The front room of Roast A Lotte hummed with the noise of too many bodies pressed into too small a space. Sailors packed the wooden benches, their uniforms rumpled, their faces flushed from samples of Totalroast and Solotart. The smell of caramelized sugar hung thick in the air, mixing with the sharp bite of almond liqueur and the salt of the harbor that drifted through the open windows. Glasses clinked. Voices rose and fell in waves of laughter and complaint. A woman near the window hiccupped and apologized to the man beside her, who was too drunk to notice.
Charlotte Amaretto worked the counter with the practiced ease of someone who had served a thousand customers and would serve a thousand more. Her cream-colored blouse had come untucked on one side, and a smear of brown sugar stained her apron near the pocket. Her auburn hair escaped its messy bun in curling strands that stuck to her temples. She moved between bottles and glasses with her hands never stopping, her smile never fading, her voice carrying over the din with cheerful efficiency.
"No, no, the Toastalot is aged eighteen months, the Solotart is only twelve. You can taste the difference in the finish." She slid a glass across the counter to a waiting sailor, who caught it with both hands and nodded like she had just revealed the secrets of the universe. "There you go, darling. Sip it, don't shoot it. This isn't a bar fight."
The sailor's companion leaned in, his elbow knocking over a salt shaker. "So what's your story, sweetheart? Pretty thing like you, running a place like this all alone?"
Charlotte's smile stayed fixed, but something behind her eyes went flat. "My story is that I have a lot of customers and very little patience for pick-up lines. Would you like another drink, or should I start charging you for the air you're wasting?"
The sailor laughed, not realizing he was being dismissed. His friend tugged his sleeve and pointed toward an empty table in the corner. They shuffled off, and Charlotte's shoulders dropped a fraction of an inch.
In the corner, tucked between the wall and a potted plant that had seen better days, Petra Ven sat alone.
Her oversized olive-green sweater hung loose over her frame, the sleeves swallowing her hands except for her fingertips, which rested on the edge of her glass. The glass held something amber-colored—amaretto, maybe, or a local whiskey—but she had barely touched it. Her heavy-lidded dark eyes moved across the room in slow, methodical sweeps. Counting. Cataloging. Watching.
These sailors are too comfortable, she thought. Too at ease. They move like they've been coming here for months, not days.
She watched a young ensign at the bar joke with the woman beside him, his arm slung across her shoulders with the ease of familiarity. She watched the waitress—a girl no older than seventeen, with a charm bracelet that jingled—weave between tables with a tray of empty glasses, greeting customers by name. She watched Charlotte Amaretto laugh at a joke she clearly didn't find funny, her eyes tracking the room even as her mouth smiled.
Too good at their jobs. Too practiced. This isn't just a distillery. It's a front.
Petra raised her glass to her lips and pretended to drink. The liquid burned her throat. She set the glass down and resumed her watch.
---
The door chimed.
Ciel Nguyen burst through it like a cannonball, his sandals slapping against the wooden floor, his Rocco Sterling T-shirt untucked and stained with something that might have been rice dust or might have been mud. The bag of rice he carried—a small cloth sack, maybe five pounds—bounced against his hip with every step. He dodged a sailor who reached out to ruffle his hair, ducked under the arm of a woman carrying a tray of drinks, and skidded to a stop at the counter.
The sailor who had been flirting with Charlotte scowled down at the boy. "Hey, kid. There's a line."
Ciel ignored him. He hopped once, twice, and flopped the bag of rice onto the counter with a thump that made the bottles rattle.
Charlotte chuckled. The sound came from deep in her chest, warm and genuine, a stark contrast to the polished laugh she had offered the sailor moments before. She reached across the counter and ruffled Ciel's hair, messing it further. "There's my favorite delivery boy. You didn't trip on the way up this time?"
Ciel's head barely cleared the counter's edge. He bounced on his heels, his dark eyes bright with the particular energy of an eight-year-old who had been given a mission and was determined to complete it. "Mom said they're almost out of Solotart. She said she needs to place an order. She said—"
"She said a lot of things." Charlotte grinned, reaching under the counter. Her fingers found the small cloth pouch she kept hidden there—candied almonds, always ready, always waiting. She tossed it to him. "Delivery fee. Tell your mom I can have it delivered to the bar tomorrow. Same price as last time."
Ciel caught the pouch one-handed, his grin splitting his face. "Okay!"
He spun away from the counter and sprinted toward the door, his sandals slapping against the wood. The pouch disappeared into his pocket. The bag of rice sat forgotten on the counter, and Charlotte slid it to the side with the ease of someone who had handled a thousand such deliveries.
