The coast of Barca slept beneath a shroud of endless black sea and fields of silver clouds. Moonlight sketched the limestone cliffs in pale silver, their hollows gaping like the mouths of old giants. Beneath them, tucked deep into a crescent of reef, burned the lights of a corsair haven.

  It was no flotsam village clinging to survival. Here the corsairs built permanence from ruin: rusted cranes hunched over the docks like iron skeletons, hauling battered cannon from one deck to another. Paddle-driven sloops hissed with venting steam as crews patched their boilers with scrap plating. Smoke curled from chimneys bolted into taverns and gambling dens, their gears and pipes rattling in time with the tide. Along the piers, brass lanterns swung from rigging, spilling trembling gold across the water where sleek corsair cutters lay moored beside patched brigs and stolen frigates.

  The cove had no name on any imperial chart, yet it was whispered across the Aegis. A refuge where law had no reach, where coin bought silence and betrayal cost less than a bottle of rum. It was a place corsairs called sanctuary—until tonight.

  Behind one of its smoke-choked taverns, past a crooked stair and a door bolted with more iron than wood, a backroom held a prisoner. A corsair captain hung upside down from a table, ankles lashed tight with hemp rope, his body swaying gently with each drip of condensation that fell from the ceiling. His name was Hamid—though his captor had already made sport of forgetting it.

  The lamplight was dim, yellow smoke curling around rusted pipes that snaked through the walls, venting heat from some hidden boiler. The air reeked of iron, stale sweat, and cheap rum spilled into the floorboards. Tools lay scattered on a bench, half weapons, half instruments of torture. And before the dangling corsair stood two figures: a gentleman with the bearing of a courtier, and the platinum-haired woman who shadowed his every move.

  “Tick-tock, Mr. Halibut. I haven’t the entire evening, and neither will you if you keep wasting my time.”

  The voice was smooth, almost bored, as though the man hanging upside down were delaying a card game rather than facing death. From the shadows stepped Alaric Van Aerden, boots polished, waistcoat immaculate despite the stink of the backroom. He held a silver watch in one gloved hand, its chain glinting in the lamplight as if to measure the prisoner’s dwindling minutes.

  “It’s Hamid!” the corsair spat, blood rushing to his face. “Hamid, and I swear—I don’t know anything!”

  A hiss of steel cut the air. A dagger spun across the room and buried itself into the wall beside his ear, the impact ringing like a bell in the narrow space. Hamid flinched so hard the rope creaked against the table beam.

  From the other side of the room, Mila Weiss lowered her arm with mechanical grace, as though she’d released a clockwork spring. Platinum hair caught the lamplight, eyes flat and glacial. She said nothing, simply tilted her head the way an automaton might when judging its next task.

  “Come now, Mr. Hamud, stop playing coy with me.” Alaric paced a half-circle around the dangling man, the silver watch clicking softly in his hand. “I know that you know where the treasure fleet is heading, and how many escorts they carry.”

  “It’s Hamid!” the corsair barked, his voice breaking high with the strain of blood rushing to his skull. “And why would a corsair know the route of the Eternal Order’s treasure fleet?”

  Another blade sang through the air. It struck the table just between his thighs, close enough that a lock of his sweat-darkened hair fluttered loose. Hamid screeched, a noise more rodent than man, twisting against his bonds in useless panic.

  Alaric’s smile widened, bright and cruel. “Ah yes, Hamid… or should I call you Hamish? That is your real name, is it not? Hamish Sharpe of Highland Gael. You’re rather far from home, Mr. Sharpe.”

  The corsair’s eyes bulged. “I… I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m Hamid ben Iwan!”

  Alaric’s brows arched in mock surprise. “Iwan? Did you mean Ewan?” He let the name linger, rolling it with exaggerated elegance before sighing as though indulging a child. “But very well then—Hamid ben Iwan it is. Tell me where the fleet is going, and I will let you go.”

  “Like I told you,” Hamid stammered, “I don’t know anything, you bastard!”

  Another knife hissed through the air. This one buried itself in the floorboard just beneath his head, so close the steel hummed against his skin. Hamid yelped, jerking sideways like a mouse caught under a cat’s paw.

