"Not all damage was of the body, however."
Archbishop Lorenzo, Date Unknown.
Francis paused at the edge of the clearing, squinting through the smoke rising from deep in the forest. It had to be the pirate camp. He hadn't planned on venturing this far, but avoiding an untimely encounter with Camila—and the mortifying potential of being seen flustered—gave him a convenient excuse.
And thus the lamentable lad ran.
Leaving his loved one without a man.
... I hate myself.
Stepping carefully over roots, he approached the camp, the scent of smoke and charred wood growing stronger with each step. What met his eyes made him freeze in a mix of awe and disbelief. Pirates were gathered around a roaring bonfire, but it wasn't the rowdy, half-drunken sparring he'd imagined. Instead, the scene was controlled, precise, and utterly intimidating.
Valeria stood at the center, her posture fluid and commanding. One of her own pirates attempted a maneuver, but before he could even land a punch, Valeria sidestepped and knocked him down cleanly, not a bead of sweat marring her skin. The camp erupted in cheers and laughter at the effortless display.
"That makes twelve consecutive wins for the captain! Who else wants to try their luck?" one of the pirates called, voice full of admiration and challenge.
Francis swallowed, stepping closer, feeling the thrill and danger of the world he was slowly stepping into—and realizing just how far he still had to go.
The cheers rang out the moment the crew spotted him, voices calling him things like "Lord Bartender!" and "God of Ale!" Francis froze mid-step, the words hitting him with an almost physical cringe. Second-hand embarrassment curled tight in his chest, and he couldn't help but recoil slightly at the grandiose praise. Still, he couldn't deny the warmth that spread beneath it—he appreciated the gesture, even if it made him want to sink into the dirt.
Shaking off the mix of pride and awkwardness, he spotted Robert nearby—the only familiar face in the throng besides Valeria—and made his way over. Sliding onto the log beside him, Francis let himself sink into a quiet corner of the camp, ready to observe, learn, and—if he was honest—hope no one noticed just how out of place he felt.
Robert glanced sideways at him, catching the stiffness in his shoulders. With a low chuckle, he nudged him. "Heard you were getting married soon."
Francis let out an exaggerated sigh. "Of course you did."
"Oh, relax," Robert said, waving a hand. "We're not going to cause that much of a stir."
"Really assuring," Francis deadpanned, though the corner of his mouth betrayed him.
Francis let the banter settle for a moment before his attention drifted back to the center of the camp—back to Valeria, now casually brushing dirt from her gloves as another broad-shouldered pirate groaned on the ground.
"How does she even do that?" Francis muttered. "Twelve men, all built like oxen, and she doesn't even look winded. How can someone with that slim of a figure toss them around like that?"
Robert didn't answer right away. He just stared into the fire, expression unreadable, then clicked his tongue. "I'm afraid," he said slowly, "that the answer would cost you."
Francis raised both hands. "Eh. Nevermind. I'd rather not pry into your captain's secrets."
"Wise man," Robert said, flashing him a thin grin. "Guess you might live a long life after all."
Valeria dusted off her palms after sending yet another crew mate sprawling into the dirt. The man wheezed out something vaguely apologetic, but she'd already turned away—her eyes sliding toward Francis.
A slow, predatory smile pulled at her lips.
"Well?" she called out, voice carrying cleanly over the crackle of the fire. "You here just to watch, bartender? Or do you want to try your luck too?"
A wave of hoots and whistles erupted from the surrounding pirates.
Francis felt every pair of eyes pivot toward him. His stomach dropped. "Me?" he said, pointing at himself like an idiot.
"Yes, you," Valeria replied, folding her arms. "Unless you're afraid of embarrassing yourself."
That earned fresh laughter, and a cruelly enthusiastic chant rose up from the crew.
Kill me.
Robert clapped him on the back hard enough to jolt his lungs. "Come on! She won't hurt you that much. Probably."
"Some good company I got," Francis muttered, but he knew he wasn't getting out of this. The pressure was suffocating, and Valeria's grin only widened the longer he hesitated.
Finally, with a resigned exhale, he pushed himself to his feet. "Fine," he said, trying not to sound like a man marching to his execution.
