Nassau, Rooftops.
Boots pounded across sun baked tiles. The clay was warm even at this hour, holding the day's heat like a second skin. Thomas ran hard, his lungs burning, his heart hammering like a war drum against his ribs. The torn linen shirt flapped against the wound on his side, each step sending a fresh pulse of pain through his body.
Behind him lay chaos. Shouts echoed through the streets below. A woman screamed somewhere near the rum house. Glass shattered. The orange glow of the fire flickered against the low clouds, casting the rooftops in a hellish light.
Ahead of him ran the cloaked woman. Fast. Silent. She moved like the rooftops belonged to her, her feet finding purchase on tiles that Thomas had to fight to cross. She never looked back. She did not need to. She knew he would follow.
Jonah stumbled along behind Thomas, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His boots slipped on a loose tile, and he caught himself against a chimney, scraping his palm raw.
"Are we sure she is not leading us to a second assassin?" Jonah called out, his voice tight with effort.
Thomas vaulted a chimney, his lean body coiling and releasing. The motion pulled at his wound. He ignored it.
"If she is," he said, "she is doing a terrible job of it."
"I am reserving judgment until I am not bleeding."
They moved like smoke through the heat. Sweat poured down Thomas's face, stinging his eyes. Dust rose from the tiles with every step, settling on his skin, mixing with the blood on his side. Somewhere behind them, gunfire echoed again, but it sounded distant now, almost irrelevant.
Lanterns bobbed below in the streets. Men shouted orders. Women called for their children. Dogs barked. Nassau had turned into a kicked anthill, every inhabitant stirred up by the gunfire and the flames.
Thomas glanced down once and saw red coats flooding the main thoroughfare. Soldiers. A dozen of them, maybe more, moving with the kind of discipline that meant an officer was watching. He pushed harder.
The woman led them on a winding path across the rooftops, leaping gaps that made Jonah curse and Thomas hold his breath. She chose routes that avoided the main streets, staying to the shadows, staying low. She knew this city. Not as a visitor or a merchant. She knew it like a blade knows its sheath.
Finally, she dropped from a ledge into a narrow alley behind a row of sagging shanties. She landed in a crouch, her knees absorbing the impact, and rolled forward to disperse the force. Then she kept moving, no hesitation, no wasted motion.
Thomas hit the ground behind her with less grace and more grunt. His boots struck the packed earth of the alley, and his knees screamed at the impact. Jonah followed a second later, landing badly and stumbling into a pile of rotting crates. The wood splintered under his weight.
"Graceful," Thomas muttered.
"Shut up," Jonah wheezed. His dark curls were plastered to his forehead. The silver earring had caught on something and was now crooked, dangling at an angle. He did not seem to notice.
The woman did not wait for them to recover. She moved deeper into the alley, her cloak whispering against the walls. The passage was narrow, barely wide enough for two men to walk side by side. The buildings on either side leaned toward each other, their upper floors almost touching, blocking out the sky.
She led them through a maze of backstreets, each one tighter and more crooked than the last. The air grew stale, thick with the smell of garbage and old cooking fires. Rats scurried away from their footsteps. A cat hissed from a windowsill and vanished into the dark.
She moved like someone who knew the city from the inside out. Every blind turn, every hidden exit, every dead end that was not really a dead end. Thomas filed away each turn, each landmark, in case he needed to find his way back. Jonah simply tried to keep up.
She ducked through a cracked door behind an abandoned tannery. The wood was warped, the hinges rusted orange. She pushed it open with her shoulder and disappeared inside.
Thomas followed. Jonah came last, pulling the door shut behind him.
Inside was stillness and dust. The air was thick with the reek of old leather, a sour chemical smell that coated the back of the throat. Rusted tools hung from hooks on the walls. Torn hides lay scattered across the floor, stiff as boards. A long wooden table dominated the centre of the room, its surface was stained dark with something that might have been dye or might have been blood.
Thomas slammed the door and slid the bolt across. The metal screeched, then locked into place with a heavy clunk. He leaned against the wood, chest heaving, and looked at the woman.
"Start talking," he said.
The woman pulled back her hood.
Up close, her face was sharp. Storm grey eyes, the same colour as Thomas's but colder, harder. A pale scar ran across her left brow, disappearing into her hairline. Her cheekbones were high, her jaw strong. She was young, perhaps a few years older than Thomas, but her face carried the kind of stillness earned by surviving.
Her hair came loose as the hood fell away. It was a deep auburn, the colour of oak leaves in autumn, and it fell in soft waves past her shoulders. A few strands stuck to her forehead, damp with sweat from the chase. She did not push them aside.
She did not smile. She did not seem to know how.
"You are Thomas Vance," she said.
Thomas tensed. His hand moved toward his belt, though he carried no weapon there. It was instinct.
