Summer 1689

Marseille greeted them with salted winds that tangled her hair and tugged at the hem of her coat, the cries of gulls echoing off terracotta rooftops and the creak of moored ships whispering promises of places she’d never be allowed to see. The harbor pulsed with life: fishermen hauling nets slick with silver, merchants hollering over crates of wine and bolts of damask, and the acrid tang of engine smoke drifting from cargo vessels bound for Algiers, Naples, and Tunis.

Enzo walked as though every brick beneath his boots was laid for him alone. Alethea followed, never more than a half-step behind, hands tucked into her pockets, her gaze flicking from faces to exits and back. To the world, she looked like a quiet girl, but those who paid closer attention would notice how the crowd parted subtly for Enzo’s presence, and how the girl at his side moved in perfect lockstep.

They passed through the markets and into the Old Quarter, where sun-bleached façades leaned close together like gossiping neighbors. A tavern stood at the end of a sloping alley, its faded sign swinging gently in the breeze. Alethea fell into step beside Enzo as he strode toward the tavern, her small frame tucked beneath his broad coat. The harbor’s clamor, creaking masts, shouting merchants, gulls wheeling, melted into the hum at her back. Her master had a contact to meet in the tavern, business of some kind that would have nothing to do with her.

Ceiran slumped haphazardly against the brick wall in an alley sandwiched between a small pub and a bakery. He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. Nothing seemed right anymore, and in an attempt to make sense of it all, he might have had one too many beers at the pub. It was quiet here at least.

As Enzo stepped up to enter the tavern, Alethea paused, as though feeling or perhaps seeing something that caught her attention. A figure in the alley nearby had something interesting, magical, she knew it and she was curious. Her breath caught, pulse quickening as recognition flared like distant lightning.

Enzo paused at the tavern’s threshold, catching the flutter of her lashes as she stole another glance. He tilted his head, lips curving into a faint promise of permission. No words passed between them, just the weight of his trust and the silent command to remain close, whatever she chose to pursue. There was no fear that she would run off and gods help anyone who attempted to take her.

Ceiran tried to steady himself and get the world to stop its spinning. Back home in Ireland, it was easy to find a quiet spot, listen to the wind, and breathe. Ever since leaving, he realized this was the only chance he found to have a quiet moment alone, finally… He paused, hearing soft footsteps behind him.

Alethea would approach the drunken Irishman, curious as to what sort of magic he held. “Good day.” She was dressed well, likely more akin to a nobleman’s daughter than a slave, a cloak covered her burned arm and she wore a bright smile. “You look a bit wobbly, are you well?” She spoke in English as it was the most common language.

Ceiran turned, following the sound of the voice behind him. The sun behind her made it hard to see clearly, well, that and the booze. She looked, to him, like a child. Ceiran laughed smugly. “Aye, whiskey will do that to you, lass.” He paused, then frowned slightly.

“You shouldn’t be out here alone, this is no place for a child.”

The Irishman in front of her, his flame-red hair ablaze under torchlight, welcomed her with a confused frown and a comment on her apparent age. She did not correct him on her age, she was used to being perceived as a child and it often worked in her master’s favour. Alethea then noticed a faint aura coming from a large tattoo covering his left arm and she realised where the ‘shiny’ magic had come from. A magic tattoo, how interesting.

“I like your shiny tattoo.” She said with a smile, her eyes tracing the tattoo outline that shimmered and shifted like river mist. It seemed to be some sort of pattern in a style unfamiliar to her, a cluster of simple yet interweaving lines.

From the look on Ceiran’s face, he clearly hadn’t expected that sort of comment from the ‘child’ who had randomly walked up to him. The world was still spinning from his close encounter of the alcohol kind and he wasn’t really up to a conversation with some well-dressed kid. “Thanks, I think.” He looked around for her parents. “What do ya mean by shiny?” He was curious and offered her a small smile. He probably should have told the girl to head off but a few moments wouldn’t do him any harm.

If only he knew…

Before she could respond, a shadow detached itself from the tavern doorway. Enzo stepped outside, cloak drawn tight against the damp air. He paused, scanning the crowds until his dark eyes settled on Alethea. Something had caught his slave’s attention and that often meant magic, she couldn’t hide her fascination and he used that to his advantage.