  Alaric sighed as though terribly bored. “You know… for an agent of the Order, you’re very uncreative with the name. But I must compliment your accent—clever work, blending it with the locals.” He leaned closer, his voice a velvet whisper. “Still, it’s a weak backstory, isn’t it? Why would a man with pale skin, red hair, and green eyes call himself a Barcan?”

  Hamid swallowed, lips trembling. “I—I changed my faith. I accepted the local gods.”

  “Ah,” Alaric said warmly, as though the answer delighted him. He flicked an invisible speck from his sleeve. “So you admit you were not born here, Mr. Sharpe.”

  “Come now, Hamish.” Alaric’s tone was almost sympathetic, as though addressing a tired child. “Playing a loyal dog doesn’t suit you. In fact, it insults the canine to count you among their number.”

  Hamid’s face twisted, red from blood and rage. “Fuck you,” he spat, flecks spraying into the lamplight, “and fuck your Reichland bitch!”

  There was a sudden flash of steel. The dagger spun end over end, burying itself with a crack right through the palm of Hamid’s bound hand. His scream ripped through the backroom, high and shrill, echoing off the stone walls.

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  Mila froze mid-breath, eyes widening as she turned. For a moment she thought she’d acted without realizing—but the blade had not left her hand. Instead, it was Alaric who stood with his arm extended, sleeve still settling from the throw, his expression as calm as if he’d merely straightened a cufflink.

  “I’m the one who’s supposed to throw knives,” Mila said, her voice flat.

  “I know… I lost my temper.”

  “And you hit him.”

  “Yes. Exactly where I aimed.”

  “…Why?”

  “He called you… a bitch.”

  “So?”

  “I… I was offended in your stead.”

  “But I’m not offended.”

  “Y–yes, that is exactly why I—” Alaric cleared his throat, straightening his cravat as if rearranging the conversation itself. “Never mind. Let’s get back to him.”

  Alaric turned his gaze back to the writhing man, who was still howling around the steel pinned through his palm. He watched with the same mild interest one might give to a noisy dinner guest.

  “Oh, please,” he drawled, rolling his wrist as though bored. “A corsair captain should be able to handle more than that. Besides, I missed all the bone and tendons. Clean throw.” He gestured lazily at the wound, as if discussing table etiquette. “Even if it festers, you can always chop it off and swap your hand for a hook. Then at last you could call yourself Captain Hook or something equally theatrical. Honestly, that would make for a more believable backstory.”

  “Fuck off, you crazy bastard!” Hamish screamed, his voice cracking into a pitiful squeal. Blood dripped steadily from his hand, pattering onto the stone like a metronome marking his fear.

  Alaric’s voice softened into the sort of honeyed cruelty that made men wish for excuses they didn’t have.

  “Hamish, Hamish, listen to me. The Order doesn’t tolerate failure. You, my friend, are anything but a success. Even if I let you go right now, they will hunt you down. Eventually.”

  Hamish’s eyes bulged against the sting of his wound. “Then you know I cannot cross them, you dumb bastard!”

  “True.” Alaric let the word hang, measured and careful. “But the Order is your future problem. You see, I carry a letter of marque from the Sultan—official, stamped, and very public where it matters. It’s no secret that Barcan corsairs answer, at least on paper, to His Highness.” He tapped his watch-chain as if checking the hour of his generosity. “So tell me: what do you imagine the Sultan would do if I deliver you into his hands as an agent of the Order? Or worse—what would your fellow corsairs do if they learned you’d been playing both sides?”

  Hamish’s face went a new color—the sick beige of a man counting his betrayals. “I… I—” his voice broke. “I don’t see how helping you helps me.”

  Alaric’s smile was all courtesy and winter weather. “If you cooperate, I promise not to report you. Think about it: I raid their convoy; the Order loses their precious silvers. They’ll be too busy with damage control to chase one sodden spy. Neither Sultan nor corsairs will know your secret. You can vanish here, or in some other backwater, change your face, your faith again if you must—no one asks questions beyond the obvious. I am richer, the Sultan is pleased, and you are, at worst, less dead than you were destined to be.”

