The salt air of the capital's harbor carried the familiar stench of gunpowder, scorched wood, and damp cannonballs. Gale stood at the edge of the docks with his arms crossed and a neutral expression that, if you squinted hard enough, could almost pass for reflective stoicism.
Almost.
Behind him, the city's defenders were cheering. Cannons still smoked on the battlements, and black powder residue streaked their cheeks. The knights waved to their countrymen like they'd just liberated the whole archipelago singlehandedly. Marines hoisted their rifles like trophies.
Somewhere, Poqin was already trying to barter some pirate loot for beer with a baffled local.
And out at sea, their lone Marine ship was circling the wreckage like a lazy shark, fishing out the last of the half-drowned pirates and collecting whatever wasn't nailed down—or currently on fire.
Gale watched a crate float by, half of it burnt to ash, the other half still bearing the stamp of the Vashiri spice guild.
"Looks like the chili powder survived," he muttered dryly.
The battle had gone well. Not incredible, not revolutionary, just... well. Nothing to write home about—if Gale ever actually wrote home. The first pirate ship had crumpled with a single well-placed shot, thanks to a little trickery and a rifle that now lived at the bottom of the ocean.
The second one put up a bit more of a fight—enough to earn an annoyed scoff, but not enough to make Gale break a sweat.
Isuka's orders had kept the deck running sharp. Poqin's steering somehow didn't send them into a reef or a shoal—minor miracle, really. And the marines, once their nerves stopped clattering louder than their rifles, performed decently.
The knights, for their part, remembered that swords don't work against cannonballs and switched to bows, pikes, or, in Cordavin's case, loud yelling from behind a barrel.
As for the remaining two pirate ships? They'd been pinched between Gale's ship and the city's defenders like bread between teeth. A few minutes of cannon fire later and—snap, crackle, boom—both were fish food.
Gale hadn't lifted a single finger after that first shot.
Not because he couldn't.
Because he didn't want to.
If anyone asked later—and they would—he already had his list of noble-sounding excuses ready to go. Things like:
"This is Vashiri's fight. I can not rob them of the right to defend their homes..."
Or,
"The marines need experience. They can't rely on Devil Fruit users for everything."
Or, if he was feeling especially dramatic,
"True strength lies in unity, not one man's might."
And if you believed any of that, you probably also believed that Cordavin was a military genius and Poqin was a teetotaler.
The truth?
Gale just didn't want to do all the work himself.
Because the moment you show people you can do everything, they start asking you to do everything. Next thing you know, you're singlehandedly patching ships, leading speeches, writing up after-action reports, and tutoring the prince in swordplay while someone hands you a mop and says, "You're so good at this, why not clean too?"
Hard pass.
He wasn't about to set that precedent.
So he stood there on the docks, perfectly content as the city behind him cheered, the crew worked, and the knights strutted like roosters.
He caught sight of Remiel helping haul a wounded pirate onto shore, armor glinting in the morning sun. Isuka was giving orders even while dressing a marine's wounds.
Poqin had somehow acquired a pipe, a sash, and was now waving to some local women like he'd just won the war himself.
Gale sighed.
"Yep," he muttered, "definitely not doing anything else. That's how you end up with gray hair before thirty."
He turned back toward the sea, scanning the horizon.
No fog.
No silhouette of a big scary flagship.
No Blight.
Not yet, anyway.
But he could feel it. The calm wouldn't last.
This was just the intermission.
...
The palace of Vashiri stood tall and regal at the heart of the capital—a structure of polished white marble, flowing silk banners, and enough gold trimming to blind someone on a sunny day. Gale supposed it was meant to inspire pride in the citizens and fear in enemies, but mostly it just made him think, Wow, someone's been dodging their taxes for generations.
He stood near the back of the grand hall, flanked by Poqin, Isuka, Remiel, and a few of the marines who had cleaned up well enough to not look completely out of place next to velvet curtains and polished guards.
The knights were there too, of course, practically vibrating with pride and the unmistakable sound of medals clinking against their overly decorative breastplates.
At the far end of the hall stood the Prince Regent of Vashiri—a tall man in his late fifties with a cleanly trimmed beard, sharp blue eyes, and a posture that said "I used to be a soldier, but now I fight paperwork."
He wore a crimson mantle draped over one shoulder and leaned on an ornamental cane that he clearly didn't need.
Beside him was a young woman—mid-teens at most—with sharp green eyes, short dark curls, and the kind of wry smile that suggested she found most things, and most people, a little ridiculous.
She wore a ceremonial dress in royal blue and silver, but the way she stood—hands behind her back, weight shifted onto one foot—screamed "bored teenager playing diplomat."
"Welcome, brave defenders of Vashiri," the Prince Regent said with a voice smoother than his wardrobe. "I am Lord Veyren Albescu, Prince Regent of this land. And this," he gestured toward the girl beside him, "is my niece, Her Grace Princess Sereia, rightful heir to the throne."
Gale raised an eyebrow. "Wait, she's the heir?"
He looked around, then squinted toward the back of the room.
"Isn't Cordavin the heir? He sure acted like it."
Lord Veyren let out a long-suffering sigh—the kind that suggested he'd practiced it.
"Yes. My son is under the tragically common delusion that I am some sort of manipulative usurper keeping Sereia from her rightful place. In truth, I've ruled in her stead by the will of the court until she comes of age... though Cordavin imagines a thousand shadowy reasons otherwise. Conspiracies. Puppet strings. Poisoned goblets. Typical melodrama."
