Page 14

Story: Rogue Souls

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

IRENE

H ell was hotter than what Irene imagined. And louder.

Her ears rang with a high-pitched whine, sharp enough to slice through her fractured thoughts. She could hear everything: shouting, fragments of conversation, the clinking of metal, footsteps echoing. Even with her eyes clenched shut, the chaos pressed against her like a suffocating weight.

Her hair was plastered to her damp skin, irritating her as it clung to her neck and shoulders. Every breath she took felt heavy, choking her, as if she needed to rip off her clothes and dive into a freezing sea.

Her eyelids fluttered open, slowly, reluctantly. Blinding daylight stabbed at her eyes, and she winced as the splitting headache pounding in her skull.

She groaned softly, trying to sit up but the moment she moved, a sharp, searing pain erupted in her ribs. A choked cry escaped her lips before she could stop it. Her body, it seemed, had numbed itself for a long time, only to unleash the full suffering now.

Squinting, she struggled to focus on her surroundings. Her vision swam in and out of clarity, the world around her tilting dangerously. Where the hell am I?

Her chest felt heavy. The room spun like a whirlpool, and nausea gripped her stomach. She let herself fall back, her eyes squeezing shut against the dizziness. Beneath her, she could feel the rough surface of a wooden table pressing into her back. Am I imprisoned again?

The thought struck her with sudden panic. Her heart began to race. Her hand fumbled at her side, searching for the familiar wounds she remembered; The gashes on her thigh, the ragged tear in her ribs.

Her fingers brushed against something sticky. Her eyes snapped open again. The pain was still there, but her wounds had been treated and wrapped.

They patched me up?

“To torture you better later,” hissed a voice in her head.

Irene slammed her head back against the table, the impact jolting through her skull. The voice didn’t laugh this time, but it lingered, coiled in the back of her mind like a snake.

Then, flashes of memory hit her: Running. Shouting. Men chasing her through the crowd. The humiliation.

Dax.

Her chest tightened. She clenched her teeth, but it wasn’t enough to stop the flood of images. His hand gripping her arm. The heat of his breath mingling with hers. The way his gaze pierced through her.

She pressed a hand to her arm, where his touch still lingered, burning. The sensation crawled over her skin, a feverish wave of heat that left her dizzy.

Bile rose in her throat. She prayed— prayed —that she was dying. Or maybe burning with some incurable fever. Anything to explain the unbearable warmth coursing through her veins.

A prickle of sensation danced over her stomach. The fluttering began, chaotic and maddening.

Butterflies.

The thought made her gag. Irene clawed at her side instinctively, reaching for the knife she always carried. Her fingers met empty air.

They took it.

“Probably for the best,” she muttered bitterly, her voice hoarse. If I had the blade, I’d probably gut myself just to kill those damn butterflies.

“You missed him,” purred the voice, teasing and honeyed.

“Shut up,” Irene hissed aloud, her eyes snapping shut. Her jaw tightened. “No, I didn’t.”

It wasn’t longing. It wasn’t. Just the sharp flood of recollections; the reckless days when they’d worked side by side, the rush of shared chaos, the way his voice had curled into her ear like smoke. That’s all it was. Nothing more.

“He would have killed me,” she said aloud. “If I hadn’t been saved…”

Her eyes snapped open, the dizziness dissipating in an instant. And then, it all came back to her in stark detail: the strong arms that had dragged her out, the man whose smile had been too kind. And ahead of him, the silhouette of a woman with an enormous hat, leaning on a cane as she strode into the smoke.

Her breathing was ragged now. She had wasted enough time.

Irene gritted her teeth, forcing herself upright on shaking arms. Pain lanced through her sides, blinding her with flashes of light, but she bit down hard, defying her body’s demand to collapse.

Blinking rapidly, her vision cleared at last.

She was sitting on a long wooden table, and her mouth fell open as she took in the room around her.

“What the hell…” Her voice cracked.

The room was meticulously organized, yet nothing about it made sense. Shelves stretched from floor to ceiling, stacked with vases, paintings, trinkets, and relics of all shapes and sizes. Jars filled with vibrant powders lined the walls in perfect symmetry, their colors glowing faintly in the light. Barrels and crates were piled high in the corners.

But none of that mattered compared to the massive mural that dominated the wall before her.

A peacock. Its plumage fanned out in a dazzling array of color, the feathers shimmering as if they were alive. Each feather was adorned with an eye watchful, all of them fixed on her.

