Hooks flew like angry hornets, and I was the flower they'd decided to sting, ducking and weaving through the auction chaos with my heart slamming against my ribs like a caged leviathan.
The bazaar's torchlight blurred into streaks of orange and shadow as I vaulted over a toppled stall, pearls scattering under my boots like shattered stars. Crowe's flock—those inked-up parrot-men with their filed beaks and twitching feathers—swarmed the platform, hooks glinting as they shoved through the panicked crowd. "Grab the glow-rat!" the leader from the beach squawked, his crimson plume bobbing like a bloody flag.
"Cap'n wants his ink fresh!"
I didn't stop to argue. Fresh? I'd give 'em fresh—fresh bruises if I could manage it. But the Tempest Heart was still nursing its hangover from the maelstrom, that chill doubt lingering in my veins like bad grog. Lila's whisper echoed faint but sharp: Alone again, Thorne? No time for ghosts. The air hummed with the shard's pulse—hot now, tucked god-knows-where in my gear after the splash—urging me toward the dais where Mira Voss, the map-thief, strained against her chains like a storm about to break.
She locked eyes with me mid-leap, her gaze sharp as a reef cut—fiery intellect wrapped in a pirate's brand, ex-noble fire that said she'd chew through steel if words failed. "You gonna bid or bleed, dreamer?" she shouted over the din, yanking at her irons with a rattle that cut through the screams. No fear in her voice, just that Nami-wit, scheming even in shackles. It sparked something in me—a grin, wild and reckless, because damn if she didn't remind me of the horizon: close enough to chase, far enough to bite.
"Bleedin' comes later!" I yelled back, snagging a fallen banner from a merfolk stall—silk heavy with siren embroidery, shimmering like trapped waves. I whipped it wide, tangling two scouts mid-lunge, their hooks clanging useless as they squawked and stumbled. The crowd surged around us, a tide of elbows and curses: sharkkin roaring as they shoved for exits, skyfarers flapping up to rooftops in a flurry of feathers. One merwoman's pearl basket exploded nearby, vials shattering to release whispers—ghostly pleas that clawed at my ears: Stay... trade your regrets...
I shook it off, boots pounding the bone dais steps. The auctioneer had bolted, his ledger of living ink slithering away like a snake, but the platform was a madhouse now—chains rattling, torches toppling to spit flames across the hides. Mira twisted, her leathers creaking, and kicked out at a approaching brute, her boot connecting with a thud that sent him reeling. "About time you showed, idiot! Thought you'd window-shop all night?"
"Window what?" I huffed, sliding under a hook swipe that whistled past my ear. Close—too close. The air smelled of smoke and salt-sweat, the bazaar's vibrant pulse turning vicious, stalls crashing like waves in a squall. I popped up beside her, fumbling for the lock on her manacles—crude iron, etched with minor Echo runes that bit at my fingers like tiny teeth. "Hold still, cartographer. Steal my heart later—right now, we steal you."
Her laugh was short, sharp—a bark that held more edge than mirth. "Flattery's cheap. Got a pin? Or you planning to wind-punch the lock?" She nodded at my chest, where the Heart buzzed faint, and I caught the glint in her eye: recognition. She'd clocked the Echo in me, same as I'd sensed hers. Veil Cartography—maps that folded the world like parchment, shortening voyages but cursing lies into traps. Money-hungry schemer? From the brand peeking at her collar, yeah, but there was fire there, Elizabeth Swann smarts hiding a thief's scars.
"No pin," I admitted, jamming my shark-tooth knife into the seam—won it off a Coral Crown diver last port, sharp as regret. It grated, sparks flying, but held. A scout barreled in then, hook raised high, ink on his arm swirling into a crude talon that lashed out. I twisted, taking the blow on my shoulder—pain bloomed hot, leather tearing, but I rolled with it, using the momentum to slam my elbow into his beak. Cartilage crunched, and he reeled back with a gargled squawk.
Mira didn't waste the opening. She lunged—chains be damned—grabbing his dropped hook and jamming it into her lock with a twist that echoed like fate cracking. "There! Now quit dancing and fight, or I'll map you to the reefs myself."
