"At last! I have crossed the line from mortal to divine!"
Saint LeFay's Journal, 2 P.C.
"Well, not the original Saint Agnes," she added. "I'm a dust mite in comparison."
Hearing such humility from an actual Saint—paired with her earlier mention of "Divine Instrument"—left him with a lingering question.
"Are you a member of the Apostolic See?" he asked. The shift in her expression was instant. Serious. Tense. For a moment, he was almost convinced he was about to explode where he sat. Thankfully, nothing happened.
"A sharp one, aren't you?" she said. "You're right, I am. Or rather, was. Never been a fan of polytheism."
"Pardon?" Francis asked, genuinely confused. That, in turn, seemed to confuse Saint Agnes.
"What's the matter?" she asked.
"Polytheism. The Church. Polytheists?" he said.
That earned him another hearty laugh. If he'd been a jester, he might've taken pride in today's performance.
"Oh, you sweet, ignorant fool," she said, wiping a tear from her right eye. "The Apostolic See has been polytheistic for while now."
"Wait. Sorry—this constant stream of information is overwhelming me. I need a moment," he said, not daring to push the conversation any further. All the talk of Shanties, Stanzas, Saints, and the Church left him dazed. His hometown really was a blind spot in the middle of nowhere. The thought terrified him. Yet a small, treacherous part of him felt... thrilled.
If this was what sailing was about… then maybe it was worth a shot after all.
"Speaking of breaks," she said lightly, "would you like to see a Saint in action?"
"What are you going to do?" he asked, puzzled.
"A vessel is passing by," she said simply. Then she stepped out of the small house.
Francis had no choice but to follow.
As soon as Francis stepped outside, the shock hit him. He wasn't in Saint Agnes, nor was he in one of its surrounding islands. Wherever the storm had thrown him, it was far from home.
A handful of small houses—hers, presumably—sat on open green. Luscious hills rolled out in every direction, dotted with every wildflower imaginable. Sheep wandered aimlessly, while cows grazed without a care in the world. It should've been peaceful. It should've been beautiful. But the sight offshore ruined any chance of that.
A ship was passing close. Too close. Its size made his stomach drop. Two dozen cannons stacked in rows. A ballista on the prow taller than most. White sails stamped with a giant yellow tree. Nothing about it looked real. Even the Royal Navy's ships—those hulking symbols of order—didn't radiate this kind of crushing authority. He truly was a small fish in a vast ocean.
"Are they going to notice us?" Francis asked, voice already unsteady.
"Do you want that?" Saint Agnes replied.
"...No."
"Then they won't."
He assumed it was her doing. Some kind of concealment. And deny it, she did not.
"Sharp," she murmured, as if plucking the thought straight from his mind.
I wish she could stop doing that.
She lifted one hand. "Now watch."
She snapped her fingers.
The ship erupted. All at once. No spark, no buildup—just instant, impossible fire swallowing hull, deck, bow, stern, all of it. Screams tore out from the deck, a rising wave of panic that didn't last. The flames took them too quickly.
Francis felt his own breath catch in his throat. Whatever expression he wore, Saint Agnes looked faintly entertained by it.
"Was that really necessary?" he asked. Knees giving out halfway through the sentence. Until now, he'd assumed a Saint was just a stronger "Submerged"—dangerous, sure, but still human. What he'd just witnessed stripped away every illusion. He was completely at her mercy. And she knew it.
"Do you even know who that ship belonged to?" she asked, her voice steady, almost bored.
"No," he admitted.
"The Apostolic See," she said in disgust. "I burn those on sight. Doesn't matter when or where."
The answer settled him—barely. He didn't know what the Apostolic See had done, but something in her tone told him they'd earned it. A woman like her didn't slaughter dozens for theatrics. Still, he needed to hear it spelled out.
"Let's just say they make the Royal Navy look like the good guys," she said flatly, already turning back toward the house.
He followed. He didn't even consider the alternative.
He glanced back toward the shoreline. The ship was already sinking, swallowed by steam and smoke until only the tips of its masts remained.
"You haven't told me about my own ritual," Francis said as he stepped inside after her.
"Someone isn't overwhelmed anymore," she said, amused. "At a stage as low as yours, all you need is to drink a cup of seawater every other day."