Irene shivered. She couldn’t look away, no matter how much she wanted to. The mural was hypnotic.

Her skin prickled as she tore her gaze away, the breath catching in her throat.

She knew exactly where she was. The Peacock Guild.

This place was more rumor than reality. Irene had always known of the Guild of the Peacock, though she had never wasted much thought on it. In the slums, it was a name whispered with either indifference or mockery.

The poorest guild. The weakest. The least influential.

They owned a single ship. No taverns. No gambling dens. Their territory barely extended beyond their own walls. And the Guild of the Peacock was the only one of the four guilds ruled by a woman.

If anyone had ever asked Irene about them, she might’ve laughed. But standing here, Irene’s thoughts shifted uneasily.

The poorest guild, she thought bitterly. Sure doesn’t look like it.

Her instincts flared.

Footsteps. The sound snapped her out of her haze, sending her body into high alert. Irene’s pulse quickened, the muscles in her body tightening as she scanned the room.

She had to escape.

Her eyes darted to the window. It was barred with iron rods and far too high, even for someone as tall as she was.

A chill coursed through her veins. Whoever had dragged her here hadn’t done it out of the goodness of their heart.

Panic clawed at her, but she shoved it aside, moving before thought could trap her. She Survival came first.

Her gaze darted across the room, landing on a glass bottle on the shelf. She seized it, pressing herself against the wall by the door, every muscle coiled tight.

The footsteps stopped.

The door handle turned, slow and deliberate. The faint creak of hinges followed.

A man stepped in first. His figure was broad, his movements calm but deliberate. A woman followed behind him, her voice cutting through the tension like a knife.

“Where is she, Blade?” she asked sharply, her tone commanding, measured.

Irene didn’t hesitate.

The bottle shattered against the wall with a sharp crack, the sound splitting the silence. Shards of glass rained to the floor, and Irene’s fingers tightened around the jagged remains.

Before either of them could react, she moved. Fast.

Her arm snaked around the woman’s neck from behind, locking tight. The broken edge of the bottle pressed firmly against the woman’s dark skin.

For a moment, the room went still.

Irene’s breathing was sharp and shallow, her ribs burning with each inhale. Her grip was ironclad, her voice a low, dangerous growl.

“Move, and I slit her throat,” she hissed.

The man in front of her drew his sword with a deliberate, menacing precision, but Irene tightened her grip on the woman. It was enough to make him hesitate.

“Let her go!” he growled.

Irene shook her head, her eyes locked on him, assessing. Tall. Broad. She calculated quickly: could she take him down despite her injuries? Without them? Probably. She knew she was faster, more agile. But as reckless as Irene was, she was also a realist. With these wounds? Far less likely.

“Where am I, and what do you want with me?”

“Do you even realize who you’ve got in your hands? Show some gratitude,” he snapped.

“Blade, lower your sword,” the woman cut in calmly.

Irene let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Listen to her, or I’ll cut,” she replied.

“There’s no need for that,” the woman murmured softly.

And suddenly, she moved.

A swift, sharp motion. Her elbow slammed into Irene’s ribs. The shard of glass slipped from her fingers, clattering to the floor. Pain exploded through her as the woman’s cane struck her stomach. Irene doubled over, the air knocked from her lungs, a violent cough escaping her lips as she struggled to breathe.

When she lifted her head, gasping, her eyes met the woman’s sharp, piercing gaze. Long silver braids framed a face etched with lines of wisdom and age, but her stance radiated power.

Irene blew a stray curl out of her face and slowly straightened her battered body. She raised her hands weakly, a crooked smile twisting her lips.

“You’re right. No need for that,” she said, voice rough. “I can always kill you with my bare hands.”

“I’m Jessalyn. Captain of the?—”

“Of the Peacock Guild, yeah, I figured from the giant-ass painting,” Irene cut her off, hands still raised, breath short, gesturing toward the painting without breaking eye contact with Jessalyn.

“Good,” she said calmly.

“Good,” Irene echoed. Without warning, Irene snapped:

“Now, I’m going to kill you.”

She lunged at Jessalyn. But she didn’t even make it halfway.

With a swiftness that betrayed her age, Jessalyn struck her. A slap, sharp and deliberate, that cracked through the room like a thunderclap.

“Oh dear,” Jessalyn, her voice biting.

Irene’s eyes widened, her hand flying instinctively to her burning cheek. Her head tilted to the side, but her gaze locked onto Jessalyn, who, unbothered, leaned casually on her cane.