Enzo’s boots rang out with deliberate precision, each step measured and unnerving. He moved through the crowd as though the air itself parted for him, a storm draped in velvet. He reached Alethea without a word, the silence around him deepening like a curtain drawn tight. One hand extended, resting on her shoulder, not gently, not harshly, but with a control that made her breath catch.

The amused cadence of the girl’s voice and interest in his tattoo all vanished under the shadow that swept into the alleyway. Enzo had arrived. The change was immediate in Alethea’s countenance. She went from smiling and curious to quiet and respectful to the unexpected figure who now stood at her side. She stood with her head bowed, arms tucked tightly to her sides, her cloak falling like a curtain to conceal the tension coiled in her spine.

Ceiran looked up, the smile he’d worn moments before faltering as he caught sight of her sudden transformation. The flick of his brow was subtle, but it held a quiet curiosity—something wasn’t right, and Ceiran felt it. Yet he said nothing, sensing that words in this moment would weigh more than they should.
Enzo’s grip tightened with slow deliberation, fingers pressing down through layers of fabric and flesh, a message carved without speech. Alethea didn’t need to hear him speak. She read him with the clarity born of countless nights beneath his gaze. That single thought laced through his mind, thick and hungry: Magic?

Her eyes flicked to Ceiran, whose expression remained open, uncertain, unaware of the web suddenly stretched between them. Then back to Enzo, whose face gave nothing away. She shook her head once, quick, careful. A denial. A plea.

Enzo knew better. His fingers twisted just slightly, enough to drive the pain deeper into her shoulder and etch the truth against her bones. Ceiran’s eyes lingered on the gesture, the subtle violence of it, the fear etched into Alethea’s posture, and still he held his tongue, sensing danger like thunder behind the hills.

Alethea’s jaw tightened. She wanted to shield Ceiran, to keep him untouched by the world she served. It wasn’t his fault that she had approached him. But her silence was no longer hers. She nodded, barely, a movement born more of surrender than consent. No word crossed her lips. None were needed. In the shadows between Ceiran’s innocence and Enzo’s hunger, a choice had already been made. Enzo’s gaze fell on the Irishman for only a moment. Do it.

Alethea let her breath fall soft as dusk, closing her eyes for the barest moment so the threads of her will could twist free. She took a deep breath and felt the thrum of Ceiran’s heartbeat against the stone he leaned against, a steady rhythm that pulsed against the uncertainty in her chest. Then she wove the charm: delicate yet insistent, a whisper of wind and honeyed promise, threading it between each syllable of her invitation like a spell sung from the lips of fate itself. “You should join us.”

For a moment, time itself seemed to lean in. His pale cheeks warmed as though touched by a tender dawn, and the light in his eyes deepened, curiosity melting into trust, skepticism unfurling into submission. “You think I’d refuse?” he murmured. He pushed away from the wall he had been leaning against and followed the girl and her gruff-looking companion.

Enzo slipped forward, unbidden and spectral, cloak brushing the floor like fog slinking over graveyard stones. Satisfaction bloomed within their telepathic bond, rich and suffocating, as though her success were a collar being fastened tighter around her throat. Alethea bowed her head just enough to hide the tremor crawling through her chest, guilt in its rawest form. This was not the first time she had been used in such a way nor would it be the last.

Outside, the cobblestone street stretched into shadowed silence. The air crackled with frost and promise, autumn’s breath teasing the hem of her cloak. Ceiran glanced back once toward the glowing inn windows, eyes brushing hers with a question he didn’t voice. And in that gaze, she saw the slow erosion of his autonomy, an innocence untouched now kissed by the will of another.

Guilt prickled at her spine, sharp as the needles of pine that rustled overhead. She had stolen his choice, replaced it with artifice woven from obedience and fear. Yet her master’s grip in her mind only tightened, a vulture’s talon urging her onward. Each step away from the tavern felt like one deeper into the labyrinth Enzo had built around her, stone by stone, lie by lie.

