Anmarie Lotuslys led them around the side of the King's Manner with the quiet efficiency of a woman who had memorized every service entrance, every delivery corridor, every route that kept important people away from crowds. Her boots struck the cobblestones in a steady rhythm—practical, unhurried, professional.
The front of the building roared with celebration. Citizens waved flags—some bearing the Kura-Kura Kingdom's grapevine crest, others hastily painted with the Red Hair Pirates' grinning skull. Children sat on fathers' shoulders. Old women clutched handkerchiefs. The roar of a kingdom finding its voice again echoed off the stone walls.
Marya Zaleska walked behind Anmarie, her golden eyes scanning the shadows. Her leather jacket—Heart Pirates insignia catching the evening breeze—hung open over her casual shirt. Denim shorts. Tall combat boots. She looked like she had just walked off a ship, which she had. Her raven hair fell across her face forcing her to tuck random, rebellious strands behind her ear.
Aurélie Nakano Takeko flanked her left, silver hair loose, eyes tracking windows, rooflines, the spaces between columns. Her hand rested on Anathema's hilt. The cursed blade's pulsed faintly, always ready.
Galit Varuna flanked her right, his long neck coiled in a loose S-curve, emerald eyes darting. His dark teal Riptide Cloak billowed. His fingers brushed the Vipera Whips at his belt.
Anmarie glanced back. "The balcony faces the square. King Koshu will speak from there. You three will stand behind him—visible, but not speaking. The people need to see their protectors."
Marya said nothing. Her eyes remained fixed on the doorway ahead.
The hallway swallowed them.
Stone walls, polished floor, sconces holding soft-glowing dial-lanterns. The air smelled of old wine and fresh flowers—someone had decorated for the celebration. A long runner carpet muffled their footsteps.
Marya's pace slowed.
Her hand drifted toward Nisshoku's hilt— strapped across her back, its blade dormant but hungry.
Aurélie noticed first. Her eyes narrowed. Her hand tightened on Anathema.
Galit noticed second. His neck coiled tighter. His fingers closed around his whip.
Anmarie noticed nothing. She kept walking, her voice carrying on about the schedule—"The speech at sunset, then the toast, then—"
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
The sound of a cane striking stone. Rhythmic. Methodical. Unhurried. Each impact measured, like a metronome counting down to something none of them had planned for.
Aurélie's power vibrated under her skin.
Galit's neck extended slightly, his head angling to see past the curve of the corridor.
Marya's golden eyes narrowed.
A silhouette materialized from the shadows at the far end of the hall. Tall—very tall, over nine feet. Lean, with the coiled grace of a predator who had never needed to prove his power. The figure walked with a long, slow stride, each step deliberate, each tap of the cane echoing off the stone.
The silhouette resolved into a man.
Blond hair—the distinctive pale gold of the Donquixote bloodline—worn longer than his cousins', falling past his ears, slightly disheveled as if he had just come in from the wind. High cheekbones. Strong jaw. A straight nose. The aristocratic beauty of his family, but with a stillness that set him apart.
Pale gray eyes, nearly colorless, like winter sky.
A cane in his right hand—slender black, unadorned silver handle. Not a walking aid. A weapon.
He wore an open-collar cream shirt, tailored trousers, polished leather boots. No bubble helmet. No white robes. He dressed like a moderately successful Blue Sea merchant who happened to have excellent bone structure.
Donquixote Dunnjona Haigo.
Marya's fingers stopped twitching. They rested on Nisshoku's hilt.
Aurélie's eyes widened—just a fraction. Galit's neck knotted once, then relaxed.
Anmarie Lotuslys kept walking, oblivious, still talking about the seating arrangement.
Haigo closed the gap.
His long, slow stride ate the distance. The tap of his cane grew louder. His pale gray eyes fixed on Marya—not hostile, not friendly. Appraising. Curious. The look of a man who had already calculated every possible outcome and found most of them acceptable.
He stopped three paces from Marya.
Placed both hands on the cane's silver handle.
Looked down his nose—not with contempt, but with the casual authority of someone who had never needed to assert power because power simply assumed his presence was correct.