“You won’t kill me,” she said simply, her voice steady but unyielding. “Because you want to know why I haven’t killed you yet.”

Without waiting for a response, Jessalyn turned smoothly on her heels and opened the door.

“Now follow me,” she commanded, without looking back.

Irene froze, her cheek still stinging, her nerves raw. She flicked a sharp glance toward Blade, who had already sheathed his sword and now watched with barely concealed amusement.

“She always like this?” Irene snapped.

Blade smirked. “This is her being easy.”

Irene muttered a curse under her breath. With a sharp exhale, she stalked toward the door, following Jessalyn.

Irene stepped through the door and froze. The air caught in her chest, her breath stolen. She had expected decay, crumbling walls, cobwebs, perhaps even a forgotten corpse in the shadows. But this was something else entirely.

Light flooded the space. At the top of the stairs, Jessalyn stood tall, her silhouette framed by a halo of light dancing behind her. Her voice echoed through the space:

“Welcome to the Peacock Guild.”

Irene climbed the stairs slowly. Her head twisted as she tried to take it all in at once.

Hand-painted frescos stretched across the walls, exploding with vibrant color. To her left, a forest so vivid she could almost smell the damp earth. To her right, a ship battling furious waves, the painted storm so lifelike it seemed to seep into the air. And at the center, real trees growing right inside the guild, their trunks twisting skyward.

Then came the sound. A cacophony: laughter, shouted orders, the clang of metal, the tearing of fabric. Irene blinked, overwhelmed by the symphony of organized chaos.

“This is my crew, my soldiers, my faithful,” announced Jessalyn, gesturing grandly to the dozens of children bustling about, each engrossed in their tasks.

“Not bad, huh?” Blade murmured as he passed behind Irene, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

Irene wanted to retort, but the words caught in her throat. Not that it mattered. Jessalyn was already moving.

“This is the weapons workshop,” Jessalyn said, pointing to a group of kids hammering molten metal. Sparks flew with each strike, illuminating their focused faces. Nearby, others polished blades or carefully assembled crossbows.

“To your right,” Jessalyn said, gesturing with a subtle turn of her wrist.

Irene’s gaze followed and landed on another group bent over long, cluttered tables. They worked in focused silence, their brushes gliding over vases and canvases. These weren’t ordinary paintings—they were recreations. Sculptures, ancient vases, even faded portraits came to life under their careful hands, each detail replicated with obsessive precision.

Irene finally found her voice.

“Why are you showing me this?” she asked, her tone sharp and suspicious.

Jessalyn ignored her, already heading toward another hall.

The heat struck Irene like a living thing, wrapping around her in suffocating waves. In the next room, molten gold glowed like captured sunlight, poured into massive crucibles. Flames clawed at the air, their flickering light casting shadows on the children’s focused faces. With heavy tongs, they tipped the glowing liquid into molds, each ingot cooling to a perfect gleam. Nearby, a younger child bent over the gold, carefully etching the Peacock symbol into every bar with a steady, hand.

“You have a forge? A forge?! Are you kidding me?” Irene exclaimed, her voice shattering the tension in the air.

Jessalyn didn’t respond immediately. She continued walking with deliberate calm, the rhythmic tap of her cane echoing against the floor.

“Don’t concern yourself with it,” she said at last, her tone detached. “I’ll explain the purpose of this gold soon enough. We’ll use it to buy our freedom.”

“I don’t care about that. Tell me why you’re showing me all of this!” Irene snapped, frustration building in her chest.

Jessalyn remained unbothered, her pace steady, her gaze fixed ahead as though Irene’s outburst didn’t exist.

Irene’s blood boiled, her hands trembling with rage. Jessalyn’s indifference was a slap to the face. Her eyes darted around the room until they landed on a vase sitting on a nearby table.

Without thinking, Irene grabbed it. Her fingers tightened around the object, and with a furious swing, she smashed it to the floor. Jessalyn turned slowly. Her gaze swept over the shattered vase before lifting to meet Irene’s defiant glare. Her expression was cold, unflinching.

“That vase was worth two entire cargo holds of gold,” Jessalyn said, her voice low and biting.

She paused, letting the weight of her words hang in the air. Then, a faint, almost imperceptible smile curled at the corners of her lips.

“Lucky for you,” she added, “it was merely an imitation. A simple replica.”

“I said— What?” Irene’s voice, raised to shout, suddenly died in her throat. She stared at Jessalyn.

