The submarine cut a silent path through the churning white sea, the autopilot following the coordinates Aokiji had provided. For a long time, there was only the endless, rolling cloudscape. Then, a dark shape began to resolve on the horizon, sharp and jagged against the soft white and blue.
It was not a single landmass, but a cluster of colossal stone spires that stabbed upwards from the cloud sea like the fingers of a buried giant. Aleria. As they drew closer, the details unfolded. Buildings were carved directly into the sides of the cliffs, their structures a mix of weathered cloud-stone and dark, salvaged wood, all sweeping upwards in arches that mirrored the wings of great birds. Rope bridges, looking as fragile as spider silk, connected the spires at dizzying heights, fluttering with thousands of woven flags. The air carried a new mix of scents—the ever-present sweet cloud-vapor now undercut by the smell of woodsmoke, roasting nuts, and the distinct, warm odor of animal wool.
"Would you look at that," Jannali murmured, her voice full of wonder. "It's a whole city built on toothpicks."
Before anyone could reply, a shadow fell over the deck. A giant wedge-tailed eagle, its feathers a mix of dark brown and black, descended with a powerful downdraft that rocked the sub. On its back, a rider sat with an easy balance, her form sleek in practical leather armor, a streak of white vivid in her otherwise dark, tightly-braided hair.
"Looks like we have company," Galit announced, his hand instinctively moving towards the hilts on his belt.
"Relax," Aokiji said, not moving from his slouch against the conning tower. "Standard procedure for all unknown incoming vessels. They're cautious about what climbs the Path."
Marya opened her mouth to ask a question, but in a fluid, breathtaking motion, the eagle swooped low and the rider leaped from its back, landing on the deck with a soft thud. The eagle, Kaya, beat its massive wings once and rose to circle overhead.
The woman, Glen Tuul, stood straight, her sharp, golden-hazel eyes scanning each of them in a single, efficient sweep. "You have the look of Blue Sea dwellers," she said, her voice even and direct. "What brings you to Aleria of the White White Sea?"
Aokiji pushed himself upright. "I'm here to visit an old friend. Geo Mercer."
Glen considered the name, her head tilting in a birdlike gesture. "Of the Blunderbuss?"
Aokiji nodded.
"Is he expecting you?"
"No," Aokiji replied. "It's a surprise visit."
Glen gave a slow, understanding nod. "That explains why you're not on the schedule." Her assessing gaze returned to the group.
Galit interjected, a note of tension in his voice. "Will that be a problem?"
At that moment, Jelly, who had been bobbing near the railing, let out a sudden "Bloop!" of alarm and morphed into a wobbly wheel, zipping across the deck. He was being chased by a small, iridescent sky-fish that had leaped from the cloud sea, its oversized teeth snapping comically at his gelatinous heels. "Too slow!" Jelly chirped, bouncing off the far wall.
Jannali cursed, shaking her head with her palm pressed to her forehead. "For the love of— it's brought a friend home!"
Eliane giggled, clapping her hands as the fish, realizing it was out of its element, gave one last disappointed chomp and flopped back over the side.
Glen watched the entire spectacle without a change in expression. She turned back to Aokiji. "Just a social call, then? You don't appear too troublesome." Her eyes flickered to Marya's relaxed posture, Galit's controlled annoyance, and Eliane's innocent delight. "I will inform the guard of your intentions. Welcome to Aleria." She pointed towards the largest spire, where a pier jutted out, constructed from the unmistakable hulls of old, salvaged ships. "Dock your vessel at the Refugee's Pier. You'll find the Cloudwrights' Guild there if you need supplies or repairs."
Without another word, she put a whistle to her lips and blew a sound that was swallowed by the wind. Above, Kaya folded her wings and dropped like a stone, flaring them out at the last second to hover beside the sub. Glen hopped onto the eagle's back with the ease of someone stepping onto a pavement. With a powerful thrust of wings that sent a fresh gust across the deck, they soared away towards the stone city.
As they watched her disappear, Marya turned to Aokiji. "You've been here before. What can you tell us about this place?"
