Ship number 4287.

Christian Melloar.

Description: nose sharp like an eagle's beak, nostrils too wide for a face like his. When I spot him—obsidian-black hair and a face carved like arrogance—I know it's him. No exaggeration in the records. What kind of mother births a man like that?

He notices me, and while his eyes shift, awkward and nervous. The same reaction I've gotten from more than half of them today.

Overhead, gulls screech in the wind. More ships creep in from the horizon—dark silhouettes dragging Reds toward hell.

"Mr. Melloar," I say, adopting the polished, clipped tone of Elisia's upper crust. Still masculine. Still commanding. But high-born enough to make men sweat.

I comb my fingers through my beard and step closer.

"Let's speak for a bit."

The words stop him cold. He stammers, swallows.

"W–what… what do I owe the pleasure?"

His smile wavers. Hands tremble behind his back. I could knock him over with one kick. A child could.

I close the distance, and our faces are a breath apart. He doesn't stink of blood, not visibly tainted. Not yet.

I smile—barely.

"I'm with the Order," I say. "Let's talk business."

…

The rest of the day drags into repetition. Each hour, I pull out the same small pouch. It fits in my palm, tied tight, filled with rolled golden Notes—currency marked with Her Radiance, Elisia. The orange queen of this broken empire. Same currency for over a thousand years.

Every man I show it to stares like he's glimpsed salvation. Over a thousand in value. Enough to drown in dreams.

They all think they'll get it. Maybe some will, but probably not.

The thought eats at me as I shake my head, trying to ignore a loaf of bread trampled in the dust—someone's dinner turned to dirt.

The sky is still bright, but it won't be for long.

I breathe in the harbor air—salt, rot, and fish all blending together. Birds wheel overhead. Seagulls, mostly. Doves perch on tiled roofs nearby, cooing like they don't know the world's gone to hell.

I drift toward the edge of the market. Vendors shout over each other, pushing fish and meat and fruit with cracked voices and desperate eyes.

And for a moment, I almost forget I spent the morning walking through human blood.

This has to end. It will end.

She must live a life without cannibals in alleyways or rapists in shadows.

The thought cuts like glass, and my brows tighten. A knot digs into the space between them.

I shove the anger down and move on.

More galleons arrive, their decks loaded with Reds—skin burning under hot irons, hands tied behind their backs. Suffering disguised as process.

But not forever. Soon they'll be free.

My work is done for today. Forty-one spoken to. Same as the others, more or less. Tomorrow we'll do it again. And again. Until Aston's family finally sets the last wheel in motion.

I try not to think about the timeline. A week, maybe more.

Right now, I want to think about her.

Strange how much I've changed.

Just a short while ago, I saw the world as something to survive.

Now? Now I want to make it better—for her.

A small blue-skinned family passes by. Stoic, eyes blank. Except the child. She's beaming. The parents glance at each other, and for just a moment, I catch it—a tiny smile. Real. Fleeting. But it lives.

It reminds me of something I lost… and something I might gain again.

My feet carry me toward a stand at the edge of the market. The old woman working it is trembling. Her skin has the soft purple tone of faded blueberries. Her voice is thin, barely cutting through the noise around her.

But her stand is different. This chapter was originally posted on *.

Sweets.

Not fish. Not fruit. Not survival.

Joy.

I step closer. The scent pulls me in—warm, spiced. Fluffy orbs skewered on a thin stick. Brown fading to deep red, then orange at the edges. They remind me of her. Of the girl. Of the light she's brought into this rotting world.

I reach into my coat, fingers brushing over gold.

"One skewer of…" My voice falters.

The old woman finishes for me, smiling kindly. "Elena," she says.

Yes. That's the name.

I hand her a golden Note—far too much for the treat. Doesn't matter.

Today, I feel like this.

As I walk away, the skewer in hand, I catch myself smiling. Not forced. Not painted on.

A real one. The kind even my kind can't fake.