“A replica,” Jessalyn repeated, stepping closer with the slow. “Yes, the vase you just shattered was nothing but a replica. The kind we sell to idiot merchants… who then have it stolen at sea by other fools. Like your dear former captain, Lorax.”

Irene’s jaw fell slightly open. A rough laugh, more nervous than she intended, escaped her lips. “You’re telling me that everything I stole, plundered, risked my life for… was false? That everything Lorax made us pillage had no damn value?!”

Jessalyn rolled her eyes, clearly unimpressed. “Of course it had value. You sold it. You piled up your gold and lined your pockets, you and all those pirates. But here’s the thing, value is an illusion. We decide what matters. Unless something is blessed or cursed by the divine itself, it’s just a trinket. A distraction for fools.”

Irene froze. That explanation, which should have brought clarity, only sharpened the pounding in her head. Her temples throbbed, and her thoughts twisted under the weight of the revelation that everything she’d known, everything she’d bled for, was a lie.

“Doesn’t matter!” she finally screamed, her voice hoarse with emotion. “I don’t care about your lessons! Save them for your little army of brats! Let me go. Now!”

Jessalyn chuckled softly, a light laugh that cut deeper than any insult. “Let you go? But you’re not a prisoner. Where are your chains?”

She stepped closer. On pure instinct, Irene bent down and grabbed another shard of porcelain from the shattered pieces. She held it out in front of her like a blade. “Don’t come any closer!” she hissed.

But Jessalyn kept moving forward, calm and unimpressed. “You see,” Jessalyn said in an almost gentle tone, “it’s that fire in you. This impulsiveness. Misplaced. Misguided. It’s that fire that let Dax outsmart you.”

The words hit Irene like a punch to the gut. “Shut up! You don’t know anything!” she screamed.

Jessalyn didn’t flinch. Instead, her voice grew louder. “Oh, but I know everything. Poor little pirate. Cast out of her guild, her reputation shredded… You’ve become a story whispered in the corners of taverns. They say you’ve gone mad. That you had a breakdown at sea. That you betrayed your crew, sold them out to mercenaries.”

“I said SHUT UP!” Irene’s voice cracked, tears of rage brimming in her eyes. She clenched them shut, her face twisting in pain and humiliation.

“Lucky for you,” Jessalyn said, her tone cutting, “I don’t waste my trust on the words of a man who fears being outshone by a woman.”

Irene’s eyes flew open, her tears momentarily frozen by surprise.

Jessalyn smiled. “Good. Now that your little tantrum is over, we can move on to more serious matters. And discuss my very important offer.”

She turned her back on Irene.

Still panting, Irene asked, “What offer?”

Jessalyn didn’t fully turn around. She cast a glance over her shoulder, a sly grin tugging at her lips.

“Your imminent vengeance.”

Irene’s heart skipped a beat. The shard of porcelain slipped from her fingers and clattered to the floor.

Irene sat across from Jessalyn’s desk, her heart pounding in her chest. Jessalyn, unfazed, rummaged calmly through the piles of parchment and scattered papers on her desk, as if she hadn’t just dropped the word that ignited the air: vengeance.

Irene clenched her fists, wincing as a sharp pain shot through her palm. Only then did she notice the blood, the shard of porcelain having left a cut. Blade, standing silently near Jessalyn, handed her a piece of cloth. A faint smile played on his lips. Irene’s eyes wandered over Jessalyn’s office. Letters cluttered the desk—opened, crumpled, abandoned. Paintings adorned the walls, similar to those in the hall, but one caught her attention. It showed three young girls: one turned away, hands crossed behind her back, her head tilted just enough to reveal a sly grin. The second, dressed in white, stood stiff and solemn. Irene squinted. The third, at the edge of the painting, looked like a younger Jessalyn.

Jessalyn eventually found what she was searching for. With a sharp snap , she slapped it onto the desk, instantly capturing Irene’s attention. It was a wanted poster, with the words DEAD OR ALIVE screaming across the faded parchment. And below that, Irene’s face.

Jessalyn began to read aloud: “Wanted for piracy, treason, murder, pillaging, corruption, destruction of property… Including the sinking of royal ships.” Her lips curled faintly as she leaned forward, one hand flat on the desk. “Arson, extortion, smuggling, mutiny, mass chaos…”

Jessalyn arched a brow, gesturing to the paper. "At this pace, the next thing they’ll blame you for is the end of the world. And even if they spare your head, you’ll rot in a cell for the next four centuries.”

