The dock smelled of salt, tar, and the sour sweat of fear.
Columns of civilians shuffled past in ragged lines—fishermen in stained trousers, women clutching children to their chests, old men with empty eyes and trembling hands. A Marine with a clipboard shouted orders, his voice flat and bored, as if he were directing cargo instead of people. A child dropped a stuffed rabbit. No one stopped to pick it up.
Vice Admiral Casimir walked along the edge of the dock, his ivory-white coat pristine, his gold epaulets gleaming. The silver Mariejois-minted quarter rolled across his knuckles—click, click, click—a nervous rhythm that never reached his face. His pale blue eye swept across the crowd without seeing them. He did not blink.
Vice Admiral Auricha Uzumati walked beside him, his massive frame casting a shadow that swallowed the dock. His long black braid swayed with each step, and the eagle feather tucked behind his left ear bobbed in the salt breeze. He spoke in a low rumble, his voice carrying the weight of a man who had learned to be calm while the world burned.
"The transports are on schedule," Auricha said, gesturing with his chin toward the ships moored at the far end of the dock. "Three vessels. They'll reach Mary Geoise in twelve days, weather permitting. Commander Voss at the receiving depot has been notified. He expects the delivery by the end of the month."
Admiral Ryokugyu walked between them, his green-striped jacket flapping in the wind, a cigarette burning between his fingers. Sunglasses hid his eyes, but his posture—relaxed, almost bored—spoke of a man who had seen worse and didn't care. He took a long drag and let the smoke curl from his nostrils.
"When do you expect the King's official response?" Ryokugyu asked, glancing at Casimir.
Casimir opened his mouth.
"Vice Admiral." Alejandro Fuego's voice cut through the air like a blade. The CP-0 agent appeared from behind a stack of crates, his white mask a stark contrast against the grime, his flowing robes billowing despite the still air. His amber-yellow eyes burned through the eyeholes. "We have a development."
Ryokugyu turned, his sunglasses reflecting Alejandro's masked face. "Explain."
A shout rang out from the far end of the dock. "Ship incoming! Royal insignia! It's the Kura-Kura Kingdom!"
The four men paused. Casimir's quarter stopped mid-roll. Auricha's hand drifted to Mato's Claw at his hip. Ryokugyu took one last drag of his cigarette and dropped it, crushing the ember under his heel.
"Good," Ryokugyu muttered. "We can wrap this up, then."
They walked to where the ship was docking. The vessel was modest—a Coast Guard cutter, white hull gleaming, the kingdom's crest painted on its bow. Sailors moved across the deck with practiced efficiency, throwing mooring lines to the dock workers, securing the gangplank.
The plank lowered with a creak of wood and rope.
Orianne Seine walked down first. Her silver-white bob was immaculate, her tailored charcoal suit pressed to perfection, her ebony cane striking the wooden planks with a rhythmic thunk-thunk-thunk that echoed across the dock. Her pale blue eyes—sharp, assessing, missing nothing—swept across the lines of civilians being herded onto ships. Her expression did not change.
Phởlaurant Vanluc followed a step behind, his Coast Guard uniform crisp, his jaw set, his warm amber-brown eyes hard. He scanned the dock—the armed sailors, the weeping children, the Marines barking orders—and his shoulders tightened. A muscle jumped in his jaw.
The three Navy officers—Casimir, Auricha, Ryokugyu—stood in a loose line at the end of the gangplank. Alejandro Fuego lingered a few feet behind them, his masked face unreadable.
Orianne stopped in front of Casimir. She did not bow. She did not nod. She simply stood, her back straight, both hands resting on the silver handle of her cane, and looked up at him with an expression that said: I have done this a thousand times. You are not special.
"Good day," she said. Her voice was low, measured, devoid of warmth. "I am here to deliver a message."
She held out an envelope.
The paper was thick, cream-colored, sealed with red wax stamped with the royal crest—a grapevine wrapped around a rice stalk. Casimir took it, his thick fingers tearing the wax, his pale blue eye scanning the words inside.
Auricha watched his face. Ryokugyu watched his face. Alejandro's amber eyes did not move.
Casimir's jaw flexed. The muscle jumped beneath his pale skin. His good eye narrowed, and the hand holding the letter trembled—just a fraction, just enough to notice.
He looked up at Orianne. His voice came out flat, cold, stripped of everything except the barest thread of control.
"Where is he?"
Orianne lifted her chin. One eyebrow arched—just a fraction, just enough to convey the depth of her disdain.
"He has other obligations that require his immediate attention." She paused, letting the words settle. "I believe the letter clearly states his intentions. Now, if you—"
Ryokugyu stepped forward. His patience had evaporated. "Seize them." His voice carried across the dock, flat and final. "Seize their vessel. They can be shipped off to Mary Geoise with the rest."
The world went grey.
Fog rolled in from the sea—thick, cold, all consuming. It poured over the dock like water over a dam, filling every space, every corner, every crack between the wooden planks. The smell of salt and damp earth filled the air. The sound of waves crashing against the dock grew distant, muffled, as if the world had wrapped itself in cotton.
People screamed.
Visibility dropped to nothing. The lines of civilians dissolved into shadows. The ships disappeared. The dock vanished beneath a sea of grey.
"What is this?" Auricha called out, his deep voice carrying through the fog. His hand closed around Mato's Claw, the tomahawk's worn leather grip familiar against his palm.
"It's her," Casimir growled, his quarter forgotten, his hand reaching for his pistol. "It's—"
Alejandro's voice cut through the chaos, sharp and urgent. "That is what I was trying to tell you! She is—"
The skeletal beings emerged from the mist.
They rose from the fog like corpses clawing out of graves—tall, thin, their bones gleaming white, their empty eye sockets burning with faint blue flames. They moved without sound, their bony fingers reaching for the screaming civilians, for the shouting Marines, for anyone caught in the grey.
Chaos erupted.
Marines fired their rifles into the fog, the shots muffled, directionless. A woman shrieked. A child cried out. The skeletal beings drifted through the chaos, silent, implacable, their bony hands closing around arms and shoulders and dragging people into the grey.
Phởlaurant grabbed Orianne by the shoulders. His hands were warm, steady, grounding. "Come on," he said, his voice low, urgent. "Let's go."
Orianne did not argue. She nodded, her composure cracking just enough to show the fear beneath, and let him guide her back up the gangplank. Her cane struck the wood—thunk-thunk-thunk—faster now, less measured.
Phởlaurant shouted orders over his shoulder. "Withdraw the plank! Cast off! We're leaving!"
The sailors moved, their hands steady despite the chaos, pulling the gangplank aboard, casting off the mooring lines. The ship shuddered as the engines engaged.
Orianne stood at the railing, her knuckles white around her cane, her pale blue eyes fixed on the fog-shrouded dock. "What are you—" she started.
Phởlaurant cut her off, his voice hard. "They have our people on their ships." He gestured toward the vessels moored at the far end of the dock, barely visible through the grey. "We are going to get them back."
Orianne's eyes widened. "No... how..."
"They were loading them as we handed them the letter." Phởlaurant's jaw tightened. "Those ships off the coast—we have to intercept."
Orianne stared at him for a long moment. Then her expression shifted—the shock fading, the steel returning. She straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin, and nodded.
"Then go," she said. "I will handle the paperwork later."
Phởlaurant turned to the helm. "Full speed. Head for the transport ships. We have civilians to recover."
The ship pulled away from the dock, cutting through the grey water, the fog closing around them like a shroud. Behind them, the dock faded into the mist, and the screams grew distant, muffled, swallowed by the cold and the silence and the skeletal things that drifted through the grey.
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