The sky had cleared just enough for sunlight to filter through, reflecting off the puddles that lined the cobbled streets. Eskelson always smelled faintly of salt and metal, but the air that afternoon felt heavier.
Halsey stepped lightly up the stone steps of The Azure Rest, glancing at Lars beside her. He hadn't spoken much since their midday meal. The silence was only thoughtful, maybe wary.
They stopped at Room 7. Halsey raised her hand, knuckles poised for the first knock—
The door opened before she touched it.
"Ah," Alain Rouge said smoothly, already pulling the door closed behind him. "I was just on my way to find you."
Of course you were.
He looked impeccable again, deep garnet waistcoat, tailored coat, gloves in hand. There wasn't a thread out of place. His gaze drifted past them for a moment, and Charlie appeared from the room like a shadow, holding two neatly folded documents.
"For Miss Helen Durness," the steward said, offering the first to Halsey with a short bow. She accepted it without a word, noting the detail, it even smelled faintly of aged paper and cologne.
"And Mr. Denholm," Charlie continued, handing the second to Lars, who flipped it open with a casual flick of the thumb. After a beat, he glanced up.
"My real name?" he asked, tone more curious than concerned.
Alain gave a faint, amused shrug. "According to Charlie, your exploits precede you, Mr. Denholm. When I was gathering these from Eskelson's more… discreet tradesmen, it became apparent that fabricating your identity might prove more conspicuous than helpful."
Lars gave a small grunt that passed for appreciation. "Smart call. Saves me the trouble of pretending to be someone dull."
Halsey tucked her identification into her coat, eyeing Alain carefully. "And the rest? The arrangements?"
"All in place." Alain smiled, no tension behind it. "You'll board as personal acquaintances, nothing more, nothing less. Any inquiries will come through me. The stewards aboard these ships are used to ignoring polite company."
"Good," she said simply. "Then let's not tempt luck by lingering."
Alain stepped aside with a courteous sweep of the hand. "After you."
A four-person carriage waited outside, dark wood and brass trim glinting in the weak sunlight. Charlie climbed up beside the driver with a quiet efficiency.
Inside, the seats were soft and smelled faintly of sandalwood. Halsey settled in first, adjusting her coat and watching the city roll by through the window. Lars sat beside her, arms crossed. Alain took the seat opposite, relaxed and unreadable.
For a few moments, there was only the creak of wheels and the distant sound of gulls. Then Alain leaned slightly forward, eyes on hers.
"Miss Durness," he said, "do try not to get us thrown overboard."
Halsey offered a faint smirk. "If that happens, Mr. Rouge, I'd expect you to talk us back onto the ship before we hit the water."
He chuckled, satisfied. "Then we understand each other."
…
The carriage turned toward the harbor gates. The Punisher vessel, the Storm Dew, loomed beyond the dockside warehouses, a dark mass against the sea's horizon, all polished steel, taut rigging, and orderly menace.
As the carriage drew near, Halsey folded her gloved hands neatly in her lap and allowed herself a breath. Time to step inside the lion's mouth.
The sea stretched cold and indifferent beneath the afternoon light, but the ship moored at Eskelson's main dock had no such aloofness. The Storm Dew loomed like a blade of order, its angular form bristling with might approved by the Church. Gunmetal hull. Gleaming symbols. Uniformed officers patrolling the boarding lanes with grim expressions and eyes trained for deceit.
Halsey stepped out of the carriage and adjusted her gloves. Lars exited beside her, boots crunching against the stone. His shoulders were squared, but his gaze flicked with quiet calculation from patrol to patrol. Their every motion, tone, and path was memorized within moments.
Alain Rouge emerged last, smoothing his coat like a man preparing to attend the opera.
Halsey studied him for a beat. The way he moved. Unhurried and unworried. As though the world moved at his rhythm.
And perhaps, in some way, it did.
They approached the boarding checkpoint, where a tall officer with a stiff collar and clipboard was questioning a group of travelers. Nearby, another inspection line held up two merchants as their baggage was thoroughly searched, and one man's suitcase was being emptied onto the dock, much to his protest.
Lars muttered low enough that only Halsey heard, "That's going to be us if he talks too much."
But Alain was already stepping forward, smiling warmly, relaxed posture, holding out his documentation with the grace of someone bestowing a gift. The officer took it warily.
"We're registered as guests," Alain said in a pleasant tone, "accompanying the crossing for academic and diplomatic purposes. I do hope our presence doesn't trouble the process."