They turned down the narrow alley where the shadows thickened, and the distant murmur of magic began to pulse like a war drum. Alethea led Ceiran forward, her posture poised but brittle, toward the place where Enzo would claim whatever spark of divinity lingered in the Irishman’s blood.

Alethea’s heart thundered in her chest, every beat a reminder that she still hasn’t chosen what kind of person she wanted to be. With each step down the claustrophobic alleyway, guiding Cieran toward a fate forged not by chance but by compromise, she felt the fraying edge of her conscience. For a flicker of a moment, a fracture in time, she considered changing course. One word, one gesture, and Cieran might run. Be free. Be spared.

But the weight of the past clung to her, shackles made of faces she’s delivered into slavery, of names she never asked for, of screams swallowed by her silence. Had any of them deserved it? Did their stories matter less than Cieran’s, or was she just growing too soft to do what her master required? All because of a shiny tattoo, because Enzo’s grip on her life came wrapped in arcane bargains and unspoken threats. Alethea told herself she could still—

Too late.

The alley narrowed, suffocated. The scent of damp stone and iron filled her lungs, and then they were there: silhouettes stitched from shadow, Enzo’s crew emerging like wraiths. Cieran turned, eyes searching her face for comfort, for answers, but he didn’t have time to speak before fists met flesh, before violence shattered the fragile illusion of trust. He fell hard, gasping against the cobblestones as boots followed.

Alethea’s charm, woven of whispered promise and half-truths, collapsed with the first blow. Cieran looked up, blood tracing lines down his cheek, and the truth crystallized between them. She had betrayed him.

The quiet is broken only by the rhythmic thud of boots and bone and the low, satisfied click of metal. Enzo stepped forward as if stepping into a role rehearsed a hundred times. Shadows curl around his feet like familiars. His hand found Alethea’s shoulder, not restraining, just reminiscent. His touch burned with ownership. She stiffened, and turned her face away, her eyes locked on the broken figure of Cieran.

She could not meet Ceiran’s eyes. Not only because of her guilt, but because she now feared there was nothing left in her worth defending.

Cieran’s groans twisted through the alley like echoes of choices she cannot undo. The weight of every life she’s bargained away presses down like judgment.

Cieran’s world shrank to the cracked timber beneath his feet as he was dragged aboard the Graveyard Rose. The gangplank groaned under the weight of his battered body, iron shackles binding his wrists and ankles like cruel punctuation to his fall from freedom. Each step clanged, a miserable anthem swallowed by the rush of salt air and creaking hull. The ship’s name, half-effaced by time and brine, shimmered in faded gilt across its bow. A rose withered by time and steeped in blood. The scent of the sea mingled with rust and sweat, painting the atmosphere with dread.

Enzo stood above it all like a monarch enthroned, his silhouette framed by tattered sails and dying light. He peered down at Cieran as one might regard flotsam, unwanted, unremarkable, except for the glimmer of satisfaction in his eyes. A new slave. Another body to press into service, another story to unmake. His gaze lingered on Cieran’s skin, noting the tattoo on his arm. While Ceiran did not seem like a particularly skilled seaman, he had some connection to the arcane, and that made him useful.

Without ceremony, the crew fastened Cieran to the deck’s iron ring with a seasoned efficiency. The clinking chains echoed down into the hull like a bell tolling for the newly condemned. No cries, no protests, only the dull thud of his knees hitting splintered wood. A prisoner not just of Enzo, but of Alethea’s choices.

Alethea lingered near the stern, the wind pressing her cloak against her frame like an invisible hand urging her to look away. But she couldn’t. Her eyes burned as she watched the chains tighten, her breath catching with every wince from Cieran’s bloodied form.

The Graveyard Rose lurched forward, its sails blooming like ominous wings against the twilight sky. As it cut through the waves, the land fell away, swallowed by an encroaching dusk. Cieran turned his head just enough to meet Alethea’s gaze. No words passed between them, none were needed. In his eyes, dark with pain and understanding, she saw a quiet accusation. Not born of hatred, but of betrayal wrapped in sorrow. Her chest tightened beneath its weight.

She had led him here. Another pawn sacrificed. Another innocent tethered to Enzo’s blood-stained ambition.