At last, the man figured he wanted to die fas—No, I'm not making poetry, not now.
A roar of approval erupted.
Valeria stepped back into the ring of trampled dirt, motioning him forward with two fingers. "Good," she said, eyes bright with wicked amusement. "Let's see what you're made of, Francis."
He swallowed, steeled himself, and walked toward her—each step feeling both terribly stupid and strangely exhilarating.
Francis braced himself for humiliation. He'd seen Valeria flatten men twice his size without even shifting her weight. This would be quick, painful, and—if God had mercy—over before anyone could really laugh.
Valeria didn't waste time. The moment he raised his hands, she lunged with a clean, sharp punch aimed at his jaw.
Instinct took over.
He slipped to the side.
Gasps rippled through the camp.
Even Valeria's brows ticked up a fraction—not surprise, exactly, but interest.
She pivoted smoothly and struck again, faster. This time her fist connected squarely with his ribs. He staggered, breath jolting from his lungs… but his knees didn't buckle. He stayed upright.
A hush fell. Pirates who had been mid-laugh froze with their mouths half-open.
Francis blinked, stunned. He'd seen this exact move drop men into the dirt in a single hit. Now he stood there, chest burning but very much conscious.
Valeria's lips curled into a sharp, hungry grin.
"Well, well," she murmured loud enough for the crowd. "Look at you."
The taunt lit something reckless in his chest. Before he could second-guess himself, he threw a punch—cleaner, faster than he'd ever managed in his life. She dodged it with ease, but the motion forced her to actually move her feet, making the crew erupt in fresh disbelief.
He didn't get to savor the moment.
Valeria slipped inside his reach like a shadow. In an instant, she hooked his arm, swept his legs, and planted a palm against his chest. The world spun, and Francis hit the ground hard enough to see sparks.
A heartbeat of silence.
Then—
"Not bad, bartender!"
"He lasted longer than Blaise!"
"That was better than all of us!"
Francis groaned and rolled onto his back. His lungs burned, his ribs throbbed, but his ego was in one piece.
Valeria offered him a hand, still grinning like she'd just found a new toy.
"It was short," she said, her voice carrying a note only he caught. "But not embarrassing."
And judging from the stunned stares around him, she wasn't the only one impressed.
Francis lingered near the edge of the clearing while the rest of the crew caught their breath among the trees. Fallen leaves were still settling from the last takedown Valeria delivered. No one looked eager to challenge her again.
When the entertainment dried up, the mood shifted. Someone uncorked a jug of ale; someone else started a shanty that bounced off the trunks like a drunk echo. A few pirates wandered over to Francis between verses, curiosity outweighing their bruises.
"Where'd you learn to move like that?"
"Those throws weren't normal. You trained somewhere fancy?"
"You are a retired pirate, aren't you?"
He fed them the line he'd prepared—years of martial arts, nothing serious, the body remembering what the mind forgot. It worked well enough. They nodded, impressed, satisfied.
He wasn't convinced. Whatever he'd done earlier didn't feel like simple training. More like something old waking up in him, stretching its limbs.
Valeria leaned against a fallen log nearby, arms folded, the firelight catching the edges of her grin. She watched him over the rim of her mug, too entertained.
She never asked a question. Never challenged his story.
But her eyes made it clear: She didn't buy a single word of it.
Valeria eventually grew tired of watching him from a distance. She pushed off the log and crossed the clearing with an easy swagger, the mug hanging from two fingers. The shanties droned on behind her, but the moment she sat beside him the noise felt far away.
She took a sip, wiped the corner of her mouth with her coat, and said,
"Your little performance earned you another free question. Ask away, Sensei."
The title dripped with mockery—half making fun of his martial arts excuse, half bragging that she knew what a Sensei was.
Francis tried not to focus. His mind was cluttered with too many questions to pick from, but only one mattered if he wanted to make sense of the flames he summoned.
He leaned forward slightly.
"Those supernatural powers you mentioned… Is there any structure behind them? Can they be measured? Quantified? Empirically, I mean."
For once, the grin faded from her face. Not gone—just tempered. As if he'd finally asked something worth her attention.