Irene squinted, tilting her head as if weighing the accusation. Then, with a grimace and a slow nod, she said, “What can I say? I like to stay busy.”

“Quite busy,” Jessalyn retorted, her sharp gaze pinning Irene in place. “Now, my question is, why did you come back?”

The question seemed to freeze the world around Irene. Her stomach twisted, her thoughts scattering. She thought of the ashes, the sapphire... Dax. But there was no way she was going to give anything away so easily.

Irene leaned in further, her elbows resting on the desk, her voice dropping to a whisper. “I missed the lovely weather…”

The room fell into dead silence. Then, suddenly, Irene let out a raspy laugh. Blade followed with a low chuckle. Jessalyn’s eyes narrowed to slits, as she shot him a glare.

"The weather, you say...?" Jessalyn repeated with dry irony. She exhaled slowly, then called out, "Blade."

Irene’s body tensed. She shot up from her chair, her eyes wild as she yelled, "Don’t touch me!" But Blade stepped forward regardless. Irene braced herself, muscles taut, fists clenched, ready for the blow she was sure would come. But nothing happened. Instead, Blade gently reached for her sleeve, pulling it back to reveal her forearm.

Irene’s blood froze. Branded into her flesh, seared deep by red-hot iron, was a symbol: a peacock.

For a moment, she couldn’t move, her mind swinging between horror and rage. But the next instant, fury overtook her.

"You bastard!" she screamed, launching herself at the desk, her hands outstretched toward Jessalyn’s throat.

Blade caught her before. His arms locked around her waist, lifting her effortlessly, and he pushed her back into the chair. Irene struggled, snarling, "Let me go, piece of shit!"

Blade placed a firm hand on her shoulder, his voice low and steady. "Calm down."

"Calm down?!" Irene spat, her eyes blazing with fury. "She branded me! I’ll?—"

"It’s done," Blade cut her off, his tone cold but not without a trace of gentleness.

Jessalyn still hadn’t moved. She watched the scene unfold with an icy serenity. Finally, she said, "I saved your life, Irene. You belong to me now. So listen carefully: I wasn’t about to let that fire in you—your potential—burn out over some petty nonsense."

Irene let out a bitter, almost manic laugh. "Saved me? Saved me ? I don’t give a damn about your fire or your ‘potential’! I’m not one of your little kids, so leave me the hell alone!"

The words hit Jessalyn like pebbles thrown at a mountain. Slowly, she straightened, leaning on her cane, and her tone turned glacial. "Ungrateful creature… Would you prefer I send you back to prison?"

The word prison landed like a slap. Irene froze, the breath knocked out of her, memories clawing at the edges of her mind that she desperately wished to forget.

Jessalyn’s smile returned, faint and calculating, as she took a step closer, her cane tapping lightly against the floor. "Let me guess," she murmured, her sharp eyes scanning Irene as if reading her like a book.

She leaned in closer, her gaze drifting to Irene’s lips. "Your lips… chapped by salty air, or perhaps the cold."

Irene’s chest tightened painfully. Jessalyn wasn’t done.

"Your eyes… those dark circles. You were somewhere where time doesn’t exist, where the days blur together. And your wounds—they speak of a place of salt and picks..." She stepped back, a near-cruel smile playing on her lips. "There’s only one place that fits: the salt prisons of Ildomir."

Irene’s stomach twisted violently, as though Jessalyn had reached inside her and stolen the very air from her lungs.

Jessalyn locked eyes with her. "That’s where Dax sent you, isn’t it? Nobody escapes that place alive... How interesting."

Jessalyn’s words sliced through Irene like a rusted blade. Her stomach churned, bile clawing its way up. It was cruel and unfair to force her to relive memories she had buried. Irene’s hands twitched at her sides, nails digging into her palms until they stung, her vision blurring red. Voices roared in her mind, relentless and wild: Jump on her. Wrap your hands around her neck. Squeeze until the smugness bleeds away. Until there’s nothing left but silence.

Jessalyn lowered herself into her chair with maddening grace, tilting her head just enough to meet Irene’s burning gaze. Her lips curled into a slow, taunting smirk, as if she’d plucked the violent thought straight from Irene’s mind, and dared her to act on it.

"How do you know all this?" Irene growled through gritted teeth.

Jessalyn’s smile deepened, triumphant. "The peacock sees all."

Irene rolled her eyes. "Oh, go to hell with your mystical shit."

