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The Shanty Codex I, by Saint Morgan LeFay.
The Siren must’ve noticed the recognition in his eyes, as she immediately sent a lightning strike.
Francis had no time to dodge, resulting in the bolt hitting him square in the chest.
If the pain from the ailments was a drizzle, the pain from her Stanza was a hailstorm. Francis immediately dropped to the floor, smoke rising from his chest. His heart stopped momentarily, but Rejuvenation refused to let him succumb.
To her credit, the Siren didn’t relax, something she made very clear as she followed up with a column of flames.
Thankfully, Francis was prepared this time.
He activated Substitution the moment the flames were inches away from him, landing where Eloise had stood.
The move caused the pirate to be scorched by her own flames. She screamed.
Her hands and face were charred black, her clothes partially singed.
Her burning hair gave way to a scalp that quickly blackened like the rest of her face.
“Can we just talk?” Francis exclaimed, bracing for her next strike.
“I don’t talk to bounty hunters!” she replied in pain, before firing another lightning bolt.
Francis swiftly swapped places with a nearby chair before activating Liquidation.
The pirate turned and sent a third strike his way, which he dodged without using Substitution, relying on his nimble limbs instead.
“I wasn’t going to go after you,” