Mk stepped carefully into the captain's cabin, ducking under the low frame. Gego clung to his shoulder, tail wrapped loosely around his neck like a scarf with a heartbeat.
The inside was… underwhelming.
An old desk sat under a cracked window, papers yellowed and curling at the edges. A half-melted candle rested in a rusted holder. A globe sat in the corner—Mk gave it a spin and it tilted sideways, the southern hemisphere hanging by a splinter.
Mk blew out a breath and started his search.
"Alright, Captain Smollet," he muttered, "give me something useful."
He pulled open drawers.
—A tin box of dried sardines (long expired).
—A sketchbook full of poorly drawn seagulls and some suspicious anatomy studies.
—Three broken compass needles, no actual compass.
—A carved wooden figurine of a shrimp riding a horse (labelled Admiral Prawn).
—A bottle of perfume labelled Essence of Thunderstorm that smelled like burnt rope.
Gego watched, clapping at every oddity Mk pulled out. He even tried sniffing the perfume and immediately recoiled, sneezing in triplets.
Mk rubbed his eyes. "This is hopeless. This ship is a floating joke."
He glanced to the corner of the room where a long, brass spyglass rested on a mounted stand. It looked barely used, still polished, and unlike everything else, it bore something worth noting: a silver crest etched near the eyepiece—a stylized skull inside a compass rose, Smollet's personal insignia.
Mk sighed, standing. "Well. It's not treasure, but it's something. Hopefully enough to prove Jack's not just blowing smoke."
Gego squeaked and scrambled up to Mk's shoulder as he stepped back onto the main deck. The sun had started its descent, casting a deep orange hue across the island's jagged horizon. Mk walked toward the gangplank, one hand clutching the spyglass, the other keeping Gego from tumbling off.
Gego, of course, had other plans. He grabbed the spyglass and began peering through it, turning it this way and that, twisting knobs he had no understanding of.
"Gego," Mk muttered, "easy, alright? My back is tired and I'm sore from digging through cursed prawn statues. Let's just—"
Gego went still.
He peered into the distance, then squeaked loudly, pointing frantically toward the sea.
Mk furrowed his brow. "What is it now?"
Gego jumped up and down, thumping Mk's shoulder and jabbing toward the fog that clung to the southern curve of the isle.
With an annoyed grunt, Mk snatched the spyglass and raised it to his eye, adjusting the focus.
What he saw nearly stopped his breath.
Out of the mist, shadows moved—shadows shaped like ships. Sleek, armored, and black as obsidian. At the front of each vessel was a massive metal dragon's head, maw open, carved in terrifying detail. Sails bore a crimson insignia:
A coiled sea serpent, wings stretched wide around a flaming spear.
—The sigil of the Meridian Fleet.
The Dragon's Navy.
The Empire's long arm.
Mk dropped the spyglass and froze.
Across the harbor, bells began to ring—slow at first, then rising into frantic clanging.
Then came the voices. Loud. Panicked. Shouting across the rooftops and alleys of the pirate haven:
"BLACKWATER RED! BLACKWATER RED!"
The phrase cut the air like cannon fire.
Mk's blood ran cold.
That was the code. The alarm call for a fleet raid. A full naval incursion.
Pirate crews burst from taverns, alleyways, and shop stalls, curses echoing as they ran. Vendors slammed shutters shut, dragging crates inside. Cannon crews scrambled to man the few mounted guns on the cliffs. Sails were unfurled in a frenzy.
Mk grabbed Gego and bolted down the gangplank.
"We have to find Jack. Now."
The harbor was chaos incarnate.
A human wave.
Mk pushed forward, shoulder to shoulder with fleeing pirates. Gego clung to his collar, squeaking warnings.
People shouted over one another—
"Get the damn anchor up!"
"They're already in the shallows!"
"Load the powder!"
"Where's the captain? WHERE'S THE CAPTAIN?!"
Shops closed with heavy slams. Barrels rolled as pirates kicked them toward their ships. Children cried. Swords were drawn—not in challenge, but desperation.
Mk and Gego ran against the tide.
And it was a tide—
—a surging mass of bodies, elbows, weapons, fear.
Every step forward was a fight.
Every breath was ragged.
Gego screeched in frustration, swatting at hats and scarves as they were buffeted back.
Mk gritted his teeth, arms up to shield the spyglass, pushing forward.
But the wave was too strong.
They were swept back.
Shoved by a heavy sailor, twisted by a sudden push of a fleeing family, Mk stumbled and fell to a knee. Gego squeaked in alarm, clinging to his chest.
They were no longer moving forward.
The crowd was dragging them away.
And Jack… was still inside the Broken Anchor.