Aokiji shrugged his massive shoulders. "It's the closest island to the Path of the High West. They're not unaccustomed to Blue Sea dwellers making it this far. A few years ago, it became a sanctuary for refugees from another sky island called Birka. That's why you see ship hulls in their buildings—salvaged history." He gestured vaguely at the spires. "They herd cloud-sheep, craft Dials, and answer to their own Tribal Council, not a king."
Galit frowned. "And the Navy?"
Another shrug. "Aleria isn't part of the World Government. The Navy is treated like any other Blue Sea dweller—watched closely and asked to move along." He nodded towards the patrolling eagle riders in the distance. "As you can see, they have their own military."
Jannali grinned. "That should be a good thing, then."
Eliane looked up from sketching a quick drawing of Kaya in her notebook. "Why?"
"Because it means they shouldn't recognize any of us," Marya answered, her gaze still on the island, a calculating look in her golden eyes.
Atlas smirked, crossing his arms. "Or your father."
A rare, genuine chuckle escaped Marya. "My father's reputation traverses beyond the Blue Sea," she conceded, "but yes. His shadow, and my family connections, shouldn't be of any consequence here." For the first time since leaving Ohara, the air around her seemed to lighten, the weight of a known world momentarily lifted. They were strangers in a strange sky, and for now, that was an advantage.
The submersible had breached not into water, but into a world of impossible air. Bounty's Hold sprawled before them, a settlement carved from and built upon gargantuan, spiraling stone spires that clawed their way up from the endless blanket of white cloud below. The air itself was a different substance here—thin, cool, and carrying the scent of wet stone, strange spices, and the faint, sweet smell of something blooming at impossible altitudes.
Marya's boots, solid and grounded, met the streets of cloud-stone, a material that felt like pumice underfoot, porous and light yet firm. The architecture was a chaotic, vertical fusion. Buildings of the same pale stone were stacked and woven together with rope bridges that swayed gently in the high-altitude winds, their planks creaking a constant, gentle song. Vibrant awnings of woven cloud-kelp fabric, in shades of sun-bleached blue and fiery orange, flapped like proud flags. It was a town that seemed to breathe, its very structure in a slow, constant dance with the wind.
As her crew fanned out, Marya's sharp eyes, always cataloging, scanned their surroundings. It was then she saw the history written not in books, but on the walls. Scrawled across a freshly whitewashed section of a bakery were crude, angry charcoal lines: a stylized winged figure, its face a mess of scratched-outrage, and beneath it, the words, 'ENEL LIVES. BIRKA REMEMBERS.'
She felt the question form on her lips, a quiet inquiry aimed at the tall, lanky former Admiral trailing them. But before she could voice it, Atlas, his broad chest swelling with a deep inhale, cut through the moment.
"Do you smell that?" the Mink rumbled, his whiskers twitching. "Something… rich. Savory. Like slow-cooked cloud-mutton and hearth-baked bread."
"Fizzy drinks!" Jelly chirped, as he bounced in place, usual boundless energy seeming to intensify in the thin air. "I can hear the bubbles from here! Pop-pop-fizz!"
Galit, his hand resting on the worn pommel of his weapon, gave a curt nod. "A tavern's as good a place as any to start. Get a feel for the local chatter, see if anyone's heard whispers of this Lumenara." His pragmatic gaze swept the crowded streets, noting the mix of natives with their practical leathers and cloaks adorned with iridescent feathers, and others with distinct, downward-curving wings, sheepishly kept their eyes slightly averted.
Marya nodded in agreement, the question about the graffiti momentarily shelved. Just then, Eliane, her nose in the air like a bloodhound, pointed a slender finger. "Look! I think that's the source of the glorious smell!"
She indicated a building wedged between two larger spires. A sign shaped like a stylized, resting eagle creaked overhead, bearing the name The Zephyr's Roost. As they watched, the door swung open, releasing a burst of lively, music and a wave of warm, spiced air that carried the undeniable promise of good food and strong drink. A patron stumbled out, laughing, and the door swung shut, muffling the noise back into a cheerful hum.
