The storm outside Baltigo rolled across the skies like a living thing, dragging lightning and wind through the black clouds. The Revolution's stronghold stood unmoved, its stone walls whispering with the same defiance as the people within it.
The meeting was over.
Maps still lay scattered on the table — plans for uprisings in the East, whispers of resistance in the North.
Ginny's laughter echoed faintly in the distance. Ivankov's flamboyant voice faded with every step down the corridor.
The heavy doors closed, and only two remained in the quiet chamber.
Ada and Dragon.
The silence between them wasn't uncomfortable — it was charged, familiar, a silence they had learned to share.
Ada stood by the large window, the dull glow of lantern light tracing the sharp line of her jaw. Her eyes followed the rain as it slid down the glass, falling into nothingness.
Dragon remained at the table, fingers resting on the edge, unreadable as always. The scar across his face caught the light, a shadow carved by purpose.
"You wanted to talk," he said finally, his voice a calm undertone against the storm.
Ada didn't turn around at first. She simply nodded, her reflection a faint shimmer on the glass.
"Yes."
Dragon waited. He had learned patience with her — the kind of patience that came from knowing that every word she spoke carried weight.
When she finally turned, her dress swayed with the motion, her expression calm but distant.
"Close the door," she said.
Dragon did. The sound of the latch locking echoed softly through the room, sealing them away from the world outside.
For a moment, neither spoke. It was as if both were waiting for the other to begin.
Ada broke first, her voice quiet. "Two years," she said. "That's how long it's been since we started this… whatever this is."
Dragon's lips curved faintly. "I remember. The island near Saffron Bay. You arrived uninvited."
"And you pointed a gun at me," Ada replied, a faint smirk tugging at her lips.
"I was cautious," he said. "You were… unpredictable."
Ada's smirk softened. "Still am."
They shared a brief look — a spark of something unspoken, something that didn't belong in war rooms or revolutions.
Flashback
Two Years Ago
It began not with intention, but coincidence.
They met again just months after the Yonko Summit — on an island between the Calm Belt and the New World, where the air was heavy with mist and silence. Dragon had come searching for an abandoned Government relay base; Ada had come chasing rumors of ancient records buried beneath it.
Their first meeting was tense — two forces testing each other, both too strong to yield. But when night fell, they spoke beside a dying fire.
They talked about the world — its cruelty, its lies, its endless cycles of power and obedience.
Ada spoke of the sea's hypocrisy — how people called pirates evil but knelt before kings far worse.
Dragon listened quietly, his sharp eyes softening as he realized how deeply she understood the weight of freedom.
That night, their words lingered long after the fire died.
A month later, they met again — this time on an uncharted island near the Red Line.
They shared information, traded maps, discussed philosophy — and slowly, what began as mutual respect became something deeper.
There were moments when the wind itself seemed to hold its breath between them — when their silences said more than any words could.
Ada was the sea — wild, untamable, impossible to cage.
Dragon was the wind — steady, patient, always searching for direction.
And somehow, they learned how to move together.
They met in secret ports and forgotten coves.
Sometimes she would arrive first, her ship hidden beneath the cliffs, and wait as his small vessel approached through the fog.
Other times, he would be there, standing on the shore as if the tide itself had whispered her arrival.
In those quiet hours, away from their empires and wars, they allowed themselves to be human.
They would sit beneath the stars, sharing sake and laughter that no one else would ever hear.
Ada would tease him about his seriousness; Dragon would counter with quiet sarcasm that only made her smile more.
When she laughed, it wasn't the cold smirk of an Emperor — it was warm, unguarded.
And when he looked at her, it wasn't with the eyes of a revolutionary — but a man who had finally found someone who understood the burden of leading alone.
One night led to another.
One visit became many.
They didn't name what they had — because names meant permanence, and both of them lived in worlds where permanence was a luxury.
But under the silence of the stars, with only the sea and wind to witness them, they found something neither of them had sought — something simple, raw, and unspoken.
A connection that didn't need words.
End of Flashback
She walked toward the table, her heels echoing softly against the stone floor.
"I've fought marines, kings, warlords, even nature itself," she said. "But this… this is different."
Dragon tilted his head slightly, curiosity flickering behind his calm exterior. "Different how?"
Ada hesitated — a rare thing for her. The Emperor who split the seas, who pierced through fleets without flinching, suddenly seemed to weigh her words as though they were fragile.
She exhaled slowly. "You remember what I told you in Altar Bay? That the world only respects power."
"I remember," he said. "You said love doesn't build empires."
Ada let out a quiet laugh. "I was wrong."
That caught Dragon off guard. He straightened, eyes narrowing slightly — not from suspicion, but from something else. Something like concern.
