for years—years of tracking Marya, of losing to her, of watching her slip through his fingers. The eyepatch itched. His ruined eye socket ached.
"Tell me everything," he said, his voice low, dangerous.
Alejandro opened his mouth.
The transponder snail rang again.
Casimir slapped the answer button. "REPORT!"
Zento Radias's voice sang through the snail's shell, melodic and theatrical despite the distance. "Sir, I am calling to check in. We have secured the Roast A Lotte facility, but the persons of interest have escaped." A pause. "What are your orders? I can leave—"
"Fall back to the dock." Casimir's voice was clipped, final. "We have a change in plan."
He slammed the transponder snail before Zento could reply. The shell clicked shut, and the cabin fell into silence.
Casimir turned back to Alejandro. His eye burned.
The transponder snail rang again.
Casimir snapped, his hand striking the answer button hard enough to crack the edge of the shell. "WHAT IS IT NOW?"
Admiral Ryokugyu's voice rolled through the cabin, smooth as oil, sharp as a blade. "I assume you meant 'I have my report ready for you.'"
Casimir's jaw flexed. His hand tightened around the snail. "Admiral Ryokugyu—"
Ryokugyu cut him off, his voice carrying the lazy arrogance of a man who had never been denied anything in his life. "What is your status?"
Casimir growled, taking too long to reply. The silence stretched.
Ryokugyu continued, his tone dismissive. "Never mind. It does not matter. I am on my way there with a small contingent. Be ready for our arrival." A pause. "We see the island on the horizon. You can brief me in person."
The transponder snail went silent. Ryokugyu had hung up.
Casimir glared at the shell, his eye wide with a mixture of fury and dread. He muttered, his voice barely audible, "Great. Just what I didn't need."
Alejandro Fuego reached across the desk and placed his gloved hand on the katana—Kaburo Gusaki's blade, Kalamaru. The obsidian-black scabbard vibrated as if protesting the touch. "We have what she wants." His voice was calm, measured. "The blade. The prisoners. We have the upper hand."
Casimir's eye flicked to the katana, then to Alejandro's masked face. His lips curled into a grin—thin, predatory, hungry. "A trap, then."
Alejandro nodded. "Yes."
Casimir walked around the desk, his boots heavy on the wooden floor. He moved toward the door, his hand reaching for the handle.
Alejandro turned, following him with his amber eyes. "Where are you—"
Casimir glanced over his shoulder, his good eye gleaming with cold amusement. "I want to have a little chat with the prisoners," he said. "I want to know why she would risk so much. Why she would travel so far. What they know that I don't."
He pulled the door open and stepped into the corridor.
Alejandro Fuego and Petra Ven exchanged a glance—a single, weighted look that carried no words but spoke volumes. Then they rushed out behind him, their footsteps echoing off the metal walls, the door swinging shut on the empty cabin and the coin still spinning on the floor.
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