The Driftwood Tavern hummed with the salty camaraderie of deserters and day-drinkers, its air thick with the tang of Dragon's Tears rum and the earthy musk of seastone dust clinging to Branson's apron. Sunlight filtered through porthole windows, casting rippled gold over the scarred wooden tables where Mihawk sat, idly tracing the rim of his glass with a finger. Across from him, Marya dissected a plate of grilled sea bass with surgical precision, her eyes flicking between the tavern's exits—a habit carved into her from years of training. The parrot perched above the bar suddenly screeched, "Imu sees! Imu sees!" Branson lobbed a lime at it, cursing.
"You could at least pretend to relax," Mihawk remarked, sipping his drink—a murky concoction Silas had dubbed "Eclipse's Kiss." His shadow, sharp as the blade at his back, stretched across the floorboards like a slash mark. "We're stranded, not dead."
Marya speared a bite of fish. "Stranded implies helplessness. We're assessing." Her voice was cool, but a muscle twitched in her jaw. The tavern's din—raucous shanties, the clatter of arm-wrestling matches—itched under her skin like sand in a boot.
The door banged open. Captain Veyla Storm-Eye strode in, her patched Marine coat flaring like a battle standard. Salt crusted her nautical knot of hair, and the brass eyepiece grafted to her face whirred faintly as she scanned the room. Without invitation, she slid onto the bench beside Mihawk, her grin a challenge.
"You two brood louder than a monsoon," she said, snatching a shrimp from Marya's plate.
They leveled identical glares at her—one golden-amber-eyed and simmering, the other gold and glacial. Veyla barked a laugh. "Gods, you are his shadow."
"Whatever you're selling," Marya said, pushing her plate away, "we're not buying."
Veyla leaned forward, her good eye glinting. "Mira wants to chat. And you owe me for lodging. My town's not a charity."
Mihawk swirled his drink. "Payment usually involves currency. Or blood. Which are we discussing?"
Before Veyla could answer, a high-pitched "No!" echoed across the tavern. Two small figures tumbled through the door—Tavi, her moth-eaten tricorn askew, and Kip brandishing his wooden "Seastinger."
"Just a woman with a blade!" Tavi declared, deepening her voice comically. Kip mimed swinging a sword, scowling so hard his freckles bunched. "We'll cut it down!"
Marya's stoic mask didn't crack, but her knuckles whitened around her fork. Mihawk's mouth quirked. "Charming fan club."
Veyla snorted. "They've been rehearsing all morning. Nearly set Garrick's beard on fire 'staging' a duel." She tossed a pebble at the twins. "Scram, barnacles. Grown-ups are talking."
Kip stuck out his tongue, but Tavi yanked him toward the bar, where Branson slid them mugs of coconut milk. "One day, we'll have a ship!" she shouted over her shoulder.
"Focus, storm clouds," Veyla said, turning back. "Mira's got a… proposition. Something about tidal prophecies and a 'key bearer.' Normally, I'd ignore her third-eye mumbo jumbo, but—" She tapped her eyepiece. "—my tech's been flickering like a drunk firefly. Whatever's coming, it's big. And you two reek of destiny."
Marya's brow furrowed. "We're not here to play hero."
"Hero?" Veyla smirked. "Please. I need someone to poke a Celestial Dragon's tech. And you need a ship." She tossed a crumpled map onto the table—a constellation inked in squid-blue. "Mira's waiting at the Tide Shrine. Hear her out, and I'll waive your rent. Plus…" She nodded toward the bar, where Silas was polishing a shaker engraved with 'Regrets.' "Free drinks for life."
Mihawk's smirk deepened. "Tempting. But I'd prefer the blood option."
The parrot squawked again—"Imu sees!"—and the room tensed. Branson hurled another lime.
Veyla stood, her coat sweeping the floor. "Think it over. But fair warning—" She pointed at Marya. "—Mira's visions involve you. Something about a dagger and a 'vein of Tartarus.'"
Marya's gaze sharpened. "I don't use daggers."
"Yet." Veyla winked and strode out, leaving the map behind.
As Mihawk examined the constellation lines, Tavi and Kip materialized beside their table, breathless. "Can we come?" Tavi begged. "We're excellent at prophecies!"
"No," Marya said flatly.
Kip puffed out his chest. "But Mihawk needs a first mate!"
The swordsman's golden eyes glinted. "I had a monkey once. It was less chatty."
The twins deflated, slinking back to their coconut milk. Marya watched them, a flicker of something—not empathy, but recognition—crossing her face. "Children are distractions," she muttered, more to herself than Mihawk.
He folded the map into his coat. "Distractions have their uses."