The officer began to speak, something about protocol, but paused.
Then blinked.
He frowned, faintly. His eyes drifted to the documents, then to Alain's suit, then to Charlie, who stood precisely behind them, hands folded like a butler carved from marble.
A gust of wind passed, carrying a burst of dockside smoke. Halsey caught the faintest twitch in the man's brows, uncertainty, maybe. A flicker of doubt or hesitation.
Then something shifted.
The officer gave a shallow cough and handed the documents back. "Everything seems in order. Move along."
Halsey blinked.
Lars didn't even try to hide the glance he gave Alain, who simply smiled like this was the natural outcome of things.
They passed unsearched.
The inspection behind them resumed, bags tossed, questions barked, but not for them.
Halsey didn't comment. There was nothing to say that wouldn't draw attention to the invisible ripple that had just carried them forward.
Then came the next wall.
A figure stood at the ramp leading onto the Storm Dew. Old, but upright, his posture unwavering, like a pillar carved from divine mandate. Silver eyes gleamed beneath the brim of a soft black bonnet, and his long black robe bore the embroidered sigil of the Lord of Storms, stark and commanding. One gloved hand rested lightly on the hilt of a blade. His presence was quiet, but absolute.
Archbishop Ace Snake. Spellsinger of God.
Alain approached first, giving a bow so shallow it barely qualified as such, yet somehow still polite.
"Sir Snake," he greeted with charm lacquered smooth, "to meet you in person is a privilege. Your name is known in many circles, especially among those grateful to still have a circle to gather in, after Babayaga's recent endeavors."
Ace Snake gave a slow nod. "We did what was required."
Alain smiled wider. "Your standards for 'required' are far above the ordinary! Astonishing!."
The Archbishop's eyes flicked to the red of Alain's vest.
For the briefest instant, something shimmered. The fabric darkened, then pulsed faintly with a deeper red hue, like the last trace of an ember beneath ash.
Alain smiled faintly, commenting with a lower tone than normal. "It's reassuring to know the Lord of Storms still favors such capable hands."
Halsey caught the minute shift, and the Captain's jaw tightened by half a degree.
"Continue," he said, clipped. "Don't cause delays."
Alain bowed slightly again, unfazed. "Of course. We'll be no trouble."
Ace Snake turned away, already gesturing to an aide with curt efficiency.
As they passed the threshold and entered the Punisher's lower deck, the contrast in atmosphere was immediate. The air grew colder and cleaner. Halsey's steps slowed, her eyes adjusting.
A moment later, Lars tapped her arm lightly. "We're not alone."
She followed his gaze, and her eyes landed on a man, average to the point of being nondescript. Brown-blond hair. Black eyes. Worn coat. His clothes looked like the kind drawn in the margins of a lazy author's sketchpad.
He wasn't moving with the crew. Nor standing like a passenger.
He was watching Alain.
Not openly. Just… harrowing. Focused. For a second too long.
Then he jolted, as if caught daydreaming, and fumbled forward, muttering an apology to no one in particular, disappearing into the crowd of passengers.
But Halsey had seen the moment.
And Alain turned his head just slightly. Just enough to see the man's retreating back. His eyes narrowed, only slightly, before curling into a private smile.
Then, without comment, he continued walking.
Neither Halsey nor Lars noticed this, moving on normally.
The hallways inside the Storm Dew were narrow but polished, lined with reinforced brass moldings and rune-etched lanterns that gave off a soft, sterile glow. Their boots made almost no sound on the dark wood floors, the silence broken only by the distant thrum of arcane engines deep below deck.
Alain led the group with casual grace, Charlie a half step behind and to his left, always precise, always silent.
At the third turn, Alain came to a stop before a big dark door marked with gold-etched letters.
"This is mine," he said smoothly, resting one hand lightly on the handle. Then he turned slightly, gaze drifting to Halsey and Lars. "Yours are at the end of the hall. I took the liberty of requesting privacy, I assumed you'd appreciate the space."
Halsey met his eyes and offered a courteous smile. "Thoughtful. Thank you. If anything comes up, don't hesitate to call for us."
Alain dipped his head, amused. "I'll try not to be too demanding."
Charlie stepped forward and opened the door, and the two disappeared behind it with the faint click of expensive hinges.
Halsey and Lars continued on, passing by two empty-looking rooms and a wall-mounted Church notice calling for prayerful silence during their entire trip.
