Gale cracked the barn door open just enough to peek through. His eyes scanned the moonlit dirt road outside, tracing the movements of two pirates patrolling lazily around the perimeter.
One scratched himself in a way that made Gale regret having eyes, and the other was so busy humming off-key sea shanties that Gale was pretty sure they could just walk out in broad daylight and still not get caught.
'Good. They haven't noticed a thing.'
He turned back to the very princely package behind him—Cordavin, still half-dressed and brimming with indignant energy like a soda can someone shook too much.
"Alright," Gale whispered. "We're going out the side. Stick close, follow my lead, don't trip over your own—"
"Have you taken leave of your senses?" Cordavin barked, his voice loud enough to startle a nearby mouse into retirement.
Gale blinked slowly and turned around, his face already forming that familiar what now expression he reserved for particularly dumb questions and people who put pineapple on pizza.
Cordavin pointed dramatically at the barn door. "Out there prowl the enemies of my people! Knaves! Butchers! Black-hearted villains who desecrated my order and murdered my brothers-in-arms!"
Gale gave a nod. "Right, yeah. That's why we're sneaking out. So we don't join them in the 'murdered' category. Keep up."
"I will not slink away like some coward!" Cordavin snapped. "I am a knight of the Gilded Thorn, heir to the Vashiri throne! I shall FIGHT my way out!"
There was a beat of silence as Gale stared at him.
Then another beat.
Then Gale exhaled slowly, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
"…Listen, Your Royal…whateverness," he muttered. "This is not the part where you go full soap opera and die for honor. This is the part where I get your entitled butt out of this pirate-infested mess so the real soldiers can do their job without having to worry about your royal hiney getting impa--"
"You will HELP ME," Cordavin thundered, pointing a very regal finger at Gale's face. "I command it, as heir to the throne!"
Gale's eye twitched.
He didn't speak at first. Just stared. The kind of long, soul-weary stare that philosophers give when realizing all their life's work amounts to a poorly explained metaphor.
"…You command it?" Gale repeated, voice flat as a pancake under a Sea King's butt. "What, is that supposed to do something to me? Activate a royal mind-control protocol?"
"I am your future king!"
"You're a half-naked man in a barn yelling at the guy who just saved your life," Gale replied, folding his arms. "I'm not from Vashiri. You don't sign my paycheck. And even if you did, I'd still file for hazard pay for having to deal with you."
Cordavin looked stunned, like the concept of someone not instantly obeying his royal whims had never occurred to him.
Gale stared at Cordavin, long and hard, the way one might stare at a cockroach that just dared to sit on their lunch and declare itself king of the sandwich.
He had already been close—so close—to just knocking the idiot out and dragging him over his shoulder like a sack of screaming potatoes. Nothing too rough, just a quick lights out, a couple of loosened teeth, maybe a bruised ego that would take a few generations to recover from.
But Cordavin had held him back with one little outburst of royal idiocy, that one line:
"You will help me, or I will have you executed."
Gale didn't react right away. He didn't twitch, didn't blink, didn't even breathe for a full second. His brain, however, was screaming. Not out of fear—no, Gale couldn't care less about some royal toddler's tantrum—but out of the sheer, cosmic level of disbelief that such a stupid sentence had been said out loud, by someone who was currently in his underwear, tied to a pillar three minutes ago.
Cordavin, clearly unaware that he'd just made the top of Gale's personal "People Who Should Not Be Left Alive For Plot Reasons" list, continued without a shred of shame.
"Let's make haste. You take the lead, and I shall follow behind… to, of course, watch your back!"
He even puffed up a little. Like that would somehow sell it.
Gale's eyes turned colder than the Grand Line in winter. Emotionless. Calculating. It was the kind of look that said, you're not a person to me anymore, you're a logistical problem.
He decided, calmly and methodically, that saving this arrogant man-child was no longer in anyone's best interest.
Rescuing him might actually be a mistake. Not just a whoops kind of mistake. No, more like a cripple-an-entire-nation-by-letting-an-idiot-live kind of mistake. If Cordavin got recaptured and used as a bargaining chip, the pirates would have the upper hand.
And worse yet—if he didn't get recaptured and just survived long enough to return home? That meant a man who tried to blackmail his own savior into obedience would one day be king.
And Gale? Gale didn't like that timeline. That was bad ending territory.
Ugh... but killing him myself would be a paperwork nightmare, Gale thought with a mental groan. Not to mention I'd have to explain it to Isuka And Remiel. And maybe a war crimes tribunal.
Still... there were other ways.
He leaned against the doorframe casually, glancing out one more time at the patrolling pirates, mentally calculating distances and guard patterns.
Then, ever so slightly, a grin crept up the corner of his mouth.
Gale gave Cordavin a serene smile. The kind that said I have never been more sincere about pushing someone into mortal danger in my entire life.
"You're right…" he said calmly, clasping his hands behind his back. "We should make these pirates pay, shouldn't we?"
Cordavin beamed, standing taller as though he'd personally inspired the statement. "Well said! Hurry then—take the lead, and let us slaughter these scoundrels!"
Gale's smile didn't waver. "Oh, no, no… I couldn't possibly dream of taking the lead."
Cordavin blinked. "You… couldn't?"
"Of course not. It's your homeland. Your people. Your honor at stake," Gale continued, placing a hand on the prince's bare shoulder with just enough weight to be patronizing. "It's only right that you take the lead."
Before Cordavin could protest, Gale leaned in, voice dropping into that soft, persuasive tone one might use to talk a cat into a bathtub.
"In fact, I think you should charge the pirates alone."
Cordavin opened his mouth. Closed it. Blinked again. "I… beg your pardon?"