"Well, since you refuse to cooperate… I’ll just send you back there."

"No!" Irene’s cry came too fast, almost panicked. Her pride stung at the admission, but she took a deep breath, forcing herself to speak. "I… I can be useful to you."

"Oh, but you will." Jessalyn’s smile widened. "I know about the treasure."

Irene’s heart skipped a beat.

"I don’t know what you’re talking about. The world is vast, there are so many treasures," Irene lied.

Jessalyn reached into a drawer, pulling out something she placed on the desk with deliberate care.

Irene’s eyes widened as she recognized it instantly: the pendant with the ashes.

"Hey! That’s mine!" Irene shouted, springing to her feet, but Blade’s hand was on her shoulder again, forcing her back down. His grip was firm but unyielding, his presence a reminder of her powerlessness.

Jessalyn leaned back in her chair, “Tell me everything that happened that night at sea,”

Irene blinked. She swallowed the insult on the tip of her tongue and spoke instead. “We were returning from Hartengard... before we were attacked by mercenaries. I was on watch that night, but... but I think Dax... poisoned me.” The words burned her throat.

Her mind drifted to the fateful moment.

He had approached her on the main deck, his steps almost tender. He’d handed her a red apple. Irene had bitten into it without taking her eyes off him. It had been sweet. He’d even brushed the corner of her mouth with his fingers, wiping away the juice. “Get some sleep,” he had said with a reassuring smile. “I’ll take your watch.”

That was all it took. Irene blinked again, banishing the memory.

“And did you find a map?” Jessalyn asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe.” Irene shrugged, her wariness palpable.

Jessalyn let out a deep sigh, rubbing her temples. Jessalyn exhaled deeply, rubbing her temples. “I don’t know how to make this clearer, girl—you’re in deep shit. Outside, they either want you dead or rotting in a cell. Your only ally sold you out. You’ve got nothing. No one. And as we speak…”

Jessalyn slammed her fist against the desk, making Irene flinch. “As we speak, Dax is with the king.”

Irene’s breath hitched.

“Yes,” Jessalyn continued. “He’s with the king, ready to work for him, to serve him. And soon, he’ll become Pirate Lord of the slums. The king will give him limitless resources to find the treasure. And you? You’ll be nothing more than a forgotten name. Another foolish woman betrayed by a man she trusted. So wake up, for gods’ sake!”

Jessalyn’s words crashed over Irene like a wave of fire. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

“And before you ask me how I know all this, know that I have eyes everywhere,” Jessalyn added.

And so for the first time, Irene's voice came out steady, stripped of its usual sarcasm. “We... we did find a piece of a map.”

Jessalyn nodded slowly, as if she’d known the answer all along. “Good.”

“You were clever enough to keep those ashes for yourself, but do you even know what they’re for?”

Irene shook her head. She wasn’t sure.

“The map you found is just one piece of a larger enigma. It’s incomplete. Those ashes,” Jessalyn gestured to the pendant, “reveal ancient texts to mortal eyes. Writings in the language of the erudites of this world. Old Tuli. And they lead to something far greater than just treasure. They lead to the ultimate treasure.”

“To the Sapphire of the Goddess,” Irene whispered.

“Exactly. The goddess Nehalennia,” Jessalyn said. “The youngest of the Ancients who forged this world. She wasn’t like the others. While they basked in their divine glory, perched above mortals, she walked among them. She crossed every continent, lived in every kingdom, watching over the oceans, rivers, and streams. She blessed sailors, sea creatures, and anyone daring enough to look to the horizon with hope.”

Jessalyn pulled out a massive, dusty book and set it before Irene. She flipped it open to a drawing of Nehalennia, standing tall with her back to an endless ocean. Her deep, dark skin glowed with a divine radiance, rich and full of life, like it had been kissed by sunlight. Her large curves were generous and commanding, radiating abundance and power. Long, tight curls cascaded down her back, shimmering faintly with hues of blue and pink, as though touched by the colors of the dawn. A soft, luminous light wrapped around her figure, highlighting her power and grace. From her outstretched hand poured a glowing blue light, blessing the waters below.

“She was beautiful...” Irene murmured, as though hypnotized.

“She was,” Jessalyn said softly, but her tone carried a darker edge. “And she was endlessly kind to humans. Too kind. When the golden age between the Ancients and humans ended, when balance was shattered by human greed, all the Ancients withdrew from the earth to preserve their divinity. All except her. Nehalennia refused to leave. She still believed in them.”

