Nassau, Rooftops.
Boots pounded across sun-baked tiles.
Thomas ran hard, lungs burning, heart hammering like a war drum. Behind him: chaos. Ahead: the cloaked woman — fast, silent, moving like the rooftops belonged to her. She never looked back.
Jonah stumbled after, panting. "Are we sure she's not leading us to a second assassin?"
"If she is," Thomas said, vaulting a chimney, "she's doing a terrible job of it."
"I'm reserving judgment until I'm not bleeding."
They moved like smoke through the heat — sweat, dust, gunfire echoing behind. Lanterns bobbed below. Nassau had turned into a kicked anthill.
Finally, the woman dropped from a ledge into a narrow alley behind a row of sagging shanties. She landed in a crouch, rolled, kept moving — no hesitation, no wasted motion. Thomas and Jonah hit the ground behind her with less grace and more grunt.
She led them through a maze of backstreets: tight, crooked, breath-stale. She moved like someone who knew the city from the inside out — every blind turn, every hidden exit.
She ducked through a cracked door behind an abandoned tannery. Inside was stillness and dust, the air thick with the reek of old leather. Rusted tools and torn hides littered the floor.
Thomas slammed the door and bolted it. "Start talking," he said, chest heaving.
The woman pulled back her hood.
Up close, her face was sharp — storm-grey eyes, a pale scar across one brow. Young, but carved with the kind of stillness earned by surviving.
"You're Thomas Vance," she said.
Thomas tensed. "That depends on who's asking."
"I'm not here to kill you," she said. "If I were, you'd already be dead."
Jonah raised a hand. "Can we rewind to the part where someone was trying to kill us?"
She ignored him, eyes still locked on Thomas. "Blackbeard sent him."
Thomas frowned. "The assassin?"
She nodded once. "One of his. Quiet work. Doesn't miss — unless someone interferes."
Jonah gave a dry laugh. "And here I thought we were just cheating drunk merchants."
"Not anymore," she said.
Thomas crossed his arms. "Why would Blackbeard care about me?"
"That depends," she said quietly. "But he cared about your father."
The room stilled.
Jonah blinked. "Wait — your father?"
Thomas didn't answer.
The woman — Celeste — stepped closer. "Edward Vance stole the Leviathan's Heart. You think Blackbeard forgets that? You think the sea forgets?"
"I don't know anything about a relic," Thomas said. "Or my father. He vanished."
"He didn't vanish," Celeste said, her voice going colder. "He made a choice. And the curse he woke didn't die with him."
Thomas's jaw tightened. "You don't know what you're talking about."
"I know the look of a man with salt in his blood," she said. "And I know when the tide starts to stir. It's reaching for you, Thomas."
Jonah lifted both hands. "Okay, everyone breathe. Thomas — your dad was that Edward Vance?"
Thomas stayed silent. It was answer enough.
Jonah exhaled. "Well. That explains the scowl."
Celeste turned toward the door. "You don't have to believe me. But you do need to run."
"Where?" Thomas asked.
She met his eyes. "Tortuga."
Two voices, perfect sync:
"Nope," Jonah said.
"Absolutely not," Thomas added.
Celeste arched a brow. "You have a better idea?"
"Tortuga's not a plan," Jonah said. "It's a suicide destination. That island's a nest of pirates, slavers, mercs, and broken deals. You don't go to Tortuga — you survive it."
"It's where we need to go," Celeste said simply.
Thomas stepped forward. "Why?"
She glanced through the warped slats of the window. "I'll tell you when we get there."
"That's not good enough," Thomas said.
Her gaze cut back to him. "You've got Blackbeard's knives at your back. You want to stay here, patch hulls, and wait for the next bullet? Be my guest. But if you want answers — you come with me."
Jonah looked to Thomas. "Tell me we're not doing this."
Thomas didn't answer. Not yet.
Celeste crossed the room, pulled a satchel from beneath a broken crate, and slung it over her shoulder. "I'm leaving," she said. "Now. With or without you."
Jonah turned. "Seriously — you trust her?"
"I don't," Thomas said.
But he felt it — that pressure beneath the skin of the world. Heavy. Watching. Waiting.
Jonah saw it in his face and groaned. "No. No, I know that look. That's the Havana look. The Cartagena look. The bad decision look."
Thomas's voice was low. "We're going."
Jonah sighed. "Why is it always Tortuga?"
He followed, muttering. Celeste didn't look back.
Two blocks away, a sharp whistle split the night.
Four Royal Navy officers stood in the wreck of the rum house — chairs splintered, musket balls buried in beams, blood drying on the floor.
A runner arrived, breathless. "Reports of a cloaked woman. Two men with her. Fled west through the alleys."
The lead officer stepped forward. "Names?"
"Nothing certain, sir. Just one — Vance."
The officer's eyes narrowed.
"Edward Vance is dead."
The runner hesitated. "Then maybe this one's his ghost."