The manacle snapped free on one side, giving her reach. She swung the loose chain like a whip, cracking it across another's knee, dropping him with a yelp. We moved like that—back-to-back in the tight space, her cunning filling the gaps my wild swings left. It was chaos poetry: me ducking hooks and tossing scouts over the rail into the crowd below, her barking directions like a navigator born. "Left—two beaks incoming! Duck the ink-blast; it'll blind you!"
Ink-blast? Sure enough, the leader hurled a glob from his palm—black as abyss-tar, hissing as it arced. I shoved her down, the stuff splattering the post where her head had been, eating through bone like acid hunger. "What the hells is that?"
"Crowe's mark," she spat, yanking her other cuff loose with a grunt. "Animate tattoos—turns sweat to venom. You're welcome for the save, by the way." Free now, she scooped a fallen dagger—mine, the sneaky minx—and flipped it hilt-first to me, her pickpocket fingers brushing mine quick as a spark. Banter lit between us, easy as rum flowing: "Steal my blade next time, and I'll charge interest."
"Interest? Lady, you're the one auctioned like yesterday's catch." I grinned, parrying a hook with the returned knife, the metal singing as it met iron. The dais shook under a fresh rush—five, six scouts piling on, their feathers ruffled into a feathered storm. But with Mira loose, it shifted. She darted like smoke, dagger flashing to sever a strap here, trip a leg there, her Echo flickering subtle: the air around a foe rippled, like a map folding, and suddenly he was stumbling over nothing, as if the platform shortened under him.
"Spark-level," I muttered, impressed despite the hook grazing my ribs. "Folds space? Handy for a thief."
"More than handy," she shot back, breath coming quick but steady. "But lies bite back—watch." As if to prove it, her fold glitched; the scout she'd tripped yelped as illusory quicksand gripped his boots, sucking him down an inch before it faded. Her face tightened—toll hitting, a flicker of curse in her eyes—but she shook it off, grabbing my arm. "Pavilion's that way. If you're chasing glow, Crowe's got it inked up tight."
The shard. Yeah, that hum in my pocket—wait, there it was, wedged in my belt pouch after the beach scramble, pulsing hotter now, like it approved. Betrayer binds the chaser, it'd whispered earlier, sending chills down my spine. But with scouts closing, philosophy could wait. "Lead on, Starveil. But if we live, you owe me a chart to real treasure. None of this 'safe harbor' quicksand crap."
She rolled her eyes—pure Nami, money-schemer with a noble's bite—but there was a crack in the cynicism, a spark of trust in the chaos. "Deal, Stormchaser. Just don't get us drowned first."
We broke from the dais in a sprint, leaping into the bazaar proper—a labyrinth of stalls buckling under the stampede. Flames licked higher from toppled braziers, casting the whole crater in hellish glow, merfolk diving for cover as their pearl wares shattered. I snatched a fallen net on the fly—heavy with weighted edges, mer-trader's tool for snagging surface-dwellers—and flung it wide, tangling three pursuers in a feathered heap. Mira laughed then, real and bright, the sound cutting the din like sunlight on waves. "Not bad for a solo fool. What's your story, anyway? Chasing ghosts or just bad luck?"
"Bit of both," I panted, dodging a hurled ink-vial that sizzled on the ground. The bazaar's heart loomed ahead: Crowe's pavilion, a hulking tent of bone ribs and sailcloth walls, guarded by bruisers twice the scouts' size. Inside, that blue pulse winked stronger, calling like a lost heartbeat. My village flashed unbidden—Primordia before the shatter, Ma's laugh over fish stew, Pa's tales of Echo gods who bound chaos with a compass needle. The Drowning took it all, waves black as ink, Lila's hand slipping from mine. This shard? It pointed to truth, to the self that could mend it. Or unravel me trying.