"That depends on who is asking."
She held his gaze. "My name is Celeste. And I am not here to kill you." Her voice was flat, matter of fact. "If I were, you would already be dead."
Her eyes dropped to his side, where the torn linen shirt was dark with blood. The wound was still seeping, a slow trickle down his ribs.
"That needs cleaning," she said. "Before it festers."
Thomas glanced down at the blood as if noticing it for the first time. "It is just a graze."
"Graze or not, seawater and gunpowder do not mix well with open flesh." She turned away, scanning the room. "There is a cistern out back. We are not staying long, but you should at least rinse it."
Jonah raised a hand from where he was doubled over, still trying to catch his breath. "Celeste. Lovely name. Also, she has a point. You are leaking on the floor."
Thomas pressed his palm against the wound. It came away sticky. He said nothing.
Celeste continued, her eyes remaining locked on Thomas. "Blackbeard sent him."
Thomas frowned. "The assassin? The man in the black coat?"
She nodded once. "Malvery. One of Blackbeard's quiet men. He does not miss, unless someone interferes."
Jonah straightened up, his breathing finally slowing. His crooked earring swung against his jaw.
"And here I thought we were just cheating drunk merchants. You know, normal Tuesday night activities."
"Not anymore," she said.
Thomas crossed his arms over his chest. The movement pulled at the torn linen, revealing a glimpse of the blood-soaked fabric beneath. His grey green eyes narrowed.
"Why would Blackbeard care about me?"
Celeste was quiet for a moment. The only sound was the distant crackle of the fire and the murmur of the city beyond the walls.
"That depends," she said quietly. "But he cared about your father."
Thomas's expression did not change, but something in his posture tightened. Jonah, however, let out a low whistle.
"Well, that explains the assassin," Jonah said. "I wondered why Malvery was staring at you like you owed him money. Or blood. Usually it is money."
Thomas ignored him. "What does Blackbeard want with my father's ghost? He has been dead for ten years."
Celeste stepped closer. Her boots made no sound on the packed earth floor.
"Edward Vance stole something from Blackbeard. Something old. Something that should never have been found."
Thomas's jaw tightened. "I do not know anything about a relic."
"The Leviathan's Heart," she said. "You have heard the name, even if you do not remember it. Every sailor in Nassau whispers about it. The stone that drinks blood. The curse that pulls ships under."
Jonah's face had gone pale beneath the sweat and dust. "That thing is real? I thought it was a story. Something parents told children to keep them from going near the water at night."
"It is real," Celeste said. "And your father woke it."
Thomas shook his head. "My father was a pirate. He stole, he fought, he died. That is all. There is no curse. There is no relic. There is just a ship that sank in a storm."
Celeste's voice did not rise, but it grew harder, like stone grinding against stone. "The storm did not sink the Sovereign's Fury. Your father made a choice that night. He cut his hand and bled onto the Heart, and the sea claimed his crew. Not drowned. Claimed. Their eyes turned black. Saltwater poured from their mouths. And then the ship was dragged down by something that should not exist."
The room felt smaller. The air felt thicker.
Jonah swallowed. "That is a very specific story. How do you know all this?"
Celeste glanced at him, then back at Thomas. "I have my sources. The same way I knew Malvery would be at that card table tonight. The same way I know Blackbeard is not finished with the Vance bloodline."
Thomas studied her. She was holding something back. He could see it in the way her jaw was set, the way her fingers curled at her sides.
"What do you want?" he asked.
"To make sure Blackbeard does not get what he is after." Her grey eyes did not waver. "He wants the Heart fully awakened. He wants to control what sleeps beneath the waves. And he needs you to do it."
"Me?"
"Your blood. The blood of the man who first bound the Heart. It is the only key."
Jonah lifted both hands, palms out. "Okay. Everyone breathe. Let us all just take a moment." He turned to Thomas. "You have been holding out on me. A cursed relic? A pirate who wants your blood? This is a bit more than the usual I am the son of a disgraced captain thing."
Thomas said nothing.
Jonah exhaled slowly, running a hand through his sweat matted curls. The silver earring swayed.
"Well. That explains why you never talk about him. I thought it was just the shame of the sinking. But this." He shook his head. "This is something else entirely."
Celeste turned toward the door. She placed her palm against the warped wood, listening to the sounds outside. Shouts, still distant. Footsteps, not yet near.
"You do not have to believe me," she said without turning around. "But you do need to run."
Thomas straightened. "Where?"
She turned back to face him. Her expression did not change, but something in her eyes shifted.
"Tortuga."
Two voices, perfect sync.
"Nope," Jonah said.
"Absolutely not," Thomas added.
Celeste arched a brow. The scar across her eyebrow lifted with the motion.
