The brig smelled of rusted iron, salt-crusted wood, and the faint, cloying sweetness that clung to Charlotte Amaretto's clothes like a second skin. The cell was small—narrow enough that she could touch both walls with her outstretched arms—and the bench where she sat had been bolted to the floor so many years ago that the screws had turned green with corrosion. A single lantern hung from a hook in the corridor, its flame casting long, wavering shadows that danced across the bars and made the darkness between cells seem deeper than it should be.
Charlotte Amaretto sat on the bench with her hands folded in her lap, her auburn hair loose from its usual messy bun, hanging in tangled strands around her face. The freckles across her nose stood out against her pale cheeks, and her large brown eyes were red-rimmed from crying—though she had stopped an hour ago, when her tears had run dry and her nose had grown too stuffed to continue. Her burgundy apron was gone, confiscated along with her locket, her hairpins, and the small paring knife she had carried for work. They had left her shoes, at least. The leather was cold against her bare ankles.
Across the narrow corridor, Kaburo Gusaki sat in his own cell with his back against the stone wall, his long legs stretched out in front of him, his wrists resting on his knees. The tattered beast-skin haori hung open over his dark gray sleeveless kimono top, revealing the crisscross of old scars that mapped his torso. His dark hair had come loose from its low ponytail, falling across his face in tangled strands, and the scar that crossed the bridge of his nose—from temple to cheek—seemed darker in the lantern light. His jaw was tight, his lips pressed into a thin line, and his eyes—those cold, calculating eyes—were fixed on the floor between his feet.
Kalamaru was gone. Taken. He could feel the blade's absence like a missing limb, a hollow ache in his chest where the cursed sword's presence usually hummed. The three-headed serpent that lived in the steel was silent now, cut off from him by distance and seastone. He had not realized how much he relied on its whispers until they stopped.
Charlotte sniffled, wiped her nose with the back of her hand, and looked across the corridor at Kaburo. "I'm sorry," she said, her voice hoarse from crying. "This is my fault."
Kaburo did not look up. "No."
"If I hadn't—"
"It was not you." His voice was dry, calm, devoid of the emotion that choked her words. "It was mine. My crew. My choices. The Navy was investigating Roast A Lotte because of me. Because of what I am." He lifted his head, and his dark eyes met hers. "You were caught in the net they cast for me."
Charlotte's lower lip trembled. She bit it, hard, and looked away. The bars of her cell cast stripes across her face. "I knew what I was getting into when I told you to stay."
"Did you?"
She did not answer.
The silence stretched between them, filled only by the creak of the ship's hull and the distant sound of boots on the deck above. The lantern flickered. A drop of water fell from somewhere in the ceiling and landed on the floor with a soft plink.
Charlotte wiped her eyes again, squared her shoulders, and managed a weak smile. It was not her usual smile—the bright, energetic grin that made customers at Roast A Lotte feel like family. This one was smaller, shakier, held together by sheer stubbornness.
"Well," she said, her voice steadier now, "since we are going to be here for a while, and we finally have some privacy..." She paused, her fingers twisting in her lap. "There is something I have been meaning to speak with you about."
A corner of Kaburo's mouth twitched upward. It was not a smile—Kaburo Gusaki did not smile—but it was the closest thing to one he had offered in years. The scar across his nose pulled tight with the movement, and something in his dark eyes softened, just for a moment.
"What is it?" he asked.
Charlotte took a breath. She opened her mouth—
The door at the end of the corridor banged open.
The sound echoed off the metal walls, sharp as a gunshot, and Charlotte flinched. She pushed herself off the bench and walked to the edge of her cell, her fingers wrapping around the cold iron bars. She leaned forward, pressing her cheek against the metal, and peered down the corridor.
Three figures emerged from the shadows.
Vice Admiral Casimir walked first, his ivory-white Justice coat immaculate despite the grime of the brig, his gold epaulets catching the lantern light. His bald head gleamed, and his thick blonde handlebar mustache was waxed to sharp points. The black leather eyepatch lined with Seastone weave covered his ruined left eye, and his remaining eye—pale blue, cold as winter ice—swept the corridor with the flat, unblinking stare of a predator assessing its prey. In his right hand, he carried Kalamaru. The cursed blade's obsidian-black scabbard was a sliver of darkness in his grip, and the sword hummed—a low, sub-vocal vibration that Charlotte could feel in her teeth.
Petra Ven walked at his left shoulder, her oversized olive-green sweater hanging off her wiry frame, her dark eyes half-lidded, her hands shoved into her pockets. She moved like a shadow, her soft-soled boots making no sound on the metal floor. The 13 dorsal plates along her spine lay flat beneath her sweater, but Charlotte had heard stories of what happened when they rose.
Alejandro Fuego brought up the rear, his white mask and flowing white robes a stark contrast to the filth of the brig. The robes were stained dark red along the seams, scorched by years of internal heat, and his amber-yellow eyes burned through the eyeholes of his mask like embers left too long in a dying fire. He moved with the silence of a ghost, his hands clasped behind his back, his towering frame casting a shadow that stretched across the floor.
Kaburo Gusaki went rigid.
