The island did not announce itself.
It did not rise dramatically or reveal hidden guns. It simply existed—low stone breaking the water, ancient as if it had never learned the habit of being discovered. A single gull hovered above the pier, wings still, as if it were waiting.
No banners.
No watchtowers.
Just docks worn smooth by years of quiet use, wood damp with salt, the smell of sea pressed so deeply into the land it felt permanent.
Mateo stepped onto the pier and felt nothing.
No tension.
No relief.
No fear.
That absence unsettled him more than panic ever had.
Behind him, Armand paused. His eyes moved the way they always did—measuring distance, counting exits, listening for sounds that might arrive late. But something had slowed. Not weakness. Something heavier. As if the air itself resisted him.
Neither spoke.
The island was quiet in the wrong way—not empty, but withheld.
A man waited at the end of the dock.
He leaned against a post, coat unbuttoned, hat pulled low—not concealing his face, but not offering it either. No weapons were visible. No scars meant to warn. Yet the dockhands adjusted their paths instinctively, giving him space as if it belonged to him by default.
Armand stopped.
A careful, practiced smile touched his mouth. It did not reach his eyes.
"So," Armand said evenly, "you're still alive."
The man lifted his head just enough to meet him.
"I could say the same," he replied. His voice was controlled, not cold. Measured. "But that would suggest I ever doubted it."
Mateo felt it then. Not danger. Weight. The kind that bends rooms, tilts shadows, silences the air, and shifts the light without raising its voice.
Armand stepped forward and clasped the man's forearm. "Mateo," he said, glancing back, "this is Silas Crowe."
Silas' eyes moved to Mateo. They did not probe. They did not assess. They simply settled, attentive in a way that made Mateo straighten without knowing why.
"Captain," Silas said politely.
Mateo nodded. "Sir."
A faint movement touched Silas' mouth—not quite a smile.
"You don't sleep much," Silas said.
Mateo blinked. "I—"
"You should," Silas continued calmly. "Not because you're tired. But because eventually your mind will begin finishing thoughts without asking you."
Armand frowned. "Silas."
Silas raised a hand slightly. "Observation. Not accusation."
The words lodged somewhere Mateo could not place. He would feel them later.
They walked.
The building Silas led them into predated the docks—stone walls, low ceilings, the smell of paper, salt, and old decisions. Maps covered the walls, pinned and repinned until edges had softened like cloth.
A table stood at the center.
Silas spread a map across it.
Not just this island.
Trade routes marked in charcoal. British patrol lines inked clean and deliberate. Entire islands crossed out. Names burned away. One coastline torn from the parchment altogether.
Mateo stared longer than he intended.
Armand noticed. "Recognize something?"
Mateo shook his head. Then hesitated. "No."
Silas tilted his head slightly. "You're lying," he said gently. "But not to us."
Mateo stiffened. Silas let it pass.
"This island remains quiet because it chooses to," Silas said. "No flags. No spoken loyalties. Neutral ground."
"And the British?" Armand asked.
"They know it exists," Silas replied. "They also know forcing it would cost more than it gains."
"For now," Armand said.
Silas met his gaze. "For now is how empires breathe."
A dull sound echoed outside—wood striking stone. Mateo flinched, pulse tightening.
Armand noticed.
Silas noticed first, eyes narrowing slightly, lips pressing together.
"Grief doesn't arrive loudly," Silas said. "It leaks."
Mateo looked away.
"We won't stay long," Armand said.
"I know," Silas replied. "You never do."
A pause followed.
"You're running again," Silas added.
Armand did not deny it.
Elsewhere,
Lieutenant Hawthorne stood at the bow of his ship, hands folded behind his back, eyes fixed on the island ahead.
Smoke rose—not fire yet, just the promise.
Seven ships followed in disciplined formation, sails trimmed, angles precise. This was not pursuit. This was not chaos.
This was correction.
Beside him stood Edmund Blackwood, newly promoted, uniform immaculate, posture rigid with belief.
"Pirates have fortified the town, sir," Blackwood reported. "They're demanding tribute from the locals."
Hawthorne nodded. "And the locals?"
"Terrified."
Silence.
"Send the flag," Hawthorne said.
A white banner rose. A boat lowered. A messenger went ashore.
They waited.
Then a single shot cracked the air.
The boat drifted back—empty. Smoke rose in thin spirals. A house burned. Silence. Then another.
Blackwood inhaled sharply. "Sir—"
"I know," Hawthorne said quietly.
He closed his eyes. I offered them mercy.
He pictured civilians—the way fear settled into places long before blood ever did. He had seen it before. He would again.
"Signal the town," Hawthorne said. "Final warning."
Cannons angled. They did not fire.
The reply from shore came as laughter. Then flame.
"They're using civilians as cover," Blackwood said, voice unsteady.
Hawthorne opened his eyes.
Something shifted—not rage.
Acceptance.
"Prepare to engage."
The battle was brief. Efficient. Ugly. Smoke swallowed streets. Pirates fell. Innocents with them.
Through the spyglass, Hawthorne watched a woman drag a child behind a stone wall too thin to matter.
Blackwood turned away.
Hawthorne did not.
"This will be called justice," he said softly.
"It won't feel like it."
Back on the island,
Mateo stood at the shoreline, staring at the water. The waves shivered faintly, quivering with unnatural rhythm. Too evenly.
"We'll leave at dawn," Armand said behind him.
Mateo nodded.
"Do you ever feel," Mateo said quietly, "like the world keeps moving just to spite us?"
Armand considered. "No."
Mateo smiled faintly. "I do."
From a distance, Silas watched. He did not approach.
But his eyes followed Mateo longer than necessary.
Far out at sea, seven ships cut through the water.
And something—slow, patient, almost careful—began to change. The waves shivered first. Not loudly. Not yet.