"You have a better idea?"
"Tortuga is not a plan." Jonah stepped forward, gesturing with both hands. "Tortuga is a suicide destination. That island is a nest of pirates, slavers, mercenaries, and broken deals. You do not go to Tortuga. You survive it, if you are lucky, and then you spend the rest of your life pretending you were never there."
"It is where we need to go," Celeste said simply. She did not argue. She did not explain.
Thomas stepped forward. His bare feet were still dusty from the rooftops. His torn shirt hung open, revealing the lean muscle of his chest and the fresh wound on his side, already crusting with dried blood.
"Why Tortuga?"
Celeste held his gaze. "Because I have business there. And because it is the one place Blackbeard's reach is not absolute. For now."
"That is not an answer."
"It is the only one you are getting tonight." She pulled her hood back up, hiding her auburn hair. "You can stay here and wait for the next knife. Or you can come with me and maybe find out why your father really died."
The room was silent. Jonah looked between them, his mouth opening and closing.
"Tell me we are not doing this," he said to Thomas.
Thomas did not answer. Not yet.
He could feel it again. That pressure beneath the skin of the world. Heavy. Watching. Waiting. It had been there on the dock when the wood trembled. It had been there in the rum house when Malvery stared at him. It was here now, pressing against the walls of the tannery, seeping through the cracks.
Celeste crossed the room to a broken crate in the corner. She knelt, pushed aside the splintered wood, and pulled out a leather satchel. It was worn, the stitching coming loose in places, but the strap looked new. She slung it over her shoulder and stood.
"I am leaving," she said. "Now. With or without you."
She moved toward the door.
Jonah turned to Thomas, his voice low and urgent. "You are actually considering this. I can see it on your face. That is the Havana look. The Cartagena look. The bad decision look. But Tom, this is not a card game. This is Blackbeard. This is a cursed relic. This is your father's ghost coming back from the dead."
Thomas looked at Celeste's back. At the straight line of her spine. At the way her hand rested on the cutlass at her hip, not threatening, just ready. At the auburn waves disappearing beneath the hood.
"My father has been dead for ten years," Thomas said quietly. "But if there is a chance to learn what really happened, I want to take it."
"And if Blackbeard finds you first?"
Thomas met Jonah's eyes. "Then we do not let him."
Jonah sighed. He straightened his crooked earring, brushed the dust from his shirt, and shook his head.
"Tortuga. Of course. Why can it never be somewhere pleasant? Somewhere with decent food and women who do not carry knives?"
Thomas almost smiled. Almost.
"We are going," he said.
Jonah threw up his hands. "Fine. But I am billing you for a new shirt. And therapy. And possibly a parrot to replace the part of my soul that just died."
Celeste opened the door. Cool night air flowed in, carrying the smell of smoke and salt.
Thomas followed her out.
Jonah came after, muttering. "Tortuga. I should have stayed in Kingston. I should have become a baker or learned to farm."
Celeste did not look back.
****
Two blocks away, a sharp whistle split the night.
The sound cut through the chaos like a blade, high and piercing, the kind of whistle that meant orders were about to be given.
Four Royal Navy officers stood in the wreck of the rum house. Chairs lay splintered across the floor. Musket balls were buried deep in the beams, their impact points circled by black scorch marks. Blood had dried in a dark smear against the far wall, still wet enough to glisten in the lantern light. The fire had been contained, but smoke still hung in the air, thick and grey.
The lead officer was a man in his forties, his uniform immaculate despite the chaos. His boots were polished. His coat was pressed. His face was carved from stone. He surveyed the room with the cold efficiency of a man who had seen worse and expected to see worse again.
A runner arrived, breathless, his face red from exertion. He saluted, then bent over, hands on his knees.
"Reports of a cloaked woman, sir. Two men with her. They fled west through the alleys. Witnesses saw them cross the rooftops near the tannery district."
The lead officer stepped forward. His heels clicked against the wooden floor.
"Names?"
The runner straightened. "Nothing certain, sir. No one got a good look at the woman. But one of the men." He hesitated.
"Speak."
"One witness heard the younger man call the other by name, sir. Vance."
The officer's eyes narrowed. The skin around them tightened.
"Edward Vance is dead."
"Maybe this one is his ghost, sir?"
The officer turned to look out the broken window. The fire still burned down the street. Shadows moved through the smoke, soldiers and citizens alike, all of them running, all of them afraid.
"Find him," he said quietly. "Find the friend. Find the woman. I want them in chains before dawn."
He turned back to the room.
"And someone put out that fire before it takes the whole block."
The officers snapped to attention and filed out.
The lead officer stood alone in the wreckage, staring at the blood on the wall.
Somewhere in the distance, a ship's bell rang.
The tide was coming in.