My return to Sparkhold is—miraculously—uneventful. We arrive just before sundown, slipping past the gate [Guards] with nothing more than a bored glance. The clouds are streaked in molten orange as the light disappears into the distance.

  Daiyu walks with her usual controlled precision, and I sit perched on her shoulder like an ornament with an ego problem, tail flicking idly as we make our way toward the docks.

  As we approach, Daiyu lifts a hand subtly, pointing ahead. “I’m guessing that one is your ship?”

  I follow her gesture to the Timbergrove, suspended gracefully at its designated berth. She looks as perfect as ever—Plated hull, overly large cannons, and a ballistae on top. But what immediately catches my eye is not the ship, but the people watching her.

  Several men in pristine suits linger across the various gantries and platforms. Not uniforms—suits. Crisp, immaculate, tailored to perfection. The kind of fashion that screams “organized crime with a budget.” Some lean casually against railings. Others sit on crates. A few appear to simply admire the sky.

  But all of them have a perfect line of sight to the Timbergrove.

  “It is,” I answer. “How’d you know it was mine?”

  “Because the ship with the most eyes on it usually belongs to trouble,” she says dryly. “And those are Gambinos. Look at the stance—relaxed, confident, but always balanced. They’re pretending to loiter, not even doing it well.”

  I click my tongue in annoyance. “I was hoping they’d leave me alone. Maybe I should’ve killed that representative.”

  Daiyu immediately shakes her head. “No. Leaving him alive was the right call. If he had died, they’d look straight to you, guilt or not. And then the bounty boards would light up like festival lanterns.”

  We continue walking, both keeping the suited watchers in our peripheral vision. They don’t react to us—not even a glance. That’s how you know they’re professionals.

  “Honestly,” I mutter, “I still need to level. A few dozen [Pirates] coming after me could be good for business.”

  “Not just [Pirates],” she reminds. “Contracted [Bounty Hunters] like myself would come too.”

  I scoff. “Why? I’ve committed no crime.”

  She gives me a look.

  “…or are you implying the Gambinos can fabricate one?”

  “They absolutely can,” Daiyu says. “And they often do. Their influence reaches the guilds and the underworld both.”

  Wonderful.

  “So what do you suggest I do?” I ask.

  “Ignore them,” she says. “You killed Corvin to protect a child. Even the Gambinos understand that motive. You’re not an enemy… unless you become one.”

  “Then why are they watching?” I narrow my eyes. “Do they want Clay’s necklace? Or is it because she’s a [Crown Princess]?”

  “It could be either. Or they could simply be ensuring you don’t cause more trouble.”

  “Nobody surveils someone ‘just because.’ There’s intent.”

  “True,” she agrees. “But your best option is still ignoring them.”

  After a moment, I sigh. “Fine. We’ll do it your way.”

  We walk the last stretch of the gantry toward the Timbergrove. The suited men remain statues—still, patient, unnervingly professional. Not one twitch gives away aggression. That level of discipline alone makes them more dangerous than most rank-and-file thugs.

  Stepping aboard the Timbergrove, I realize immediately that things are changing. Numerous supplies are packed and organized into bags and crates. When I enter inside, I hear voices echo from within—laughter, bickering, utensils clattering against bowls. When we step into the mess room, the scene freezes like a painting.

  Boriss stands mid-sentence, waving a loaf of bread like a bludgeon. Mishka is at his side, tail wagging as if begging the bread to fall. Clay gestures excitedly at something Emma is trying to ignore. Myers sips tea with the disdain of a man who hates joy. Nepenthes studies a fork as though she might dissect it. Cillian chugs something alcoholic with a vigor bordering on spiritual. Julia dashes between seats refilling everyone’s drinks. Emma reads a rune-book with monastic focus. The [Mages] debate animatedly while the [Gunners] listen to Yuto telling a story overly dramatic even by his standards.

  Irmgard sits near the end, her plate pushed aside and replaced with paperwork—stacks of it—her pen scratching in sharp, irritated strokes.

  The first to spot us is Mishka. He barks—sharp, excited, echoing across the room like a thunderclap.

  Everyone turns.

  Clay launches from her seat, chair scraping loudly. “FLUFFY!”

  I hop off Daiyu’s shoulder and into her open arms. Clay hugs me with enough enthusiasm to bruise ribs, then carries me triumphantly to the table and plops me on top.