Jessalyn turned a page, revealing a darker illustration: arrows, flames, and shadows.

“She loved,” Jessalyn continued, “but not distantly, as gods do. No. She loved two mortals. Two men from opposite clans. Their love for her—and their jealousy—sparked a war. The rivers and oceans she blessed ran red with blood. And her island, the land she swore to protect…”

Jessalyn pointed to another drawing. An island, once radiant, now in ruins. Its beaches blackened with ashes.

“…was reduced to ash. These ashes.” Jessalyn touched the pendant lying on the table.

Jessalyn paused, her fingers brushing the book’s edge. Then she continued.

“Blinded by grief, Nehalennia renounced her power. She refused to become a weapon for blind men. And so, with her tears and despair, she forged a sapphire. Her final gift.”

She turned the page. An illustration of the sapphire appeared, glowing as if the light itself were trapped within the paper. Irene gasped.

The jewel was both magnificent and terrifying, a blue so deep it seemed endless.

“This sapphire is no ordinary treasure. Its power knows no limits. It can turn seafoam into gold, mountains into diamonds, raindrops into emeralds and rubies. It doesn’t simply grant power. To possess it is to become more than mortal.”

Irene, entranced, reached out toward the drawing, her fingers trembling with a desire she couldn’t fully understand.

Before she could touch the page, Jessalyn snapped the book shut. Irene flinched, pulling her hand back just in time.

“And now,” Jessalyn murmured, “your enemy has the means to find it before you.”

Irene’s throat tightened as she whispered, “What do you want from me? You’ve already stolen my ashes.”

Jessalyn folded her hands over the desk. “I’m offering you an adventure.”

Irene let out a dry laugh but staggered as she stood. “Truly a touching story. Thanks for the offer, but I’ll pass.”

Jessalyn stood as well, her cane striking the floor with force. “You’d let Dax win? After everything he’s done to you? After all those years you spent fighting? You don’t want to take your revenge?”

Irene laughed again, her voice sharp, brittle as shattered glass. “I’ll manage on my own, thanks. And if you’re so clever, why don’t you find the damned sapphire yourself? Why not go chase it alone?”

“Because I’m old,” Jessalyn snapped. “My bones crack, my knees betray me, and my gray braids are a testament to everything I’ve already lost. But you—you’re young. Your blood still runs hot. It’s still fresh.”

She paused, catching her breath. Then she struck the floor with her cane again.

“I want that sapphire, Irene. I won’t let a king already drowning in wealth take even more power while we rot down here! If the king has Dax... then I need you. Because you know him better than anyone. You know how he thinks. And you know how to beat him.”

Irene frowned, troubled. She stared at Jessalyn as though trying to unravel her words, searching for any cracks in her logic. But she stepped back, shaking her head in hesitation.

Jessalyn’s face hardened with a flicker of rage. She leaned heavily on her cane, her trembling hands barely betraying the storm of emotions within.

“You have no ship. No crew. No maps. You’re alone, with nothing, and you think you can take on Dax and the king by yourself?”

The silence was heavy, suffocating. But Jessalyn wasn’t finished.

“I will never betray you,” she said, her voice trembling with raw conviction and sincerity. “I, too, am a woman underestimated by men all my life—told I was nothing, that my dreams were too big for my shoulders. I have felt your anger, your loneliness, your all-consuming rage. I’ve lost everything. And like you, I wanted to claw back what was mine. Not with gods. Not with their hollow promises. No... with my own two hands.”

“For centuries, these ashes have been found and lost. Found and lost again, slipping through the fingers of kings and queens, slipping through time itself. Empires have bled for them, Irene. Lives have crumbled under the weight of the secret this sapphire holds. And then you and Dax—two relentless, wild souls—hunted down the map. But you, Irene…” Jessalyn’s lips curled into the faintest smile. “You found the ashes. The one thing the entire world has bled for. And unlike the fools who came before you, you kept it for yourself. That’s more than smart—that’s destiny calling your name.”

Irene raised an eyebrow. “And I’m supposed to believe every word that comes out of your mouth? That Dax works for the king now?”

“You’d be surprised what desperation makes of us, what one is willing to risk,” Jessalyn said, her tone measured, cutting. “Even kings bargain with thieves when the prize is high enough.”

Irene let out a deep sigh. “I have conditions.”

“Speak,” Jessalyn said.

Irene stepped forward. “I need a ship. A fast one.”