But the shadow from the cliff—tall, cloaked, blade glinting—flitted at the pavilion's edge, gone when I blinked. Foreshadow? Or paranoia from the toll? No time. A brute blocked our path, his ink swirling into armored plates, hook raised like judgment. Mira feinted left, her fold-Echo rippling the air to "shorten" the gap—suddenly he was swinging at empty space, overbalanced. I followed with a shoulder charge, Tempest Heart lending a weak gust that toppled him into a spice cart. Peppers exploded in a cloud, scouts coughing and cursing as their eyes watered.
"Nice combo," she said, grabbing my sleeve to pull me through a narrow alley of stalls—vines overhead forming a green tunnel, glowing fruits pulsing like warnings. "But we're not out yet. Crowe's got the vault warded. Echo chains—drowns power on touch."
"Saltwater weakness?" I groaned, the universal curse hitting home. Echo users like us? One dip in the Veilsea, and we sank like stones, powers fizzling to nothing. PotC echoes, vengeful spirits demanding tolls in flesh and regret. "Great. So we sneak, not storm?"
Her grin flashed wicked. "Sneak? With you flailing like a beached whale? Pray, dreamer." But she was already moving, fingers tracing a hidden pocket—out came a scrap of parchment, her Echo igniting. The map shimmered, lines folding real: the alley "shortened," walls bending like wet canvas, spitting us out behind the pavilion's rear flap. Toll hit her quick—a wince, the air glitching to show a phantom quicksand pit at our feet, gone in a blink. "See? Lies manifest. Last one turned a gold-marked isle to slime. You owe me double now."
"Double charts? You're on." We slipped through the flap, into the pavilion's dim heart—a cavern of draped sails and bone racks, air thick with ink and incense. Crates loomed, stuffed with relics: amulets whispering oaths, shards of Echo-tainted bone. At the center, on a pedestal of whalebone, sat the glow: the Compass shard, larger than I'd dreamed, blue veins throbbing like a caged storm. But "inked"—Crowe's touch, black tendrils snaking from its base, tattoos alive and watchful, forming wards that hummed with malice.
Guards patrolled—four bruisers, inked to the gills, eyes scanning like hawks. Mira pulled me low behind a crate, her breath warm on my neck. "Distraction?"
I nodded, Heart stirring reluctant. One gust—careful, no full spark. I exhaled slow, willing the air to stir: a breeze rattled the sails overhead, subtle as a sigh, knocking a loose lantern chain. It clanged, drawing two guards' eyes. "What was that?"
Mira moved like shadow, her fold bending the space to the pedestal—ten feet became three, her hand snatching the shard free in a heartbeat. The ink-wards screamed, black tendrils lashing out like whips, but she was already back, shard clutched tight. "Got it! Run!"
We bolted, but the remaining guards spun, hooks whistling. One caught my arm—pain flared, blood welling hot—but Mira's dagger flashed, severing the tendril mid-strike. "Not today, featherbrain!" The shard in her grip pulsed brighter, syncing with mine somehow, a duet of light that lit our path.
Outside, the bazaar was a inferno now—flames leaping stall to stall, crowds fleeing toward the beaches. We plunged in, weaving through the smoke, scouts on our tail like a feathered plague. Lungs burning, side aching, but gods, the thrill—the chase with a partner, her wit bouncing off my wild plans like sparks on flint. "This way!" she yelled, pointing to a side path lined with coral arches. "To your ship—assuming you didn't beach it on a reef."
"Fang's tougher than she looks," I shot back, wind-gusting a cart into our pursuers' path. Crash of wood and squawks bought us yards. But the toll crept—Lila's cry faint, then the new whisper from the shard: Binds the betrayer...
We burst onto the beach, the Gilded Fang waiting like a faithful hound, her leaks patched hasty with palm fronds. Waves lapped gentle now, ghostwhales' lanterns dim offshore. Mira vaulted the rail first, shard safe in her pouch, turning to haul me up. "Well? You gonna stand there gawking, or—"
A shadow detached from the dunes—that cloaked figure, blade drawn, runes glowing faint. Not Crowe's. Colder. Hungrier. And as it stepped into the moonlight, hood falling back to reveal scarred features and eyes like drowned coals, the shard burned hot in warning.
My uncle. Vex. And he wasn't here for tea.
To be continued...