Jannali shoved her hands in her pockets, a smirk playing on her lips. "Well, that looks like a ripper place to get the lay of the land, eh? Better'n standin' out here gawkin' like a bunch of galahs."
It was then everyone turned, realizing Kuzan had stopped a dozen paces back. He stood with his hands buried deep in his pockets, his posture the very picture of awkward reluctance. "Ah… you go ahead," he mumbled, not quite meeting their eyes. "I think I'm going to…"
"Rendezvous with your friend," Atlas finished, his tone neutral, though a knowing glint was in his eye.
Jannali feigned a dramatic offense, placing a hand over her heart. "What's the matter? Ashamed to be seen with the likes of us common adventurers? Worried we'll cramp your style with the local top brass?"
Aokiji winced, his finger rubbing the back of his neck in a gesture that was both familiar and deeply self-conscious. "It's not that…"
Marya let out a soft chuckle, shaking her head. The man was a walking contradiction, a force of nature who could be felled by social inconvenience. "We'll meet up with you later," she said, her voice laced with dry amusement. "It's not like we have any interest in your old Navy friends anyway."
A faint smirk finally broke through his discomfort. "Yeah." He watched as Eliane, unable to contain her excitement, darted after Jelly, who had already zipped inside the tavern. The rest of the group followed, a wave of chaotic energy swallowed by the warm light of The Zephyr's Roost. Only when they were gone did Kuzan turn on his heels, his long strides carrying him away with a sense of purpose that had been entirely absent moments before.
Inside, the tavern was a cave of warmth and noise. The walls were the same porous cloud-stone, hung with intricate tapestries depicting eagles in flight and storms over mountain peaks. The air was thick with the scent of roasting meat, yeast, and the tang of some fermented berry. Patrons of all sorts—Alerian, Birkan, and a few other indistinct types—crowded around tables, their conversations a low roar against the music.
Behind the bar, a tall man with a warm, welcoming face and a single, thin tattoo like a whirlwind under his eye moved with a fluid grace, polishing a glass with a clean cloth. His dark hair was tied back in a topknot, and vibrant bird feathers were braided into it. He looked up as the new, distinctly out-of-place crew spilled into his establishment, his sharp, stormy-eyed gaze taking them in with a single, efficient sweep.
"G'day, mate!" Jannali called out, sliding onto a stool. "What's a crew gotta do to get a decent drink and a decent feed around here?"
The bartender, Dyaus Ehecatl, smiled, a genuine, easy expression that reached his eyes. "That depends," he said, his voice a pleasant rumble. "Are you just passing through, or are you here to cause beautiful trouble?" His hands never stopped moving, already pulling down a set of strangely crafted ceramic mugs as he spoke, the promise of a story, and a good drink, clearly already begun.
"We're just after a decent feed and a quiet drink," Jannali replied, shoving her hands in her pockets. "You got a table that'll fit all of us without requiring a bloody map?"
Dyaus chuckled, gesturing with a polished glass toward a large, circular table of dark, polished cloud-wood. It was situated perilously close to a small stage made of stacked stone slabs. "Best seat in the house. Vera will be with you shortly for your orders." He nodded toward a woman with bouncing red buns and a cheerfully stained apron who was deftly balancing three steaming bowls of stew across the room.
The crew settled in, the sturdy chairs groaning under Atlas's frame. The air in The Zephyr's Roost was a thick tapestry of scents—savory cloud-mutton stew, the earthy tang of fermented cloud-berry beer, and the faint, clean smell of the stone itself. Before they could even take full stock of their surroundings, a whirlwind of color and energy swept onto the stage.
Vesta Lavana was impossible to miss. Her hair was a cascading riot of rainbow hues, and her attire was a bold fusion of Sky Island practicality and explosive, stage-ready flair: asymmetrical leggings, a jacket adorned with iridescent feathers that shimmered in the warm light, and platform boots that added a good six inches to her height. She blinked, her bright violet eyes scanning the room, and they landed on the new arrivals. A visible gulp traveled down her throat. Blue Sea People, she mouthed to herself, her shoulders tensing. She shook her head, a physical effort to dispel her nerves, and whispered, "Keep it together, Vesta."
