The Coast Guard ship rose and fell with the rhythm of the waves, its deck damp with sea spray, the kingdom's flag snapping overhead in the wind. Salt crusted the railing where Marya leaned, her arms crossed over the Heart Pirates insignia embroidered on her leather jacket. Her raven hair drifted across her face, and she did not push it away. Her golden eyes—ringed like her father's, sharp as the blade across her back—tracked the small vessel approaching from the Papaho ship.
Atlas Acuta stood at her shoulder, his rust-red fur bristling, the black spots across his arms shifted with each small movement. His blue sapphire eyes narrowed, and Electro crackled faintly between his fingers—not a threat, not yet, just a reminder. Beside him, Ember sat on a coil of rope, her neon-pink space buns wobbling as she tilted her head, her mismatched eyes fixed on the approaching figures with the blank curiosity of a cat watching birds through a window. Vesta Lavana perched on the railing, her rainbow-colored hair shifting through shades of crimson and gold, Mikasi resting across her lap. She had stopped humming. Even she could read a room.
King Vitis Koshu stood at the center of the deck, his burgundy silk robes rustling, the Vine Crown catching the afternoon light. His gray-blue eyes were fixed on the gangplank, his jaw set, his hands clasped behind his back. Orianne Seine stood at his shoulder, her ebony cane planted on the deck, her silver-white bob immaculate, her pale blue eyes missing nothing. Phởlaurant Vanluc and Anmarie Lotuslys flanked them both, their Coast Guard uniforms crisp, their postures rigid, their hands resting near their sidearms.
The gangplank creaked.
Zahi Rukun stepped onto the deck first.
His massive frame cast a striking long shadow. The heavy, floor-length greatcoat of dark charcoal wool hung from his shoulders like a fortress wall, and the jade-green scarf at his throat fluttered in the wind. His skin was olive-toned, weathered, his face chiseled and intimidating, dominated by the piercing sky-blue eye and the clouded white one that shimmered with a faint, eerie glow. A scar ran from his left temple to his jaw, and his dark hair—tied in a low knot at the nape of his neck—was streaked with silver. He moved with the coiled grace of a predator, his boots silent on the wood, his presence pressing against the air.
Captain Ataboy Shitomi Kusaba followed a step behind. He was shorter, stockier, with a round face and flushed cheeks that made him look almost boyish. But his eyes—warm, dark brown—held a sharpness that missed nothing, and the subtle ridge of his cassowary crest was visible beneath his short, messy hair. His feather boa—deep blue, made from his own shed feathers—bounced with each step, and he carried himself with the easy confidence of a man who had survived everything the world had thrown at him.
The deck went silent. Even the wind stilled.
Zahi Rukun stopped. His clouded eye swept across the group—lingering on Marya, on Atlas, on the King—and something shifted behind his scarred face. Recognition? Assessment? It was impossible to tell.
The silence stretched, thick and heavy, broken only by the creak of the ship and the distant cry of gulls.
Then Zahi spoke. His voice was deep, resonant, each word placed with the care of a man who had learned that silence was a weapon and speech was its blade.
"I am Zahi Rukun." He inclined his head, a gesture that was not quite a bow. "General for Queen Meryem Nemos Uzra the Vast of the Sovereign Seas of the Papaho." He gestured to the man beside him. "This is Captain Ataboy Shitomi Kusaba." A pause. "I wish to speak with your King."
Phởlaurant Vanluc crossed his arms over his chest. The muscles in his jaw flexed. "And why should we allow you to speak with him?"
Zahi's eyes narrowed. His gaze swept the deck again—past Phởlaurant, past Anmarie, past the King—and landed on Marya. He studied her for a long moment, his clouded eye gleaming. Then his gaze shifted to Atlas, noting the Electro crackling between his fingers, the tension in his fur. He took a step forward.
Phởlaurant and Anmarie moved in unison, stepping into his path, their arms crossed, their bodies blocking his advance. Anmarie's hand rested on her sidearm. Phởlaurant's jaw was set.
Zahi sighed—a soft exhale, almost imperceptible. "I do not want any trouble." His voice was flat, weary. "I just want to talk."
Marya pushed off from the railing. Her boots thudded against the deck. She walked forward, her arms still crossed, her golden eyes fixed on Zahi's face. She stopped a few feet from him, close enough to see the scars that mapped his skin, close enough to smell the faint, sharp scent of vitriol that clung to his clothes.
"Then talk," she said.
Zahi's eyes narrowed. He studied her face—her sharp features, her guarded expression, the sword Nisshoku resting across her back. "You," he said. "You are the one who called."
Marya raised an eyebrow. She did not confirm. She did not deny. She simply waited.
Zahi continued, his voice low. "Your companions. They were in the cove. You man the submarine."
Atlas stepped forward, his fur bristling, his Electro flaring. "What of it?"
Zahi did not look at him. His gaze remained fixed on Marya. "You are part of the Red Hair's Fleet."
Marya sighed—a soft, weary sound. "We are taking the island for the Red Hair Emperor."
Zahi turned to face King Vitis Koshu. The King stood with his shoulders back, his chin lifted, his gray-blue eyes meeting Zahi's without flinching. Zahi's clouded eye gleamed.