He tried not to grimace. If this was the simple stage, he didn't want to imagine the later ones. "I'm assuming your ritual isn't a simple one," he tried, hoping she'd slip, or brag, or even gloat.
She didn't. She ignored him completely.
She settled back into the chair she'd been using earlier, leaving him standing like an unwelcome guest unsure whether to sit, kneel, or run. Ultimately, she settled on talking. "If I may… why did you rescue me?"
"It wasn't out of the kindness of my heart, that's for sure," she said with a snort. Then, more evenly, "Jokes aside, I can't hope to defeat the Apostolic See on my own. I am but one Saint, after all."
"One Saint," he echoed. The woman had just annihilated a ship with a flick of her fingers, and she spoke like she was a laborer complaining about their workload.
"The Church has multiple," she continued. "And that's without mentioning the half dozen Venerables, the dozen Reverends, and the numerous Deacons. So yes, I need help."
Francis swallowed. "But I'm just an Acolyte."
"You won't be one forever," she said, all smug theatrics and confidence. "If the Lord favors you, you'll become someone worthy of standing by my side. Besides, I'll help to the best of my ability."
"To the best of your ability?"
"You think I chose this island because it's serene?" She raised an eyebrow. "I'm a fugitive. I can't exactly stroll into Havana and sample their alcohol." She then grabbed a glass of red wine. "Not that I need to."
Was the cup there earlier?
He didn't know what to latch onto first: a Saint in hiding, a conspiracy against a polytheistic Church he barely understood, covert communication he didn't know existed, an impossible mission mentioned with casual certainty. Less than two weeks ago, he was wiping mugs in a rotting tavern, dreaming about leaving home. Now he was somehow entangled in a revolution against an empire.
And he'd survived the Descension—barely. A coin toss. A fifty-percent chance. It hadn't been destiny or talent. It was luck, blind stupid luck. The thought left him horrified.
Saint Agnes seemed to watch him with interest before finally intervening "Wear this."
She extended a hand. An oval medal rested on her palm, engraved with an intricate A.
"When in distress, grab the medal and chant my incantation:
Oh, Saint of Dominion
Venerated are thee
And revered is thy might
Aid me in my tribulation
And shade me from harm."
His pupils dilated. An incantation. A real one. Not the harmless prayers the village priest taught. A Saint's personal invocation. There was no escape; he was too deep into this. And he had no one to blame but himself and his curiosity.
If he'd just stayed home, he could've lived a quiet life with Camila. Reading lessons. Chickens. Children of their own. Maybe inheriting the bar when his boss retired. Instead, he'd chased the sea, gazing at the abyss in the process. And now, the abyss gazed back.
"I'll… remember it," he muttered.
She opened a drawer, pulled something out, and tossed it at him. A ring—similar to the one he used to wear, except the gem was a deep blue instead of red.
"An artifact?" he asked.
"No. I'm proposing. Will you marry me, Francis?" she deadpanned. Then rolled her eyes. "Yes, it's an artifact. This one grants you Liquidation, Premonition, and Substitution."
The way he looked at her made it painfully clear he didn't know what any of that meant.
"Ugh," she groaned. "Liquidation—slippery legs. Premonition—sense danger before it hits you. Substitution—swap places with an object or person of your choosing."
"Three Stanzas…" he whispered, in awe.
"Bringing your total to five," she said. "Not as glamorous as twelve, but it'll keep you alive for a while."
"But… what am I supposed to do?" he asked, still unsure of the path forward. Being handed an artifact and an impossible objective didn't exactly scream plan.
Saint Agnes waved him off. "Calm down. I don't expect you to become the pirate king, or emperor, or whatever those clowns call themselves these days." She replied. "I just want you to survive. Survive long enough for the sea to give you more of its blessings."
Easier said than done. But a choice he had not.
"Can you send me back to… Saint Agnes?" he asked. The words sounded absurd even as they left his mouth, and his face burned with embarrassment.
Fortunately, she burst into delighted laughter. "Perhaps that sense of humor of yours will keep you alive out there," she said, wiping another tear from her eye. "Fine. Off you go, Pirate King."
She snapped her fingers.
Then the world shifted.
End of Act I.