Princess Sereia snorted softly, covering it with a delicate hand. "He does write rather passionate letters to the court," she said, barely containing her grin. "Last week he accused my uncle of being possessed by a sea demon, urging them to force an abdication so he can take the throne..."
Poqin whispered to Gale, "Honestly, not the worst theory considering how the guy dresses."
Gale just shook his head and sighed. "Of course. Makes perfect sense now."
It didn't, actually. But at this point, it was easier to just accept that Cordavin was a walking headache and move on with his life.
"Nonetheless," Lord Veyren continued, clasping his hands before him, "you and your crew have accomplished what most of my warriors deemed impossible after the defeat of our fleet. You repelled Blight's forces. You reclaimed our docks. And for that, the people of Vashiri—and I—are deeply grateful."
He offered a bow. Sereia followed, hers a touch more casual, like she was doing it out of politeness rather than protocol.
"I would like nothing more than to reward you immediately," the regent went on, "but I believe it prudent to wait until reinforcements from Marine HQ arrive... and Admiral Blight is either captured or chased from our waters."
Gale's mouth twitched. Damn. There goes my early retirement bonus.
"In the meantime," Lord Veyren said, raising his hand, "I hope you'll accept a more humble gesture. Tonight, we feast in honor of your victory. A banquet, in your name."
That got a reaction.
The knights puffed out their chests. The marines straightened their posture. Isuka nodded politely.
Poqin immediately elbowed Gale and whispered, "Please tell me they have roast duck. Or at least something I can drink until it becomes roast duck."
Gale just rolled his eyes, then nodded to the regent. "Appreciate it. Though if Cordavin shows up to the banquet, I call dibs on a table as far away from him as possible."
The princess smirked. "You and me both, Captain Gale."
...
The banquet was in full swing.
The clinking of crystal goblets, the hum of a noble-pleasing quartet strumming in the background, and the occasional boisterous laugh from some overfed aristocrat filled the lavish hall.
Golden chandeliers hung above like upside-down trees of molten light, and long silk banners fluttered from the ceiling in the colors of Vashiri's royal crest. Knights and nobles mingled with marines, their conversations a strange but oddly functional clash of honor-speak and barracks banter.
And in the farthest corner, where the lighting was dimmer and the tablecloths weren't quite as clean, sat Gale—one elbow on the table, fingers tapping an absent rhythm with a dull thump-thump-thump.
In his other hand rested a bottle of something fancy and probably worth more than the table itself. Not that he was drinking it. He'd taken maybe one sip the entire evening, just enough to confirm it tasted like aged grape vinegar with ideas above its station.
People were laughing. Smiling. Celebrating. And yet here he was, stuck in his own head like a snail with anxiety issues.
He let out a sigh and reached for the bottle again—then paused as a familiar voice cut through the noise like a tipsy monk-shaped knife.
"Why the long face, captain?" Poqin asked, casually sliding into the seat opposite him with a goblet in one hand and a roast turkey leg in the other. "Don't tell me you're already bored of the praise, booze, and banquet food?"
Gale gave a shrug, lazy and practiced. "It's nothing. And stop calling me captain, for fuck's sake."
Poqin raised a brow and bit off a chunk of turkey with the calculated judgment of someone who knew Gale too well. He wiped his mouth and leaned in.
"Nothing? Nothing? We're in a literal palace. There's music. Food. Wine. And more than a few lovely ladies—and a princess—checking you out every ten minutes. But instead of breaking out your guitar and musically peacocking like the flirtatious bard I know you to be, you're over here sulking like a side character whose tragic backstory got cut for time."
Gale chuckled dryly. "That princess is basically a toddler, Poqin."
"Even still," Poqin gestured with the drumstick toward the rest of the room, "there are plenty of pretty women here who are of age, unattached, and dangerously interested in mysterious brooding types with cool coats and war medals."
"Yeah well," Gale muttered, eyes scanning the polished floors, "not really in the mood to brandish my guitar and seduce half the palace tonight."
Poqin took another bite. "That's how I know something's really eating you."
Gale ran a hand through his hair, the rhythm of his tapping faltering slightly. "It's Blight."
That wiped the grin off Poqin's face. He leaned back, exhaling slowly. "You think he'll show up here?"
"I don't know," Gale said, brow furrowed. "And that's what's bugging me. We sank nine of his ships. His flagship's still out there somewhere. If those other ships made it this far, what's stopping him from doing the same? He could be on his way now. Or worse... he could already be here. Waiting. Watching."
Poqin looked around the grand hall, the laughter and dancing continuing like the world wasn't on fire just outside the walls.
"You think he'd really attack during a banquet?"
"Why not?" Gale murmured. "It's the perfect time. Everyone's guard is down. Half the knights are drunk, the other half are too busy posing for portraits. The marines are exhausted. And if I were him, and I had a fog-based devil fruit? I'd wait for nightfall, sneak in under cover of darkness, and make a statement that'd echo all the way to Marine HQ."
He leaned forward, voice low. "Something's coming. I can feel it."
Poqin watched him for a moment, then nodded solemnly… and took another bite of turkey.
"Well," he said, chewing, "if he shows up, I'm blaming you for jinxing it. But until then, I'm stealing your wine."
Gale didn't stop him. He just stared into the bottle's glossy surface, his own reflection barely visible against the flickering candlelight.
'Something's coming for sure...'
...
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