His back straightened. His hands curled into fists on his knees. His dark eyes narrowed, tracking the three figures as they approached, and his gaze fixed on the sword in Casimir's hand. The muscles in his jaw flexed, and a low growl rumbled in his chest—a sound that was barely human, more beast than man.
Casimir stopped in front of Kaburo's cell. He stood with his feet planted wide, his shoulders back, his remaining eye fixed on the samurai's face. He did not blink. The sword hung at his side, point down, the scabbard tapping against the floor with each small movement of his hand.
Kaburo's growl faded. His lips pressed into a thin line. He held Casimir's gaze without flinching, but his hands had curled into fists so tight that the knuckles stood out white against his scarred skin.
The silence stretched. The lantern flickered. Petra Ven shifted her weight from one foot to the other, and the spines along her back twitched beneath her sweater.
Kaburo broke first. "What do you want?" His voice was dry, flat, devoid of the growl that had preceded it. He did not look away from Casimir's eye.
Casimir's jaw flexed. The muscle jumped beneath his pale skin. He lifted the sword—Kalamaru—and held it so the flickering light played across the scabbard's dark surface.
"Dracule Marya," he said.
Kaburo's brow furrowed. His head tilted slightly—a gesture that would have been almost curious if not for the tension in his shoulders. "Who?"
Casimir's eye narrowed. He stepped closer to the bars, close enough that his breath—warm and smelling of coffee—fogged the iron. He held up the sword, turning it so Kaburo could see the full length of the scabbard.
"She is here," Casimir said, each word dropped like a stone into still water, "looking for this." He paused, letting the weight of the statement settle. "Why?"
Kaburo blinked. His brow furrowed deeper, and for a moment, the cold mask of indifference slipped—not enough to reveal fear, but enough to show genuine confusion. His eyes flicked from the sword to Casimir's face and back again.
"How should I know?" he said. "I have never even heard of her." He paused, his gaze returning to Casimir. "The only Dracule I know of is the Warlord..."
His voice trailed off. His eyes widened—just a fraction, just enough for Casimir to notice. The gears turned behind his scarred face, and Charlotte watched the realization dawn.
"Is she..." Kaburo started.
Casimir cut him off. "You have no idea who she is?"
Kaburo shook his head, slowly, deliberately. Some of the tension left his shoulders—not because he was relaxing, but because he was re-evaluating. "What is it you plan to do with us?"
Casimir stood, considering. His head swiveled between the two cells—from Kaburo's scarred face to Charlotte's pale one, and back again. His good eye narrowed, and something shifted behind it. A calculation. A weighing of options. The beginnings of a plan.
"You have no idea who she is, then?" Casimir asked again.
Kaburo's jaw tightened. "No. Like I said, the only person I know of with the name Dracule is the Warlord."
Casimir nodded, slow and deliberate. A grin spread across his face—thin, predatory, utterly without warmth. "Good. Then you will not have a problem assisting with her capture."
Petra Ven and Alejandro Fuego exchanged a look. Petra's dark eyes flicked to Alejandro's masked face, and something passed between them—a silent question, an unspoken concern. Alejandro's gloved hand twitched, and he stepped forward, opening his mouth to speak.
Casimir raised a hand without looking. The gesture was sharp, final. Alejandro stopped.
Casimir stepped closer to Kaburo's cell, close enough that his chest nearly touched the bars. He leaned in, his breath steaming against the iron, his good eye boring into Kaburo's face.
Kaburo scowled. His back pressed against the wall, and his hands curled into fists again. "And why," he said, each word pulled from between clenched teeth, "would I want to help you?"
Casimir's grin widened. "You help us," he said, "and we let you leave the island."
Kaburo's eyes narrowed. His jaw worked side to side, grinding, thinking. "I am not going anywhere without..."
Casimir cut him off. "Both of you."
Kaburo's gaze flicked to Charlotte. She stood at the edge of her cell, her fingers still wrapped around the bars, her large brown eyes cautious, watchful. Their eyes met, and something passed between them—a silent conversation, a weighing of options, a shared understanding that did not require words.
Kaburo swallowed hard. His lips pressed together in a thin line, and he gave Charlotte a small nod. A promise. A reassurance. If there was even a sliver of a chance, he would take it. For her. For both of them.
He turned back to Casimir. "What are you proposing?"
Casimir grinned. The lantern light caught the gold of his epaulets, the polish of his boots, the cruel curve of his mouth.
If you enjoyed this chapter, please consider giving Dracule Marya Zaleska a Power Stone! It helps the novel climb the rankings and get more eyes on our story!
Thank you for sailing with us! 🏴☠️ Your support means so much!
Want to see the Dreadnought Thalassa blueprints? Or unlock the true power of Goddess Achlys?
Join the Dracule Marya Zaleska crew on Patreon to get exclusive concept art, deep-dive lore notes, and access to our private Discord community! You make the New World adventure possible.
Become a Crewmate and Unlock the Lore:
https://patreon.com/An1m3N3rd?utm_medium=unknown&utm_source=join_link&utm_campaign=creatorshare_creator&utm_content=copyLink
Thanks so much for your support and loving this story as much as I do!