Outside, the tide bells rang, their hollow clangs echoing through Haven's crooked streets. Somewhere beneath the waves, the Sea Devourer stirred—and in the shadows of the Driftwood Tavern, a blacksmith's hammer struck seastone, sparks flying like trapped stars.
The Tide Shrine clung to Haven's eastern cliffs like a barnacle, its walls slick with bioluminescent algae that pulsed faintly blue in rhythm with the crashing waves below. Mira sat cross-legged atop a driftwood altar, her gauzy veils fluttering like jellyfish tendrils. The bandage over her third eye glowed brighter as Marya and Mihawk approached, casting jagged shadows that danced across seashell mosaics depicting a serpentine beast swallowing its own tail—the Sea Devourer.
"Took you long enough," Mira said, her voice trembling as if the words might scuttle away. She clutched her jar of desert sand like a lifeline. "The wind's been gossiping about you two all morning. Something about… unpaid tabs?"
Mihawk raised an eyebrow. "Your god's a snitch?"
Marya cut in, arms folded. "You said the ruins hold answers. To what?"
Mira hummed, avoiding eye contact. Her fingers traced the air, sketching tidal patterns only she could see. "The Devourer's waking. Its dreams are making the tides… itchy. And you—" She pointed at Marya's sword. "—carry a shadow that hums in harmony with the Door of Night. Or maybe it's just indigestion. Visions are vague."
Before Marya could retort, Mira launched into her song, the melody weaving through the shrine like a rogue current. Her voice wavered between a lullaby and a dirge, the metaphors thickening the salt-choked air. Tavi and Kip, who'd been eavesdropping from behind a coral pillar, mimed dramatic swoons. Mihawk's eye twitched.
When the final note faded, Mira grinned sheepishly. "So! Juro Iron Tide will guide you to the ruins. He's… sturdy. And his seastone work might calm the Devourer's tummy ache."
Marya frowned. "Who's Juro?"
"The blushing blacksmith!" Tavi shouted, popping up with Kip in tow. "He writes poems about—"
Kip clapped a hand over her mouth. "Secret poems!"
Mihawk smirked. "How literary."
Marya ignored them, turning to leave. "We'll find Silas. He knows everyone."
Back at The Driftwood Tavern, Silas was juggling three shakers engraved with 'Mistakes,' 'Regrets,' and 'Tuesday.' The twins dogged Marya's heels, improvising their own sea shanty: "Shadow and Storm, sittin' in a tree—K-I-S-S-I-N-G—!"
"Juro?" Silas said, pouring a neon-green liquid into a mug labeled 'Probably Not Poison.' "Follow the smell of heartache and seastone sparks. Can't miss him." He nodded toward the alley, where metallic clangs echoed, each strike ringing with the crispness of a snapped wishbone.
The forge was a cave of heat and half-finished rebellion. Juro stood shirtless, his cobalt scales glistening under the glow of a volcanic vent, hammering a glowing seastone blade. The air tasted like burnt steel and ambition. When Marya entered, he froze mid-swing, his scarred chest heaving.
"You're… uh. Here," he mumbled, suddenly fascinated by his anvil. "Need a weapon? This one's, um. Light. Good for stabbing celestial nuisances." He thrust a dagger toward her—its hilt carved with tiny, blushing octopi.
Marya eyed it like a suspicious mollusk. "I don't use daggers."
"Yet," Mihawk said, leaning in the doorway, amused.
Juro's gills flared crimson. "Right! Well. The ruins! They're, uh… that way." He pointed vaguely westward, where the jungle hunched over crumbling stone pillars like a protective (or possessive) mother. "Lots of… rocks. And probably cursed murals."
Tavi popped her head in. "Can we come? We're great at curses!"
"No," Marya and Juro said in unison. He blinked, startled by their harmony.
Kip tugged Mihawk's coat. "Do you want a poem? I'll trade you for sword lessons!"
The swordsman plucked a lemon wedge from his drink and balanced it on the boy's head. "Hold this. If it drops, I'll reconsider."
As the twins scrambled to obey, Marya studied Juro. "Why help us?"
He shrugged, hammer resuming its rhythmic protest against the seastone. "Mira's songs give me migraines. And Haven's… worth keeping." His eyes flicked to her, then away. "Also, you're holding the dagger wrong."
She wasn't holding it at all.
Mihawk snorted. "Adorable."
Outside, the tide bells rang again, urgent now. Somewhere in the ruins, a mural of Nika grinned, its moonlit paint flaking to reveal something older, hungrier. And beneath the waves, the Sea Devourer rolled in its sleep, dreaming of a key bearer… and a door itched to unhinge.
The forge's heat clung to Juro's scales like a second skin as he fumbled through a crate of seastone shards, acutely aware of Marya's gaze drilling into his back. Mihawk leaned against the anvil, sipping a flask of Eclipse Rum he'd "borrowed" from Silas, his smirk as sharp as the dagger Juro had foolishly offered Marya hours earlier.