"Dracule Marya Zaleska," he said. His voice was a warm baritone, pitched naturally, without performance. "Our paths have crossed once again."
Galit and Aurélie exchanged a tense glance. Anmarie stopped mid-sentence, her mouth still open, her brow furrowed in confusion.
Marya raised an eyebrow. Her voice came out flat, curious, guarded.
"You have business here?"
Haigo's lips curved—just slightly, just enough to acknowledge the question without answering it.
"Yes. Since the World Government was not able to secure the island, I am resuming my duties."
Marya's other eyebrow rose. "Duties?"
Haigo cut her off—not rudely, just efficiently. His pale eyes held hers.
"The event."
The words landed like stones in still water. Marya's full attention snapped into focus. Her golden eyes—her father's eyes, hawklike, missing nothing—locked onto his.
"There is still time for you."
Marya's lips pressed together. Her jaw tightened. "What is the event?"
Haigo opened his mouth to answer.
"YOU HAVE ARRIVED!"
King Vitis Koshu appeared at the far end of the hallway, clapping his hands together with the jovial energy of a man who had no idea he was walking into a standoff. His silver-gray hair was neatly tied back. His deep burgundy robes—formal, embroidered with golden harvest scenes—swished around his ankles. The Vine Crown rested on his head, delicate silver grapevines gleaming.
He walked toward them with bouncing steps, his face split in a genuine smile.
Then he saw the tension.
His steps faltered. His smile flickered. His head swiveled between Marya and Haigo—then back to Marya, then back to Haigo—with the awkward uncertainty of a scholar who had stumbled into a debate he had not prepared for.
"Are you..." Koshu began, his voice trailing off.
Haigo straightened. His hands remained on the cane. His pale gray eyes shifted to Koshu—acknowledging his presence without conceding any ground.
"I am leaving."
He stepped past the group. His long stride carried him around Anmarie—who still stood frozen, her mouth opening and closing like a fish—past Galit, who tracked him with his emerald eyes, past Aurélie, whose hand remained on Anathema's hilt.
As he passed Marya, he paused.
His pale eyes met hers. Close enough that she could see the almost invisible rings around his irises—darker gray, subtle, visible only in certain light.
"Do not linger here," he said quietly. "You still have time."
He walked on. The tap of his cane faded down the corridor.
Marya's head snapped around. Her golden eyes lingered on his silhouette—tall, lean, disappearing into the shadows at the far end of the hall.
She watched until he was gone.
"Are you..." Koshu tried again, his voice uncertain.
Marya's head snapped back. Her expression smoothed into its default calm—guarded, observant, giving nothing away.
"We are acquaintances. That is all."
Koshu nodded at her sharp tone. His smile returned—forced, but genuine in its effort. He clapped his hands together again, softer this time.
"Well. Shall we?"
He gestured toward the corridor ahead. The one that led to the balcony, to the crowd, to the announcement that would change his kingdom's future.
Marya sighed. The sound carried years of exhaustion and something else—something that might have been amusement.
She nodded.
Koshu bounced down the hall—his scholar's gait unsuited to formality, his robes swishing, his Vine Crown glittering. He looked less like a king and more like a grandfather hurrying to a family dinner.
Aurélie fell into step beside Marya. Her eyes still tracked the shadows where Haigo had disappeared.
"That was a Celestial Dragon," she said. It was not a question.
Marya nodded. "Yes, one of the ones who moves freely."
Galit's neck coiled and uncoiled. "He knew your name. Your full name."
"Everyone knows my full name," Marya said. "My father is Dracule Mihawk."
"That is not what I meant."
Marya did not answer.
Anmarie Lotuslys finally found her voice. She hurried to catch up, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment.
"I did not—I was not aware that—the King did not mention—"
Marya waved a hand. "It is fine."
"It is not fine," Anmarie muttered. "A Celestial Dragon in the Manner, and I am leading you through the service corridor like a delivery of—"
"It is fine," Marya repeated. Her voice carried a note of finality.
Anmarie fell silent.
They walked toward the balcony.
The crowd roared.
Marya's golden eyes fixed on the horizon, where the sun was setting slow and angry over the Fermentation Current.
She thought about the event. About the time that was still left.
She said nothing.
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