Their quarters were modest but clean. A pair of beds sat parallel with a narrow table in between, and a tall mirror stood beside a closed armoire. The room smelled of varnish and distant salt.
Lars closed the door behind them and slid the lock into place with a click. He leaned his back against it for a second and exhaled.
"We're in."
Halsey let out a quiet breath of her own. She pulled her gloves off and tossed them on the bed, walking slowly toward the mirror and inspecting their reflection, posture composed, but tension visible in the curve of her shoulders.
"That could've gone worse."
"Could've gone a lot worse," Lars agreed, finally stepping away from the door. "But don't relax yet. We're under his supervision."
"Spellsinger of God," Halsey murmured, her eyes still on their reflection.
Lars gave a small grunt. "The man who sings your sins into the ledger before you've committed them."
She gave a faint smile at that, then turned from the mirror and leaned against the pantry. "Still, the ship's condition seems... orderly. Functional. I didn't sense anyone tailing us after the inspection either."
Lars nodded, but his expression didn't ease. "Except that man."
Halsey's eyes met his. "You saw him too."
"Couldn't miss him," Lars said, crossing his arms. "Looked like a background character from a cheap novel, too normal to be normal. Staring at Alain like he was trying to solve a riddle he didn't like the answer to."
She folded her arms, thoughtful. "He broke line of sight rather quickly though."
"Which means there might be something rather concerning to him. " Lars narrowed his eyes. "That makes him dangerous. Keep your eyes sharp."
"I always do," Halsey said quietly, then stepped toward the door and peered through the spyhole, just in case.
The hallway outside was empty, lit in golden light and gently rocking with the rhythm of the sea. But the unease remained, not just from the man, the Archbishop, or even the Church.
It was the feeling that they'd stepped into a story already in motion.
And someone else might be writing the next chapter.
…
The door shut with a soft click behind Charlie.
Jack didn't move at first. He stood perfectly still in the middle of the room, his back to the polished wall, the dim light brushing across his sharp features and well-pressed dark-red suit.
Then he started laughing.
It began as a short breath, one of disbelief, then bloomed into a rich, unrestrained burst of laughter that echoed off the reinforced walls.
"Oh… oh, he was the captain of this ship?" he wheezed between bouts, gripping his sides. "Ace Snake... the Spellsinger of God… protector of mankind… torchbearer of justice...!"
He slapped the back of a nearby chair once and doubled over slightly, his grin growing wider with each passing second.
"How many heroes does it take to sail a ship?" he asked no one in particular. "Apparently just one, if he sings well enough."
He took yet another laugh.
Eventually, the storm passed. He straightened his coat, exhaled deeply, and smoothed back his hair with theatrical calm, like a man recovering from a particularly good performance.
"Didn't think the day could get better," he murmured, a faint chuckle slipping through. "And yet here we are."
He walked toward the faintly glowing mirror mounted on the far wall and adjusted his collar. The suit shimmered faintly.
And Jack had felt it.
"Oh, yes," he whispered, eyes gleaming. "The man in brown."
His smile thinned into something more dangerous, not sharp, but curved like a trap just before it springs.
"Glaring like he wanted to rip my spine out and wear it as a cravat. I do admire that level of commitment."
The laughter didn't return, just the quiet, steady amusement of a man who'd found a new thread worth pulling.
Erynos' Danger Premonition had pulsed the moment that man had locked eyes with him. A direct, precise sensation.
Vicious malice.
And Jack had sensed it all through the threads of his suit, the suit that wasn't just cloth, but his marionette that he morphed into his very own clothing.
"Oh, I could have followed him," Jack mused aloud. "Or corrupted him using the connection he made with his bloodthirst."
His fingers twitched idly. The temptation was genuine.
But he didn't.
"Too soon," he muttered. "If someone like Ace Snake smells even a hint of corruption, he'll blow the whole deck off trying to purify the air."
Besides…
Jack's expression turned thoughtful.
"He stopped. That's the part that is interesting."
The man, whoever he was, had pulled back. A sharp mind with sharper instincts. Something in him had sensed something and retreated.
Jack tapped his chin, eyes narrowing with interest.
"That level of spiritual intuition… mm. Worth keeping an eye on. Might even be fun."
For now, though?
He strolled over to the chair in the corner, sat down with exaggerated leisure, and crossed one leg over the other. His gloved fingers drummed once against the armrest.
"Same old song," he murmured. "Same old stage."
He tilted his head toward the ceiling, voice soft and cheerful.
"Let's see who dances first."