  “I have returned,” I announce grandly, lifting a paw. Then I gesture to Daiyu, lingering at the doorway. “And I bring a new member of the crew. Please welcome Daiyu—our [Artillery Chief].”

  The reception is warm. Cheers. Nods. A few impressed murmurs. Julia hurries to pull up a chair for her.

  Once introductions settle, I clear my throat.

  “Alright,” I say, lifting my voice just enough to reclaim the room. “Since I’ve been kidnapped, caged, and briefly repurposed as dungeon décor, I’m guessing things have progressed without me.” I glance around at the crates stacked against the walls and the carefully bundled supplies. “Irmgard—mind giving me an update? It looks like we’ve packed half the ship.”

  This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

  Irmgard exhales, the sound measured and professional, then sets her paperwork aside and rises from her seat. “Correct,” she says. “The decision was made to relocate the crew to the . The will be sold, and the proceeds used to remodel the cruiser.” She gestures briefly toward Myers. “The recommendation originated with him—before your unfortunate disappearance.”

  Myers lifts his teacup slightly in acknowledgment, offering no further explanation.

  “In addition,” Irmgard continues, “we’ve begun preliminary acquisition of personnel and supplies intended for the . The groundwork is already underway.”

  I nod slowly, absorbing it. “Does the actually need remodeling?” I ask, glancing between the two of them.

  “Before you were kidnapped,” Irmgard says, raising a hand toward Myers again, “he advised that the cruiser be refitted to better support additional roles and specialized jobs. The current configuration is… limiting.”

  “And how long is all of this going to take?” I ask. “I’d rather leave this island sooner than later.”

  “Less than a month,” she replies immediately, one eyebrow lifting. “That is, assuming no unforeseen complications.” Her gaze sharpens slightly. “Have you made any additional enemies?”

  Not exactly.

  I sigh, then lay it out plainly—how the Inquisition is likely searching for me now, and how the Gambinos have taken an interest in the ship.

  When I finish, Irmgard folds her arms across her chest, irritation plain on her face. “The Inquisition I can understand,” she says. “But why the Gambinos?”

  I glance briefly toward Myers, then Clay, before returning my attention to her. “It’s complicated. Let’s just say the fewer people who know the details, the better.”

  Her eyes narrow. “Then you will explain it to me in private,” she says, tone firm enough to brook no argument. “In the meantime, I’ll accelerate the remodeling and limit hiring for the to a skeletal crew.”

  She turns sharply toward Cillian. “Cillian. You have one week to sell the and secure cargo.”

  The Scotsman splutters. “We’ll lose profit! A week? How’m I supposed to get a fair price in a bloody week?”

  “Just get it done,” Irmgard says, unmoved.

  She then looks back to me. “I’ll have everything ready for departure in one week. Is that acceptable?”

  “It should be fine,” I reply. “I’ll need a couple of days to finish preparing the rest of the bombs.”

  “Bombs?” several voices echo at once.

  “Vials,” I correct quickly, waving a paw. “Explosive vials.” I yawn mid-sentence, exhaustion finally catching up to me, and shake my head to ward it off for the moment. “Ugh. That’s probably it for now. I’m turning in early. Does anyone have anything urgent I should know before then?”

  No one speaks. A few offer good-natured farewells. Others simply nod.

  With a lazy wave of my paw, I hop off the table and pad toward the captain’s quarters, leaving the crew to their food, their chatter, and the quiet momentum of preparations already in motion.

  _________________________________________________

  Morning comes quietly aboard the ship, the kind of morning that settles into corners rather than announcing itself. Before work begins and before the crew fully stirs, four humans occupy the cramped confines of Quasi’s quarters—a room never designed for secrets this heavy.

  Clay and Boriss sit on the edge of the bed. The mattress dips beneath Boriss’s weight, its springs faintly protesting, while Clay’s boots hang just above the floor, her heels gently bumping the frame whenever she shifts. Boriss’s massive hands are clasped together, elbows braced on his knees, shoulders hunched forward as if he’s bracing for impact. Clay sits straighter, posture attentive, eyes moving from face to face with quiet curiosity.

  Myers occupies the lone chair near the wall. The wood creaks softly beneath him when he adjusts, fingers wrapped tightly around the head of his cane. His jaw is set, expression drawn into a familiar grimace that suggests irritation—or reluctance. Across from them, Irmgard stands near the door, arms folded across her chest, boots planted firmly against the deck. She doesn’t lean. She doesn’t fidget. Her attention is absolute.