Ada's fingers brushed across the edge of the table as she stopped just a few feet from him.
"I'm pregnant, Dragon."
The words fell like a blade through silence.
Dragon blinked once — slow, measured, but the flicker in his eyes betrayed the storm beneath. He wasn't a man easily shaken. But this… this was different.
He looked at her — really looked. Searching her face for even a hint of jest, but there was none.
She stood there steady, proud, her expression calm yet vulnerable in a way he had never seen before.
"…You're certain?" he asked, his voice softer than usual.
Ada nodded. "I confirmed it myself. There's no mistake."
Dragon's breath left him slowly. "How long?"
"Almost a month now," she said.
He took a small step forward, his gloved hands tightening slightly at his sides — as if he were restraining the urge to reach for her. "You should have told me sooner."
"I wanted to be sure," she said. "And I wanted to see your eyes when I said it."
He almost smiled, a small, disbelieving exhale escaping him. "You always did have a cruel sense of drama."
"Old habits," Ada said softly.
Dragon then exhaled slowly, the weight of her words settling into his chest. For the first time in years, the leader of the Revolutionary Army seemed unsure — not of the world, but of himself.
"Ada…"
His voice was quieter than she'd ever heard it. "You realize what this means?"
"I do," she said. "The child of an Emperor and the most wanted revolutionary… the world will hunt it before it can even breathe."
Dragon's fists tightened. "That's exactly why—"
"—why we have to protect it," Ada finished, her tone firm, unwavering. "Not hide it. Not run. Protect it."
She stepped forward, close enough that he could feel the quiet rhythm of her breath.
"I didn't come here to ask for your permission," she said. "Only to tell you that whatever happens next… this child will be born free."
Her words hit him harder than any battlefield speech he'd ever given.
He looked at her — truly looked — and saw not the Emperor of the Sea, not the shadow ally, not the myth whispered by the Marines.
Just Ada.
The woman who had defied gods, kings, and fate itself.
Silence settled between them again, heavier now — not cold, but intimate, weighted by everything that came before.
The wind outside roared, pressing against the walls. Ada's hair moved with the draft, her eyes reflecting the lightning that cracked across the horizon.
Dragon spoke at last. "What do you plan to do?"
Ada turned away slightly, looking toward the window. "What I've always done. Lead. Fight. Survive."
"With a child?" His tone wasn't harsh — just incredulous. "You know what kind of world this is."
"I do." She met his gaze again, firm. "That's exactly why I won't hide."
Dragon frowned slightly, crossing his arms. "If the Government finds out—"
"They won't," Ada interrupted. "My crew doesn't even know. And they won't — not until I decide it's time."
Her voice had the same conviction that once made whole fleets kneel.
Dragon stepped closer, his presence steady, his shadow merging with hers in the faint light. "You're serious."
Ada's eyes softened just a fraction. "You should know by now — I don't speak lightly."
Dragon studied her, his usual restraint slipping into something more human — confusion, awe, even fear. Not fear of danger, but of what this meant. For her. For him.
He exhaled slowly. "You've faced death without blinking. But this… this changes everything."
"It changes nothing," Ada said quietly. "It only gives me more to protect."
Dragon's gaze flickered to the floor for a moment, then back up. "And what about the father?"
Ada's lips curved slightly. "The father can decide what kind of man he wants to be."
That hit him harder than she likely realized.
He walked closer until he was only an arm's length away. The smell of rain clung to her desss; the faint salt of the sea still lingered in her hair. So many memories — so many stolen nights between wars and storms — all condensed into this moment.
"Do you want me to be part of it?" he asked quietly.
Ada looked at him, her eyes unreadable for a long time. Then, finally. "I didn't tell you for your permission, Dragon. I told you because you deserve to know."
Her voice was steady, but there was something deeper beneath it — something almost fragile.
"I can protect myself. I can protect this child. But I wanted you to understand that… whatever happens next, this isn't a weakness. It's the opposite."
He nodded slowly. "A reason to fight harder."
"Exactly."
The lantern flickered as thunder rolled through the skies above.
Dragon turned away for a moment, his hand resting on the table, the weight of it all settling in his chest.
He'd seen nations fall, revolutions rise, and yet nothing had ever felt as uncertain — or as alive — as this.
When he finally spoke again, his voice had softened. "You always find a way to surprise me."
Ada smiled faintly. "That's part of my charm."
He glanced over his shoulder. "You realize what this means, don't you?"
"I do," she said. "It means I have to be more careful. It means no reckless fights, no long wars. For a while."
Dragon frowned. "You mean to slow down?"
Ada smirked. "For a while. Not forever."
He turned to face her again, arms crossing over his chest. "You could stay here. At least until—"
"No," she said immediately, cutting him off. "If I stay, my crew will come looking. They'll know something's wrong. And I won't risk them finding out."