"This is a rare opportunity, Your Highness," Gale said, smoothly spinning the fantasy like a traveling salesman with a bag of cursed mirrors. "Imagine the tale that would be told. The captured prince, rising from the ashes of defeat… charging alone into battle, out of sheer love for his people and righteous rage toward his enemies…"
He gestured grandly toward the door. "You, alone, striking down a crew of vicious pirates with nothing but your fury and divine birthright. An unstoppable force of royal vengeance that strikes fear in the hearts of your enemies and inspires the people..."
Cordavin's eyes glazed over slightly. Gale could see the gears turning in his head. He was already picturing himself standing on a pile of unconscious pirates, a golden crown gleaming atop his windswept hair, peasants cheering, trumpets blaring, some bard in the corner writing songs about his glistening pectorals.
Yes. The idiot was hooked.
But then Cordavin shook his head with surprising awareness for someone who had, five minutes ago, almost bragged his way into dying in a barn.
"No," he said stubbornly. "Those pirates fight without honor. They'd fight dirty. I would take them all in a fair duel, but they don't play fair!"
Gale's smirk widened. 'Good,' he thought. 'Still just stupid enough to push. Just needs a little more encouragement…'
"Of course you wouldn't be truly alone," Gale said reassuringly. "While you appear to charge into the fray by yourself… I'd be with you. In the shadows. Watching your back. Making sure every arrow misses. Every sneak attack fails. Quietly cleaning up behind the curtain while you bask in the spotlight."
He bent down, picked up a pebble, and casually flicked it toward a rusty bucket in the corner.
THWIP.
The stone punched clean through the side of the bucket, leaving a neat hole and a faint plume of dust. Cordavin's eyes widened.
"I've got your back," Gale said smoothly, like a demon offering a well-worded contract. "This is your battle to win. Your glory to claim."
Cordavin's chest puffed up again, visibly torn between self-preservation and the intoxicating allure of fanfare. He was close—so very close—to accepting. You could practically see the "heroic prince slaughters pirate horde" headline forming in his brain.
Gale gave him one final nudge, placing a hand on his shoulder again—firm, but gentle. Like a friend. Or a particularly motivated insurance salesman.
"You'll be a legend," he whispered.
Cordavin's lips parted slightly, his eyes shimmering with a wild cocktail of fear, ego, and daydreamed adoration. He didn't say yes… but he didn't say no, either.
Which, in Gale's book, meant checkmate.
...
Gale sat cross-legged on the slanted rooftop of a rundown townhouse, one hand absently tossing a dozen smooth pebbles in the air like he was prepping for a very elaborate street performance. The night was still dark, quiet, save for the occasional creak of old shutters and the distant sound of a pirate belching.
Then—right on cue.
From the barn, helmet gleaming under the moonlight and wearing nothing but his royal-issue underwear, Prince Cordavin burst forth with all the dignity of a goose attacking a lawn chair.
"HAVE AT THEE, PIRATES!" he bellowed, pointing his sword dramatically. "IT'S TIME TO MEET YOUR MAKER!"
Gale nearly dropped his pebbles from laughter.
'There he goes. A legend in the making. A very cold, very underdressed legend.'
The conversation from earlier was still fresh in his mind.
Cordavin had insisted—insisted—on either donning his full armor (which was somewhere in a pirate's footlocker) or borrowing a pair of pants from one of the unconscious guards. But Gale had gently talked him down.
"Trust me," he'd said, dead serious, "charging into battle in nothing but a helmet and your royal briefs? That's peak heroism. It'll inspire your people. Poets will cry."
And Cordavin, the glorious idiot that he was, had bought it. Completely. The man was now running half-naked into a pirate-infested town like he was trying to win a dare and a medal at the same time.
Down below, a couple of pirates finally noticed the commotion.
"Hey, look at that! The princey got outta the barn," one snorted, elbowing his buddy. "You think the guards let him out for a laugh?"
"Pfft, probably taking bets on how far he could go..." the other chuckled, unsheathing his sword lazily. "Bet he doesn't make it past the outhouse. I'll go knock him out and tuck him back in."
"Wait, wait, wait—hold on," the first pirate called out to the others nearby. "Guys! You gotta see this! He's doin' the full heroic charge! In his underwear!"
More heads poked out from doorways and alley shadows, laughter erupting as they crowded around for the show. You could hear coins being passed around—probably starting bets on how long it'd take the 'noble prince' to hit the dirt.
Meanwhile, the first pirate casually stepped up to Cordavin, grinning.
"Nice helmet, your majesty. Hope it comes in kid sizes," he mocked.
Cordavin leveled his sword. "Cut the chatter, knave, and face me!"
The pirate snorted and lunged.
Gale, watching from above, narrowed his eyes. The pirate wasn't great, but he wasn't a joke either. His footing was solid. His blade, angled to knock Cordavin out cold—probably to keep the entertainment going for the rest of the night. A concussed prince made a funnier hostage, after all.
Cordavin, on the other hand…
'He's swinging that sword like he's trying to shoo away a mosquito,' Gale thought with a sigh.
Without missing a beat, Gale flicked one of the pebbles.
CRACK.
The stone smacked the pirate clean in the temple. Just enough force to daze him, to throw off the angle of his strike. It gave Cordavin the perfect opening—and to the surprise of absolutely everyone present, the prince's haphazard, overextended swing actually landed.
The pirate's eyes went wide as he stumbled backward, then dropped like a sack of flour. Unmoving.
Dead silence.
The crowd of pirates stared.
Someone dropped a bottle.
"…He… he killed Dave," one pirate whispered.
Another's lip trembled. "No! Not Kind Dave… he used to share his rations with me when I had scurvy…"
"He always said 'thank you' after a bout of robbing! Who does that?!"
Then came the collective shing of drawn swords.
"THAT'S IT! LET'S KILL HIM!"