Jessalyn nodded. “Consider it done.”

“And a crew. A real crew. Not your kids.”

Before Jessalyn could respond, Blade stepped in. “I’ll handle it. I’ll assemble the crew.”

Irene nodded slowly. “I want my ashes back. Now.”

Jessalyn grabbed the necklace and tossed it into the air. Irene caught it in one swift motion, immediately slipping it around her neck.

“This sapphire…” Irene began, her eyes gleaming with greed. “...it’ll fetch me my share of gold, won’t it?”

Jessalyn’s smile turned sharp, predatory. “With the sapphire, we’ll conjure so much gold it would take lifetimes to spend it all. Its power is beyond anything you can imagine.”

A sly grin spread across Irene’s face. Gold... the eternal curse and dream of pirates.

“Good,” Jessalyn said, catching her breath. “I’ll summon my translator. He speaks Tuli and can decipher the maps when he arrives. It may take a few weeks…”

“Impossible,” Irene cut in sharply.

Jessalyn looked up at her, surprised by the sudden edge in her tone.

“Dax won’t wait. And as much as it pains me to admit it, he’s good… too good. Clever. He won’t waste time. With the king’s resources, he’ll find the other map pieces before we do. Your translator will be useless by then.”

A heavy silence fell over the room. Jessalyn folded her arms, waiting.

Irene placed her hands on her hips, her mind racing. “What we need is someone… now. Today. Someone who speaks Tuli fluently.”

She stomped her foot on the floor, her eyes sparking with an idea. “I know! I know someone. And lucky for us, she doesn’t have much else to do besides waiting for death. I’ll fetch her.”

Blade, who had been silent until now, finally spoke. “I’m coming with you.”

“Perfect.” Irene shot an audacious grin at Jessalyn. “We have a deal.”

She turned on her heel, ready to leave, with Blade following close behind.

But before she could pass through the door, Jessalyn called after her, her voice firm. “Irene!”

Irene stopped, turning back with a defiant expression.

Jessalyn approached slowly, leaning on her cane. “I hope you understand the importance of what you’re wearing around your neck. Those ashes… they’re crucial. If the king finds out we have them, he won’t hesitate to hunt you down. Dax might even try to kill you himself.”

Irene stared at her for a moment before a faint, amused smile curved her lips.

“Well,” she said, “I guess that just makes our adventure more exciting.”

And with that, she turned and walked out.

Irene and Blade crossed the hall of the guild. Blade’s curious gaze settled on her, and a grin spread across his face. “I’m glad that went well,” he said lightly. “How are your wounds? I did my best to treat them. We had a healer here once, but… we lost him at sea.”

Irene stared at him for a moment, studying his features. He was… different. Kind. There was something reliable about him. She felt like she could actually work with someone like him. Strong, smart, pragmatic. Exactly what she needed for her crew.

“I’m not dead yet, so I guess you did a decent job,” she replied with a smirk.

“So, where do we start? What do you need?” he asked.

“First, give me back my knife. The one you stole from me,” Irene said with a grin.

“Of course. Anything else?”

“Clothes,” she added, glancing at her tattered, bloodstained clothes. “And food. I’m starving.”

Blade nodded and turned toward the swarm of children bustling through the guild. “Kibu! Kishi!” he called out loudly. In an instant, two figures darted out of the crowd.

Irene watched them. They were young twins. A boy and a girl.

Kibu was small, his messy black hair giving him a mischievous look. But it was Kishi who captured Irene’s attention. The girl had porcelain-white skin, her long, silky straight black hair falling smoothly down her back. Her dark, narrow eyes seemed to pierce Irene with a mix of amusement and challenge.

“Kibu, bring food, fresh water, and clothes,” Blade said, his voice unusually gentle, a striking contrast to his imposing stature. Kibu nodded without a word and sprinted off.

Kishi stepped forward slowly, drawing a hand from behind her back to reveal Irene’s knife resting in her palm.

“I took care of it. Even sharpened it,” she whispered with a playful tone.

Irene smirked, leaning in slightly to take her weapon. She twirled the blade in her hand before silently mouthing a “thank you” to Kishi with a wink.

Kibu returned, his arms full. Irene grabbed everything without hesitation. She turned to head toward a nearby room, but Blade called after her.

“You still haven’t told me where we’re going,” he said, intrigued.

Irene paused in the doorway and glanced back over her shoulder. “We’re going to break someone out of prison,” she said simply, disappearing inside and leaving Blade stunned.