"Sovereign Queen Meryem Nemos Uzra has sent me to relay her intentions," Zahi said.
Phởlaurant's brow furrowed. "Intentions."
Zahi nodded. "She will not allow this kingdom to fall to anyone who will—"
King Koshu stepped forward. He pushed through Phởlaurant and Anmarie, his burgundy robes rustling, his Vine Crown catching the light. He stopped nose to nose with Zahi Rukun, close enough that the General's shadow fell across his face. His voice was sharp, cold, carrying the weight of a man who had swallowed his pride too many times.
"I am aware of our history, General. And the mentality of your Sovereign." He did not blink. "What you offer is no different than that of the World Government. Just a different flag." He paused, letting the words settle. "I stand by my decision. We will fly the flag of the Red Hair Emperor."
Zahi's jaw flexed. The muscle jumped beneath his scarred skin. His clouded eye flared with that faint jade-green light, and for a moment—just a moment—something dark flickered behind his face. But he saw the resolve in King Koshu's eyes, the stubborn fire that refusal to bend, and he chose not to push. He shifted his attention back to Marya.
"You," he said.
Marya's expression did not change. Flat. Guarded. "You think you can take this island from the World Government?"
Marya blinked slowly. "What business is it of yours? Why do you care?"
Zahi's lip quirked—not quite a smile, but close. "Our business is our own." He shifted his weight, his greatcoat rustling."But we do have a mutual interest. And that is to keep this island out of the hands of the World Government."
Marya's eyes narrowed.
Zahi continued, his voice flat, measured. "And since our goals align on that single intention, we will help. We will provide support."
Marya tilted her head. Skeptical. Unconvinced.
Phởlaurant scowled. "And why would you do that?"
Zahi's clouded eye flicked to him, then back to Marya. "Like I said. My reasons are my own." A pause. "Just know that we will do whatever is needed to keep this island out of the hands of the World Government."
Marya shifted her weight. Her hand drifted to the kogatana at her neck, the small dagger resting against her collarbone. "And how do we know you won't get in the way?"
Zahi smirked—a thin, humorless expression. "What is your plan?"
Marya exchanged a look with Atlas, with Vesta, with the King. King Koshu shrugged—a small, helpless gesture. Marya pressed her lips together, making a decision. If this new ally became an enemy, she would kill him. Simple. Clean. She began.
"It is simple, really." Her voice was flat, dispassionate. "My vessel is maneuvering behind the Navy ships as support. All the fliers in my crew are going up the mountain to swap out the flag. And we are on our way to inform the Navy of—"
Zahi snapped. His voice cracked across the deck like a whip. "Are you serious?" His clouded eye flared. "That is not a plan! That is a total disaster."
Marya stared at him. Flat. Unmoving.
Zahi continued, his voice rising, his hands gesturing. "You cannot take the King to them to deliver the message. They will just kill him. And you cannot just walk off the ship. You might as well just turn yourselves in." He shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Do you really think that a single vessel will be able to corral Navy warships?" He dropped his hand, his eyes wide with disbelief. "Unbelievable."
Phởlaurant and Anmarie exchanged a look. The words hung in the air, sharp and undeniable. They had not said it aloud—had not let themselves think it—but hearing it from a stranger, hearing it laid out so bluntly, something shifted. Their plan was not a plan. It was a suicide mission dressed in optimism.
Phởlaurant's jaw tightened. "What do you propose, then?"
Zahi scanned the group. His clouded eye lingered on Marya, on Atlas, on the King. He sighed—a long, weary exhale—and turned to Ataboy.
"You." His voice was flat, commanding. "You and Lieutenant Tori Miniku. Go and support the flag team."
Ataboy nodded, his expression shifting from easy confidence to sharp focus. "Sir." He turned and ran toward the Papaho ship, his boots pounding against the deck, his feather boa bouncing. His voice carried across the water, sharp and clear. "Tori! We are moving!"
Zahi turned back to the group. "Do you have a map of the dock?"
No one answered. They were watching the sky.
Lieutenant Tori Miniku rose from the Papaho ship like a prayer answered. Her wings—massive, rainbow-hued, shimmering with iridescent light—unfurled, beating once, twice, lifting her into the air. Her body had transformed fully, the Divine Songbird Adarna in all its terrible beauty: feathers that shifted through every color, a beak sharp as a blade, eyes that glowed with silver light. She was breathtaking. She was terrifying.
And dangling from one of her legs, holding on with both hands, his feather boa streaming in the wind, was Captain Ataboy Shitomi Kusaba.
Tori banked, her wings beating in the wind, and shot toward the mountain. Ataboy's legs swung beneath her, kicking at the air, his laughter echoing off the waves.
On the deck of the Coast Guard ship, everyone stared.
Vesta's mouth hung open. "That," she breathed, "is the coolest thing I have ever seen."
Ember tilted her head, her mismatched eyes following the rainbow trail. "Pretty," she said.
Marya watched them go, her golden eyes tracking the bird's path, her expression unreadable. Then she turned back to Zahi Rukun.
"The dock," she said. "You wanted a map."
Zahi nodded, his clouded eye still fixed on the fading rainbow light. "Yes." He looked at her, and something passed between them—a wary acknowledgment, a fragile truce. "We have work to do."
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