"We leave at dawn," Juro said, tossing a coil of petrified mangrove rope into a pack. His voice wavered slightly. "The rivers… they're fickle after sundown."
Marya crossed her arms, her shadow slicing across the forge's glowing vents. "Explain 'fickle.'"
Juro's gills flushed cobalt. "The River of Forgotten Time reverses flow under moonlight. Reveals ruins, but… uh… also wakes up the Stone Nagas. Their geysers can launch a ship into the stratosphere. Happened to Finn and Lora last monsoon." He paused, hammering a seastone rivet into a lantern with unnecessary vigor. "Plus, the sap in the aqueducts—luminescent stuff—it'll turn your toes to limestone if you step in it after dark."
Mihawk raised an eyebrow. "Charming. A petrified pirate would make a fine garden ornament."
"We're not waiting for aesthetics," Marya said, snatching a map of Angkor'thal from the workbench. Its edges were singed, likely from one of Mira's panicked prophecy sessions. "What's truly stopping us?"
Juro hesitated, his scar twitching. "The… temporal mists. At night, they're thick enough to make you relive your worst hangover. Or get lost in a loop of Branson's karaoke shanties." He shuddered. "Trust me, dawn's safer."
Mihawk chuckled. "Is that sweat or existential dread, blacksmith?"
Before Juro could retort, the tavern's parrot swooped into the forge, squawking, "Imu sees! Imu sees!" and promptly stole a seastone nail. Juro lobbed a wrench at it, missing spectacularly.
Marya studied the map, her finger tracing the Arch of Tartarus' Shadow. "And these 'Living Stone Guardians'—can your seastone blades pierce them?"
Juro brightened, eager to impress. "Yes! Well, maybe. Their joints are weak to… uh… poetry?" He blanched, realizing his mistake. "Wait—no! I mean, Lunarian alloys! Their cores are—"
Mihawk cut in, grinning. "Poetry? How delicate."
"Proprioception," Juro corrected, flustered. "Their balance falters if you strike the third glyph on their spears. Which, coincidentally, looks like a haiku if you squint…" His voice trailed off as Marya stared blankly. "I'll… just pack extra daggers."
As Juro turned to rummage through a barrel of Tartarus-forged iron scraps, Marya's eyes narrowed. "Why the hesitation? You're hiding something."
"The… moon," Juro blurted, clutching a jar of volcanic ash like a stress ball. "It's in its 'weepy' phase tonight. Lora's migraines said so. Makes the rivers… sentimental. Last time, they regurgitated a World Noble's wig from the Void Century. Smelled like despair and pomade."
Mihawk snorted into his flask. "Now that I'd pay to see."
A sudden crash echoed from the Eclipse Bazaar outside. Tavi and Kip sprinted past the forge, giggling maniacally as they hauled a stolen crate labeled 'Dawn Spice - EXTREMELY FLAMMABLE.' Branson's roar followed: "PUT THAT BACK BEFORE I ARM-WRESTLE YOUR KNEECAPS OFF!"
Marya massaged her temples. "Fine. Dawn." She pivoted to leave, but Juro lunged forward, thrusting a small, clumsily wrapped bundle into her hands.
"For, uh… protection," he mumbled, scales shimmering turquoise with panic. "It's a… thing. That does… things."
Mihawk peered over. "Is that a seaweed braid?"
"No! It's a… talisman. Repels temporal paradoxes. Probably." Juro's voice cracked. "Or it's just kelp. Fifty-fifty."
Marya unwrapped the bundle, revealing a dagger sheath carved with miniature sea turtles—their shells inlaid with moonstone chips. "I don't use daggers," she said flatly.
"Right! But… if you did…" Juro trailed off, defeated.
Mihawk clapped him on the shoulder, nearly knocking him into the forge. "Adorable."
As Marya strode out, sheath tucked grudgingly into her belt, Juro slumped against the anvil. The twins' laughter echoed from the docks, harmonizing with the tide bells' mournful clangs. Somewhere beneath the bay, the Sea Devourer sighed, its dreams tinged with the scent of burnt kelp and unrequited crushes.
Mihawk lingered in the doorway, golden eye glinting. "A word of advice, poet—try flowers next time. Or a sonnet carved into a harpoon."
Juro groaned, covering his face with a soot-stained rag. "Just shoot me into the sun."
"Dawn," Mihawk corrected, smirking. "Don't be late."
Outside, the first sliver of moonlight pierced the temporal mists, painting Haven's stilted harbor in silver. And in the shadows of the Tidecaller's Spire, the Stone Nagas stirred, their wings creaking with the weight of centuries—and the promise of tomorrow's chaos.