  Quasi sits atop his desk, paws folded neatly, tail wrapped around himself like a living punctuation mark. His violet eyes flick across the room, gauging readiness. When he’s satisfied, he clears his throat.

  “So,” he begins, tone casual but deliberate, “I’m fairly certain you’ve both realized by now that Myers is far more capable than he has any right to be.”

  Boriss nods immediately. “Da,” he says. “He is like retired Soviet general. One who still knows where bodies buried.”

  “He is indeed far more capable,” Irmgard agrees. “And far more knowledgeable.” Her eyes flick briefly toward Clay. “I imagine the name ‘Myers’ is an alias. As is ‘Clay.’”

  Quasi lets out a small chuckle. “Correct.” He turns his head toward Myers. “Alright, old man. Mind giving a proper introduction? A real one.”

  Myers doesn’t look up. His fingers tighten around the cane. “Do you trust them?”

  “I trust three people with a secret,” Quasi replies without hesitation. “Irmgard ran an underground prison city that stayed hidden from an entire nation. Boriss is blindingly loyal to me. Nepenthes would also qualify, but she’d demolish the furniture.” His tail flicks once. “Everyone here can be trusted.”

  A long pause follows.

  Myers exhales slowly, a tired sound pulled from deep in his chest. Then, with visible effort, he straightens. His posture shifts—not subtly, not gradually, but completely. The frailty vanishes. The old-man affect evaporates.

  When he speaks, his voice is steady.

  “I am [Ghost Admiral] Alistair Riftwalker,” he says. “Former head of Fallantine’s Royal Navy.” He pauses. “Most know me as the Ghostwright

  Irmgard’s eyes narrow, calculating. “I see.” Her gaze turns to Clay. “Then I presume Clay is actually [Crown Princess] Claryssandra Fallarion.”

  Clay nods once.

  Boriss’s eyes go wide.

  “No,” he says weakly. “No. You are not little boy.” He squints at her, disbelief cracking his voice. “You are little girl?”

  She nods again. “Grandpa said pretending to be a boy would make it harder to find me.”

  Boriss looks like the floor has vanished beneath him. “I— I sorry,” he blurts. “Very sorry.”

  Clay frowns. “Why?”

  Boriss shakes his head rapidly. “No, no, no. I think you little boy. I teach you how kill. How fight. How be proper Russian soldier.”

  “But I liked that,” Clay says earnestly. “Especially when you showed me how to kill really silently. That was fun.”

  Myers’s eyes bulge.

  Boriss looks genuinely distraught.

  “No,” Boriss mutters. “This not right.” He pushes himself to his feet, steps to the door, and yanks it open.

  “Boriss?” Quasi asks, startled. “Where are you going?”

  Boriss pauses in the doorway, shoulders rigid. “To find corner,” he says thickly, “and make manly Russian tears.”

  He leaves.

  Clay immediately hops off the bed and runs after him, boots thudding against the floor. She closes the door behind her.

  Silence settles into the room.

  After a moment, Quasi clears his throat. “Well,” he says carefully, “that was unexpected.” He exhales. “I’ll talk to him later.” His gaze shifts to Irmgard. “You seem to have already grasped the situation. Any questions?”

  Irmgard nods once. “Just one. You mentioned the Gambinos’ interest. Do they know Clay’s and Myers’s real identities?”

  “Clay’s, yes,” Quasi answers. “Myers’s, maybe. Daiyu thinks they’ll leave Clay alone on account of her age and their morals.”

  Irmgard nods, then glances at Myers. “But not you,” she says. “They’d have no problem going after your bounty.”

  “They wouldn’t act unless they were certain,” Myers says quietly. “Or unless they wanted to sell the information. Proof I’m on this island would fetch a ship’s ransom.”

  “What level of proof?” Irmgard asks. “Could it be falsified?”

  “Anything from documentation to job sightings.” Myers explains. “The Gambino’s probably already know that we’re in possession of a necklace that can hide classes and jobs, following them would be impossible.”

  Irmgard frowns. “What necklace is that? Is that the one around Clay’s neck?”

  Quasi, seeing the two going at it back and forth, decides to hop up to the top of his bookshelf for a little more shut-eye. As he drifts back for a couple more hours of sleep, he hears the conversation between the two shift from obfuscating Myers' existence, to possible assassinations, and just before sleep truly takes him again, they speak something about orchestrating a war.

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