She opened a worn guitar case at her feet. The instrument within—a beautifully crafted thing of light wood and inlay—gave a distinct, almost irritable vibrato on its own. Vesta shushed it, patting its body. "I know," she hissed. "After this set." She glanced again at Marya's crew, taking in the Heart Pirate insignia on Marya's jacket with a flicker of awe, before slinging the strap over her shoulder and stepping up to the microphone.
She scanned the meager crowd of locals, then, as if she stood before thousands in a colossal stadium, she thrust her hand—clutching a plectrum—into the air. "Welcome one and all!"
The general chatter in the tavern dipped as patrons turned to look. Vesta glanced over her shoulder at her band, a trio of musicians who looked like they'd been through this particular war before. They offered weary but fond nods. With a dramatic wind-up, Vesta struck the strings and yelled into the mic, "ARE YOU READY?!"
Silence. A spoon clinked against a bowl.
Undeterred, she counted off, "One! Two! Three! Four!" and attacked the strings with a ferocity that seemed it might splinter the guitar. "This song is famous in the Blue Sea, sung by the infamous Soul King!" she belted, before launching into a violently enthusiastic, speed-metal rendition of what was vaguely recognizable as Bone to Be Wild. She threw her whole body into the performance, leaping, spinning, and hitting notes that strained the very air in the room. The band scrambled to keep up, their playing a desperate anchor to her hurricane of sound.
When the final, crashing chord faded, leaving a ringing in everyone's ears, Vesta stood panting, chest heaving, a bead of sweat tracing a path through the rainbow strands stuck to her temple. The tavern was utterly silent, a sea of stunned faces.
Jannali leaned toward her crew, her voice a low mutter. "Well, that's one way to clear a room. Reckon my eardrums have gone and retired."
Galit blinked slowly, as if trying to reset her hearing. "I feel… numb. My brain is numb."
Vesta took the silence for rapt admiration. She bowed deeply. "Thank you! Thank you! And for my next—"
Dyaus was suddenly there, having moved with a bartender's preternatural sense for impending disaster. He placed a calming hand on her shoulder. "Thank you, Vesta," he said, his voice firm but kind.
Vesta's grin was awkward, hopeful. "But Dyaus, I am just getting—"
"Maybe later, yeah?" he said, gently ushering her off the stage.
A flicker of profound disappointment crossed her face, but as she stepped down, the guitar in her hand gave a sudden, vigorous shake. Her expression shifted instantly to one of realization. "Oh. Yeah. Right." She nodded at the instrument, then turned on her heel and marched with determined purpose directly toward the table of Blue Sea People.
She stopped before Marya, her eyes wide and shining, all prior performance anxiety vanished, replaced by pure, unadulterated fangirl energy. She pointed a trembling finger at the Jolly Roger on Marya's jacket. "That's… that's the Heart Pirates insignia! That's Trafalgar Water Law's crew! Oh my gosh, do you know what this means? His bounty is 440,000,000 Berries now! And his sword is called Kikoku! And he's a doctor! And he's from the White City, Flevance! And—!"
She finally paused for air, her guitar giving another, quieter, conspiratorial hum in her hands. The entire crew stared at her, a mixture of bewilderment and amusement on their faces as their eyes shifted to each other. Marya simply watched, her eyebrow twitching at this random bundle of color and energy.
---
The thin, crisp air of Aleria's outer spires carried a quiet unlike the bustling central districts. Here, the constant hum of life was muted, replaced by the sigh of wind through narrow canyons and the distant, lonely cries of high-flying eagles. Kuzan's long legs carried him with a familiar, languid stride down a path of compacted cloud-stone gravel, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his trousers. The architecture here was less about grand, nest-like structures and more about practicality—homes carved directly into the rock faces, their windows shuttered against the high-altitude chill, connected by rope bridges that swayed in a gentle, perpetual dance.
