Mihawk's fingers work with measured care, snipping a yellowing leaf from the base of a tomato plant. The sun warms his shoulders through the thin fabric of his shirt, and the birds in the surrounding trees fill the air with their mindless chatter. Baskets of seeds sit beside him—cucumbers, peppers, herbs—their contents waiting to be sorted and stored.
His head snaps up.
The pruning shears freeze mid-snip. His golden eyes narrow, searching the empty garden for a presence he knows intimately. The birds continue chirping. The sun continues shining. But something has shifted in the fabric of the world.
"Marya."
He speaks her name like a blade being drawn.
Silence. The garden offers no reply.
His eyes narrow further, his jaw tightening. This time, it's not a request. It's an order.
"MARYA! Wake up! Wake up, Marya, NOW!"
---
Marya's eyes snap open.
She gasps for air, her chest heaving, her hand flying to her throat. The cold is gone. The ice is gone. The blizzard is gone.
She's swaying.
A hammock. She's in a hammock, suspended between two massive palm trees. Blue sky stretches above her, impossibly blue, dotted with cotton-white clouds that drift lazily across the horizon. The leaves of the palm trees rustle in a warm breeze, their fronds casting dancing shadows across her face.
She swallows hard, her throat raw and dry. Her head turns, slowly, taking in her surroundings.
A beach. White sand so fine it looks like powdered sugar. Water so clear she can see the bottom twenty feet out, where colorful fish dart between coral formations. And there, moored on the shore, a massive Gokstad ship with a serpent head carved into its figurehead—eyes of polished obsidian, jaws frozen mid-strike, scales etched with intricate patterns that seem to shift.
A voice clears its throat.
Marya's head snaps around.
Orjn Jord reclines against a palm tree, his honey-blonde beard illuminated by the afternoon sun, his light blue polo shirt immaculate despite the tropical heat. His sandals are spotless—obsessively so. He watches her with a knowing smirk, one hand stroking his magnificent beard.
"About time you woke up."
Marya struggles to speak. Her throat feels like sandpaper, her voice a graveled rasp. She raises a hand to her forehead, trying to piece together her last memory. The ice. The water. Falling through. Cutting herself free. Pulling herself onto the frozen surface. Then—
Blackness.
"How did I—"
Orjn rises with surprising grace for a man of his stature. He produces a waterskin from one of his cargo shorts' countless pockets and approaches the hammock. "Here. Drink. You sound like a dying seagull."
He helps her sit up, supporting her back with a surprisingly strong arm, and guides the waterskin to her lips. The water is cool and fresh, and Marya drinks greedily until a coughing fit forces her to stop.
Orjn pulls the waterskin away, chuckling. "Easy, lass. You're a tough one, but even the toughest need to breathe."
Marya swings her legs over the side of the hammock and stands, her legs wobbling beneath her. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, her golden-ringed eyes scanning the beach, the ship, the impossible sky.
"Where am I? How did I get here?"
Orjn leans against a palm tree, crossing his arms. "You were dying, so I brought you here. Verily, I say unto you, the currents of fate are as fickle as the winds, and one must have a firm grip on the helm, hmph!"
Marya narrows her eyes. "Who are you? Why are you helping me?"
Orjn sneezes—a thunderous explosion that is too large for his small frame. He sniffles, rubs his nose with the back of his hand, and grins.
"I am Orjn Jord." He sweeps a hand in a grand gesture, his voice booming with theatrical authority. "Welcome to my demi-plane. I prefer the tides and the sun, as any sensible being would. My wife prefers the frost and the mountains."
Marya's head snaps around. "Wife?"
Orjn chuckles, stroking his beard. "Yes. That is where I pulled you from—my wife's demi-plane. She had her eye on you as soon as you arrived." He winks. "You made quite an impression, falling through her ice like that. She appreciates dramatic entrances."
"I'm helping you," Orjn continues, pushing off from the palm tree, "because you and your companions are the ones who will pass. Hmph! It is written in the currents."
Marya's voice is sharp. "And who is she? Your wife?"
Orjn's grin widens. "Shaka Saði. The Frost-Tipped Guardian. The Avalanche. The Sneeze that Freezes the Sun." He sneezes again, sniffles, and adds, "She's a handful, verily. But she has her charms."
Marya nods slowly, processing. "And where are—"
Orjn finishes for her. "Your friends? They're still in her realm." He waves a dismissive hand. "She's waited over eight hundred years for a group as strong as yours to come. She won't let them go so easily."
Marya's jaw tightens. "Have there been others?"
"Of course." Orjn shrugs. "But they usually don't make it off the ice." He chuckles, a deep rumbling sound. "Your group not only makes it past the ice but also maims her pets. The Qiqirn. She's quite impressed, hmph! She won't admit it, but I can tell. I've known her for centuries."
"They attacked us," Marya says, her voice flat. "We defended ourselves."
