One year later.
The bell tower hadn't changed much.
Still cracked. Still cold. Still quiet.
But Eira?
Eira had become something else entirely.
She sat with her legs folded beneath her, coat unbuttoned to the waist, as she counted the evening's haul under flickering lantern light. Neat stacks of folded notes. Three velvet pouches clinking with weight. A jeweled chain she'd stolen off a pirate's throat—while he was still breathing.
She was up sixty million Berries.
Hidden. Scattered. Tucked in safehouses. Stashed behind bricks, beneath loose floorboards, and even sewn into the lining of her boots.
A far cry from the half-starved girl who crawled off a broken ship with only two bullets and a stolen log pose.
She'd learned quickly that thieving from townsfolk came with diminishing returns.
People talked. Guards got smarter. Victims got paranoid.
But pirates?
Pirates were rich.
And stupid.
The first one she hit was docked at Pier 6, too drunk to notice his safe had been cracked and half his crew chloroformed. That job netted her four million, clean.
The next few took more effort—staking out their habits, learning their quirks, baiting brawls between rival crews and picking the bones.
One job had her locked in a cargo crate for eight hours just to get at a shipment of bounty jewels. Another involved sneaking into a brothel with a fake ID, a backup knife, and a mouthful of broken teeth by the end.
But it was worth it.
Every heist made her sharper.
Every close call, another scar to learn from.
Every score, another piece of leverage.
Selvert had started calling her The Frost Ghost.
She didn't correct them.
Her gun was still the same.
A matte-black pistol with a worn grip. It had been refitted once by a drunk gunsmith she saved from a mugging. She still only had a few bullets—now five in total—meticulously hoarded and never wasted.
Each one was a decision.
She never wasted them.
The book from the ship? Still unread.
She carried it, though. Always. Something in her gut told her it mattered, even if she couldn't say why.
The log pose had begun twitching a few weeks ago. The island's pull was weakening—meaning her time on Selvert was almost up.
Good.
She was almost ready to move on.
That night, she leaned against the edge of the bell tower window, wind tugging strands of white hair loose from her braid. The city stretched beneath her—lit with lanterns and whispers, crawling with noise and lies.
And pirates.
Always more pirates.
She didn't feel bad about it anymore.
They'd taken everything from other people's lives.
This was just repayment.
With interest.
Still, she kept a low profile. She never wore the same look twice. Wigs. Bandages. Dust in her hair. Even cheap perfume when it suited the role.
She never gave a name.
And she never got close to anyone.
Not again.
That night, as she lay beneath her blanket and the wind howled through the tower's teeth, she whispered a number to herself:
"Sixty million."
Then, quieter:
"Almost enough."
But enough for what, she didn't say.
Maybe she didn't even know yet.
But the next island was calling.
And she wasn't going to arrive hungry and scared this time.
She was going to arrive ready.
And whoever got in her way?
Would learn the hard way what the Frost Ghost really was.
---------------------------
The ship she stole wasn't beautiful.
A mid-sized cutter, scarred with scorch marks and mismatched sails. The wheel creaked when she turned it, and the hull smelled of sea rot and blood.
But it floated.
And more importantly—it was hers.
She'd scouted it for a week: a smuggling vessel owned by a local pirate syndicate too distracted by an underground brawl tournament to notice their anchor rig had been sabotaged.
She'd slipped aboard after midnight, carrying only her bag of Berries, her gun with its five remaining bullets, her coat, the log pose, and the book.
The ship drifted from the harbor like a ghost slipping from a corpse.
She didn't look back.
Not at first.
But hours later, as the gray of dawn kissed the horizon, Eira glanced over her shoulder toward Selvert one last time.
Smoke.
Not chimney smoke. Not the lazy gray curls of morning bakeries.
No, this was thick—rising in spirals, darkening the sky like ink spilled across a map.
She narrowed her eyes. Reached for the spyglass she'd taken from the ship's cabin.
Then she froze.
A man—or something shaped like one—stood in the heart of Selvert, nearly as tall as the central clock tower. Cloaked in black, pale arms like polished marble stretched outward. From his back, wings made of shadow pulsed and unfolded.
Buildings collapsed around him in slow, deliberate waves.
People ran.
They didn't get far.
With a single motion, he brought his palm to the ground—and the earth cracked.
A scream reached her ears even from the water.
Not one.
Hundreds.
A moment later, half the city ignited in pale-blue fire. Silent, ethereal. Like it was erasing rather than burning.
Eira's breath hitched.
Not from fear.
But rage.
That was her hunting ground. Her fortress. Her crucible.
And now?
It was being erased.
"Why?" she muttered, gripping the railing until her knuckles went white. "What the hell was that…?"
No Navy ship came.
No bounty hunters chased.
There was no warning. No name. No flag.
Just destruction.
By the time she lost sight of Selvert entirely, it had become a smoldering crater.
She didn't cry.
But she stared at her gun.
Five bullets.
One pistol.
No ship guns.
No explosives.
No power.
If that thing had shown up a day earlier—she'd be ash.
The next night, she sat hunched in the ship's cabin, the book beside her, her coat half-draped across the back of the chair.
The pistol sat on the table, gleaming in lamplight.
She leaned forward, slowly and deliberately, pressing her hands to the edge of the table.
"I need better weapons."
Her voice was steady. Quiet.
The next score wouldn't just be about survival. It wouldn't just be about robbing for food or gold or escape.
She needed to hunt power.
That meant more money.
More danger.
More calculated risks.
If a monster like that existed—if things like that walked this world—then she needed to be someone they couldn't ignore.
Or kill.
From the window, the stars blinked cold above the sea. Somewhere out there, her log pose was pointing to the next island. A new target.
Maybe even a new gunsmith.
She stood, reloaded her pistol, and holstered it with care.
"Frost Ghost isn't done."
"I'm just getting started."