  Mila watched him with the patience of a metronome, eyes flicking no more than a hair toward Hamish whenever he tried to meet them. The room smelled of blood, lamp oil, and hot iron; the lamplight trembled as if it, too, listened.

  Hamish’s mouth twitched, a small and useless thing like a trapped animal’s paw. “And if I refuse?”

  Alaric’s gaze turned cool as the sea beyond the cove. “Then there is impalement… hooking… or the Sultan may simply give you to me and my beautiful Reichland darling.”

  Hamish shivered despite the sweat on his brow.

  “Tell me,” Alaric said gently, as if asking after a friend’s wound. “Where is the convoy bound, and how many escorting hulls?”

  Hamish’s eyes flicked between the two of them, between the promise and the blade, between the hook that might be his future and the stake that could be his present. The room waited on him like a tide.

  “Why would I trust you?” he croaked.

  “Oh please Mr. Sharpe—I'm a reputable businessman and a sailor. I never break a promise,” Alaric said, voice practiced and breezy as smoke curling from a chimney.

  “…fine,” Hamish rasped. “There are three ships bound for the island of Loric. Two frigates—one of them a steamer—and one second-rate. The second-rate is a decoy; she pretends to be the treasure ship, but she’s the escort. Your prize is the steamer—she carries the treasures. If you want to cause proper havoc, sink the other frigate; she’s laden with provisions bound for the garrison on Loric.”

  “Finally! Not so hard, is it?” Alaric cried, as if the confession were a small triumph.

  “Now let me down… please.”

  Alaric raised a finger, gesturing Hamish to wait. “Pack your toys, darling. And may I borrow your pistol?”

  “What pistol?”

  “Your pistol—your air pistol. What do you mean, what pistol?”

  “I left it on the ship.”

  “Wha—why would you leave it on the ship?”

  “I needed to carry my tools.”

  “You—never mind. Hand me his pistol, then.”

  Mila stood, picked up Hamish’s pistol from the table, and handed it over to Alaric. “Sorry for the inconvenience, sir,” she said softly, kissing him on the cheek.

  Alaric blinked—a quick, unguarded misfire of composure. He smoothed it away just as fast, but a faint heat still crept up his neck as the corner of his lips lifted, betraying him for half a heartbeat.

  “Apology accepted. If that’s how you plan to apologize from now on, then I hope you make a mistake every day.”

  “I’m not sure about that, sir.”

  Alaric looked down at the weapon, his eyes filled with disgust. “A matchlock,” he sneered. “In this day and age? You corsairs manage a steamer sloop and yet you can’t afford a proper flintlock pistol?”

  “In case you didn’t notice, we stole those ships,” Hamish spat. “We don’t have factories. The great Sultan only hands us his old stockpiles and junk heirlooms.”

  “Ah, yes… Please tell me this is loaded.”

  “It is—now put me down, damn you!”

  Alaric lit the match with his lighter and aimed the pistol toward Hamish.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Now that our business is concluded, I must bid my leave.”

  “Wait! You promised!”

  “It is in our best interest that we never meet again. Goodbye, Mr. Sharpe.”

  “Wait! Wait!”

  The shot rang out, smoke curling through the backroom as plaster splintered from the wall. Hamish went limp, the rope swaying him gently, piss soaking down his trousers. Alaric tossed the pistol aside like a dirty rag. “Ugh. Such an outdated toy.”

  “You missed,” Mila observed quietly.

  “I know,” Alaric said, as if explaining a minor social faux pas. “I just wanted to give him something to remember me by. Judging from the smell, I’d say message received.”

  “Why not just kill him?”

  “My dear,” Alaric said, smiling as if explaining a private joke, “we need him as insurance in case his intel proves unreliable. I would never trust a corsair—let alone a two-timing corsair. Beside, I have given him my word.”

  Alaric tucked his watch into his pocket and cut the rope that bound Hamish. He held the man by the feet so he dropped gently to the floor, or at least not hard enough to break his neck.

  “Come, Mila,” Alaric murmured as they stepped into the salt-bright dark. “Our treasure waits, and I have a date with a curious admiral.”

  They left Hamish where he lay, in a puddle of piss and sweat, the tavern noise seeping back through the walls as if nothing had happened at all.