"Tell your brother I said hi!" Vie Briehanoi called from across the room, where she balanced a tray of empty glasses on her hip.
Ciel did not respond. He burst through the door, the bell chiming in protest, and almost collided with the two figures on the other side.
---
Dr. Maven Trance stepped back just in time, his white coat flapping, his wire-rimmed glasses sliding down his nose. "Watch where you're going, you little menace!"
Ciel was already gone, his footsteps fading down the street. Maven scowled after him, pushed his glasses up with his middle finger, and muttered something under his breath about children and respect and the good old days when people knew how to behave.
Vice Commander Anmarie Lotuslys stood beside him, her arms folded across her chest, her sharp hazel eyes tracking the boy's retreat. A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "He's quick."
"He's a disaster," Maven grumbled. He stepped through the door, and Anmarie followed.
The noise of the distillery washed over them—the clink of glasses, the murmur of conversation, the sharp scent of almonds and alcohol. Maven's nose wrinkled. He had never liked the sweetness of this place. Too cloying. Too sticky. He preferred the clean smell of antiseptic and old books.
They made their way to the counter, weaving between tables and sailors. Charlotte spotted them and her smile widened—another genuine one, the kind that crinkled the corners of her eyes.
"Well, well. The good doctor and the Vice Commander. To what do I owe the pleasure?"
Maven grunted. "Don't butter me up. I'm just here for supplies."
Anmarie reached into her jacket pocket and withdrew a small leather pouch—berries, by the weight of it—and set it on the counter. Her fingers pressed something else into Charlotte's palm as she did, something flat and folded that disappeared into Charlotte's hand without a flicker of recognition.
"Yes, the usual." Anmarie's voice carried no hint of the exchange. "There's a recital tonight. My daughter. I'll be in hot water if I show up empty-handed."
Charlotte's fingers closed around the note. Her expression did not change. "Of course. And for you, Doctor?"
Maven shoved his hands into his coat pockets. "Disinfecting alcohol. The strong stuff. I've got a surgery tomorrow and my stock is running low."
"Coming right up." Charlotte turned and pushed through the door behind the counter, disappearing into the back rooms of the distillery.
---
The door swung shut behind her, and the noise of the front room faded to a muffled hum. Charlotte stood still for a moment, her back against the door, her hand still wrapped around the note. The distillery stretched before her—copper vats gleaming in the low light, barrels stacked to the ceiling, the air thick with the smell of aging liquor and roasting almonds.
She unfolded the note with shaking fingers and read it.
Patrols rotate every three hours. Shipping routes locked down. No one leaves. Can you counter?
Her breath caught. She folded the note again, tucked it into her apron pocket, and climbed the stairs to the apartment above the shop.
The stairs creaked under her weight. Each step brought her closer to the door at the top, and each step made her heart beat faster. She paused with her hand on the latch, listening. Silence from within. Then a low murmur of voices.
She pushed the door open.
---
The apartment was too small for five people.
Kaburo Gusaki stood by the window, his dark gray kimono top hanging loose on his frame, his long dark hair pulled back in a low ponytail. His scarred face turned toward the door as Charlotte entered, and something in his expression softened—just slightly, just for a moment.
Captain Umeko Ozias sat on a crate near the wall, his shaggy plum-colored hair disheveled, his horns curving up toward the ceiling. His tattered dark coat lay across his lap, and his dark eyes tracked Charlotte's movements.
Akako Zinnia sprawled across a threadbare couch, her vibrant red ponytails spread across the cushions, her baby-doll dress bunched around her thighs. She kicked her heels against the armrest and sighed dramatically.
Amaru Valentine leaned against the window frame, one hand holding the curtain closed, the other spinning one of his pistols around his finger. His bright floral shirt was unbuttoned at the top, revealing his muscular chest, and his long neck swayed slightly as he moved.
Ozul Crow sat in the corner, cross-legged on the floor, his iridescent black skin shimmering. His dreadlocks hung over his shoulders, and his katana, Aetherius, rested across his knees. His eyes were closed, but his head tilted slightly as Charlotte entered.
Kaburo crossed the room in three strides. His hand found her arm, and his eyes searched her face. "What is it?"
She pressed the note into his palm.
He read it. His jaw flexed.
Umeko rose from the crate, his voice low and steady. "What is it?"
Kaburo's voice came out flat. "Not good." He handed the note to Umeko. "They're rotating patrols every three hours. The shipping routes are locked down. Even if we could get back to the ship, we wouldn't be able to leave the island."