Orjn waves a hand. "Details, details. She's having a good time." He grins, all his teeth showing. "I have a question for you."
Marya takes a step forward, ready to demand answers—and finds herself still standing beside the hammock. She takes another step, and the beach stretches beneath her feet, keeping her in place.
She looks at Orjn, who is grinning like a cat that's swallowed a canary.
"You are the most interesting one," he says, his voice dropping to something almost conspiratorial, "since you're Igutoshi's vessel. You have to be powerful to carry that around and still be alive. Forsooth, most would have been consumed within days."
Marya's eyes widen, then narrow. "What do you know?"
Orjn smirks. "I don't want to spoil the ending. Hmph!"
Marya rolls her eyes, a gesture that is almost too human for the gravity of the situation. "What are your intentions?"
Orjn shrugs, his voice returning to its booming, theatrical register. "I am a simple guardian, here to fulfill my purpose." He sneezes, sniffles, and continues. "We are the guardians of the luminary's tool. Prove yourselves worthy and capable, and we will all see the new dawn."
Marya sighs. "So do I have to kill you or something?"
Orjn chuckles. "I cannot be killed so easily, hmph! But I am the one who will know those who are worthy."
Marya raises an eyebrow. "And?"
Orjn pushes off the palm tree, walking toward the waves that crash gently against the shore. "Are you ready?"
"Ready for what?"
"To return." Orjn looks over his shoulder, his expression strangely serious. "You cannot stay here if you want to leave. The currents will guide you, but you must be willing to follow."
Marya's lips press together. She follows him, and this time, when she walks, the beach moves beneath her feet, carrying her forward. She looks over her shoulder and sees the hammock receding into the distance.
Orjn looks back at her, his voice warm. "Don't worry. I have no intention of keeping you here. That serves neither of our purposes."
Marya's voice is sharp. "Have you helped others?"
Orjn grins. "The others were boring and weak. They lacked the will to be more." He stops, calf-deep in the waves, and gestures for her to look. "Come. See for yourself."
Marya hesitates, then steps into the sea water. It's warm, almost hot, and she sloshes toward him. She looks down into the water—
And sees them.
Law, Jannali, Atlas, Bō-Zak, and Kaburo. They're fighting. Dodging. Defending themselves against hundreds of falling arrows that rain from a sky choked with snow and ice.
Law moves like a blade, his sword a silver blur as he deflects arrow after arrow. His movements are economical, precise—each parry perfectly timed, each dodge a hair's breadth from death. But his face is strained, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Without his Devil Fruit, he's fighting with pure skill, and the toll is visible.
Jannali's spear is a whirlwind of motion as she twirls and spins. She moves as if she is one with the wind, her body a blur of motion, her voice cutting through the wind with curses that would make a sailor blush.
Atlas is a white blur, his Sulong form still holding despite the strain. He moves between the falling arrows like a ghost, his claws raking through the air, deflecting projectiles with impossible speed. But his form is flickering, and blood drips from wounds on his shoulder and flank.
Bō-Zak's dual sickles flash. He moves with a dancer's grace, his body twisting and turning, his blades carving through the rain of death. His pipe is still clamped between his teeth, a plume of smoke trailing behind him as he fights. His gold-flecked eyes blaze with the joy of battle.
Kaburo stands like a mountain, Kalamaru a blur of dark steel. His style is brutal efficiency—each stroke a death sentence, each parry a lesson in inevitability. Arrows shatter against his blade, and he moves forward, relentless, his face a mask of cold determination
Orjn's voice is warm. "Your friends are remarkable. Verily, I say unto you, they fight like true warriors."
Marya looks up at Orjn, who is now standing in his Gokstad ship, the serpent figurehead looming behind him. "How—"
Orjn calls back, his voice carrying across the waves. "The currents will guide you!"
His ship pulls away from the shore, the sails billowing with a wind that comes from nowhere. Marya watches him go, her jaw flexing with frustration.
Then she turns her attention to the incoming waves.
She grits her teeth, remembering the handful of swimming lessons her mother gave her when she was young. The feel of water against her skin. The rhythm of breathing. The trust in her own body.
She dives into the wave.
---
She's falling.
Marya's eyes snap open, and she's plummeting through a cloudy, snowy sky. The wind howls past her ears, tearing at her leather jacket, whipping her raven hair into a frenzy. Below her, a mountain range grows larger with terrifying speed—sharp peaks, jagged cliffs, and a frozen valley where—
There.
She can see them. Law, Jannali, Atlas, Bō-Zak, Kaburo. They're still fighting, still deflecting the endless rain of arrows.
"I really hate snow," Marya growls.
She reaches over her shoulder, her hand finding Nisshoku's hilt. The obsidian blade slides free, its crimson runes pulsing with a weak, flickering fire. She channels her Haki, reaching out with her senses, finding her friends' presences like beacons in the storm.
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