Dragon's brow furrowed. "You don't trust them?"
"I do," she said softly. "But this isn't their burden. Not yet."
He studied her again — the way her jaw set firm, her eyes steady. This was the same woman who had stood before three Vice Admirals and split the sea in two. The same woman who had defied the World Government and lived to tell the tale.
Yet beneath all that, she now carried something even greater — something neither of them could fight nor control.
He took a breath, then stepped forward until they stood nearly chest to chest.
"What do you need from me?" he asked.
Ada looked up at him, her expression unreadable for a moment. Then, quietly. "Nothing… except the truth."
Dragon frowned slightly. "About what?"
"About how you feel."
The words were soft, but they hit like cannon fire.
For the first time, Dragon didn't answer right away. The great revolutionary, the unshakable man who challenged the world itself, found himself at a loss for words.
He looked down at her — this fierce, impossible woman who had walked into his life and turned the calm wind into a storm.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low.
"You already know," he said.
Ada smiled faintly. "I want to hear it anyway."
Dragon exhaled, the corner of his mouth twitching. "You're impossible."
"I know," she said softly. "Say it."
His eyes softened, the lines of his face easing as he whispered, "I care about you. More than I should."
Ada's gaze didn't waver. "Then that's enough."
For a long moment, the storm outside fell silent — the world pausing as the two of them stood together, just the faint hum of the lantern between them.
Ada placed a hand on his chest, feeling the steady rhythm beneath.
It wasn't a gesture of affection, but of understanding — a reminder that even the strongest hearts could still feel warmth.
"This will stay between us," she said quietly. "No one else can know. Not the Revolutionaries. Not my crew. Not yet."
Dragon nodded. "I'll keep it secret."
"I know you will."
He hesitated, then placed his hand gently over hers. "When the time comes, what will you tell them?"
Ada smiled faintly. "The truth… just not all of it."
When she finally turned to leave, the wind howled louder than before, as if the world itself was unwilling to let her go.
Dragon followed her to the door but didn't speak. He watched as she pulled her hood up, her figure bathed in the cold blue glow of lightning through the window.
Dragon stood behind her, silent — a statue carved from the storm itself.
"Take care of yourself," he said quietly, voice carrying the kind of sincerity that words rarely held in their world.
Ada stopped, half-turned, her cloak brushing against the frame.
"I always do."
Then she looked at him — really looked. The lines of resolve on his face, the quiet fire in his eyes. For a man who had chosen the path of storms, he looked… human. Mortal.
And for the first time in a long time, she let the walls around her heart lower just enough for the truth to slip through.
"I don't know what kind of future we're building," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper, "but I'm glad you're part of it."
She stepped closer, the soft rustle of her coat the only sound between them.
Dragon didn't move — didn't speak — just watched her with that steady calm that had both infuriated and comforted her since the day they met.
Then, without another word, Ada reached up, her fingers brushing lightly against his jaw — rough from the cold, but warm beneath.
For a heartbeat, the storm outside went silent.
And then she kissed him.
It wasn't desperate or hurried. It was quiet — like the meeting of two tides, inevitable and ancient.
Her hand lingered against his face, his breath mingling with hers, the world fading until there was nothing but warmth and the faint scent of rain.
When they finally pulled apart, Ada's eyes shimmered with something fierce and fragile all at once.
Dragon's hand came to rest against her waist, not to hold her back — but as if memorizing the moment.
"You should go," he said softly, though his voice trembled just slightly on the edges.
Ada smiled faintly — that same fearless, impossible smile that had once defied the seas themselves.
"If I stay, I might not."
He nodded once. "Then don't look back."
She turned toward the door, pushing it open. Wind rushed in, carrying the scent of rain and revolution.
Before stepping into the storm, she said one last thing — her voice like the calm before a new dawn.
"Goodbye, Dragon."
He watched as she vanished into the rain, her figure swallowed by mist and thunder.
For a long time after she was gone, he stood there — still, quiet, the echo of her touch burning against his skin.
And when he finally looked up, the clouds had begun to break.
A faint light pierced through the storm, spreading across the horizon like the promise of something more.
Dragon closed his eyes, the faintest ghost of a smile crossing his lips.
"Goodbye, Ada."
He stood there long after she'd gone, his hand still resting against the doorframe.
Outside, the storm began to break, the first hints of dawn bleeding through the clouds.
Dragon turned to the window, his reflection barely visible in the glass. His expression was unreadable — part sorrow, part pride, part wonder.
The wind stirred around him, whispering like a promise carried from the sea.
A new dawn was coming.
And with it, the quiet heartbeat of a future neither of them had planned — yet both were willing to fight for.