Akako whined, crossing her arms over her chest. "But it's so cramped here! I can't stretch, I can't practice, I can't even—"
Amaru glanced at her through the curtain's gap, watching the Navy soldiers and nervous patrons moving in the street below. "Jail cells are even more cramped. Trust me. I've seen a few."
Akako's whine cut off. She glared at him, but she did not argue.
Umeko rubbed his chin, considering. "So even if we try to slip out in the middle of the night?"
Kaburo shook his head. "They have every route locked down. Every harbor exit, every cove, every inlet. The only way off this island is through their blockade, and they have eyes everywhere."
Umeko's jaw tightened. "It's not even possible to fight our way out."
Kaburo's voice dropped lower. "There's more." He glanced at Charlotte, then back at Umeko. "They're asking if there are enough of us to counter the Navy patrols."
Amaru let the curtain fall and turned from the window. "If there were enough of us to do that, we wouldn't be hiding out right now."
The room fell silent. The floorboards creaked under Charlotte's feet as she shifted her weight. She placed her hand on Kaburo's forearm, feeling the tension in his muscles beneath the fabric of his kimono.
"I have to get back." Her voice came out steadier than she felt. "What should I tell her?"
Ozul Crow opened his eyes. They gleamed in the darkness, pale and luminous, like stars reflected in still water. His voice drifted across the room, soft and measured, like a prayer recited in an empty temple.
"The Great Square of Pegasus hangs heavy above. A high-walled prison of stars that traps the flickering light of a fading moon. Saturn's cold, leaden eye watches every climb, stacking retrograde mountains before a spirit weary of the uphill path. Yet, even as the tides retreat into shadows, the dim sparkle of a distant trine whispers that the horizon has not yet swallowed the sun."
Akako's brow furrowed. "You never make any sense."
Umeko shook his head. He looked at Charlotte, his dark eyes holding hers. "Tell her our main focus is getting off this island. We won't be able to fight off the Navy. Not like this. Not without a plan."
Charlotte nodded. She turned to go.
Kaburo's hand caught her arm.
She looked back at him. His face was still, his expression unreadable, but something in his eyes—something raw and unguarded—made her chest ache.
"Be careful."
She smiled. A real smile, the kind she saved for him alone. She reached up and touched his cheek, her fingers brushing the scar that crossed his face.
"I'm always careful."
She pulled away and slipped through the door.
---
The stairs creaked under her feet. The copper vats gleamed. The barrels waited. She burst through the door behind the counter, a clear bottle of disinfecting alcohol in one hand and a paper bag of candied almonds in the other.
She set them on the counter in front of Maven and Anmarie. Her breathing was steady. Her smile was bright.
"This is a new caramel formula I've been experimenting with." She tapped the paper bag. "You'll have to let me know if they like it."
Anmarie grinned, lifting the bag off the counter. "Don't you worry. I will."
Maven grunted, grabbed the bottle, and turned toward the door. Anmarie followed, her hand already reaching into the bag for a sample.
The door chimed. They were gone.
---
Petra Ven's eyes narrowed over her glass.
She watched the exchange—the too-long pause behind the counter, the too-bright smile, the way the distiller's hands had trembled just slightly when she set down the bottle. Something is wrong, she thought. Something is hidden.
She set her glass on the table and pushed it away, untouched.
Above her, something thumped.
The sound was soft—a footstep, maybe, or a crate being shifted. Someone shifting weight on old floorboards. Someone trying to be quiet.
Petra's eyes drifted toward the ceiling.
There's someone up there.
"Ahem."
She looked down.
Vie Briehanoi stood at the table, her round tray balanced on her hip, her charm bracelet swaying. Her smile was bright and cheerful and utterly oblivious to the tension crackling through the room.
"Can I get you anything else?" Vie's voice carried the particular chirp of a teenager who had been trained to be helpful and was determined to excel at it. "Another drink? Some more candied almonds? We have a new batch that Amaretto-san is really proud of. She says the caramel is—"
Petra stared at her.
Vie's smile faltered. "Um. Miss?"
Petra's heavy-lidded eyes held the girl's for a long moment. Then she looked away, toward the door, toward the window, toward the ceiling where the thump had come from.
"No," she said. Her voice was soft, almost a whisper. "I'm finished."
She rose from the table, her oversized sweater falling around her like a shroud, and walked toward the door.
Vie watched her go, her tray still balanced on her hip, her smile frozen in place.
The door chimed.
Petra Ven stepped out into the harbor twilight, and the noise of the distillery swelled behind her, covering the silence she left in her wake.
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