His destination came into view: a building that seemed to have grown from the spire itself. A sign, shaped like an old, stylized naval blunderbuss, creaked on rusted hinges. Beneath it, the words "The Honest Blunderbuss" were carved into a slab of dark, sea-salted timber that looked distinctly out of place amidst the local cloud-stone. The tavern appeared quiet, almost slumbering in the late afternoon light, a place forgotten by time.
The stillness was shattered as the front door burst open with a violent thwack against the wall. Two boys, a whirlwind of scuffed knees and unruly hair, tumbled out into the dusty yard, giggling like maniacs.
"—and if I catch you two skiving off again, I'll tan your hides with the soap-board!" a woman's voice followed them, rich with exasperated affection. A moment later, Kathy Mercer filled the doorway, wiping her hands on a flour-dusted apron. She had a kind, weathered face framed by strands of hair escaping a practical bun, and eyes that had seen their share of laughter and worry. "Homework first, then you can go chasing cloud-geckos! Honestly!"
The boys, already halfway across the clearing, just waved without looking back. Kathy shook her head, a muttered stream of complaints about "boys with more energy than sense" barely audible. As she turned to go back inside, her gaze swept across the clearing and landed on the towering figure paused at the edge of the path.
Her hands stilled on her apron. A look of genuine, warm surprise smoothed the frustration from her features. "Well, I'll be… Kuzan? Is that you?"
Aokiji offered a small, genuine smile that softened the usual lazy set of his mouth. "Kathy," he greeted, his voice a low rumble. "Looks like the place is still standing."
"Barely, some days," she laughed, the sound like warm bread. "Between Geo's… well, Geo-ness, and those two little hurricanes, it's a miracle the roof is still on." Her eyes twinkled, and she was about to say more, then seemed to think better of it, biting back the words with a knowing smile. Instead, she turned her head towards the open door. "Geo! We have company! The quiet kind that doesn't track mud everywhere!"
She beckoned Kuzan forward. "Come on in, out of the wind. You're just in time. I've a stew on that'll put hair on your chest, not that you need it." She eyed his familiar lazy posture. "And Geo will be beside himself. He pretends he enjoys the peace, but he's been talking to the cloud-sheep for company."
"Thanks, Kathy," Aokiji said, his smile lingering as he stepped onto the tavern's porch, the wood groaning under his weight. "It'll be good to see him too."
Inside, the air was thick with the comforting smells of slow-cooked cloud-mutton, yeast, and polished wood. The main room was a testament to a life of orderly habits, everything in its place despite the lived-in feel. A long, scarred bar of dark timber dominated one wall, and above it, the actual, decommissioned blunderbuss that gave the place its name was mounted, its metalwork gleaming with a soft, cared-for sheen. It was a piece of another world, a relic from a life below the clouds.
From a back room, a man emerged. He was sturdy, built like a fortress that had weathered many storms, with a calm, measured presence. His hair was cropped short and silvered at the temples, and his eyes, a sharp blue, took in the scene with a single, sweeping glance that missed nothing—a habit ingrained by a previous life. This was Geo Mercer. He wasn't holding a weapon, but the way he carried himself, the steady readiness in his stance, spoke of a history that didn't belong to a simple tavern keeper.
His gaze found Kuzan, and a slow, deep smile spread across his face, erasing years of quiet routine. "Well," Geo said, his voice a low, steady baritone. "Look what the storm dragged in." He didn't move to embrace him, but the warmth in the single sentence was a welcome as solid as the cloud-stone beneath their feet.
"Got tired of the view down there," Kuzan replied, leaning against the doorframe. "Thought I'd see how the other half lives. The one with the quieter pubs."
"Quiet's a relative term around here," Geo said, a dry chuckle in his voice as he glanced meaningfully towards the door his sons had recently vacated. "But it's got its perks. No paperwork." The two men shared a look, a universe of shared understanding passing between them in a single glance—a history of duty, of secrets held, of a world left behind for the simple peace of a family and a home.
The Honest Blunderbuss, for a moment, felt less like a tavern on the edge of civilization and more like a sanctuary, a place where old soldiers could finally, for a little while, stand down.
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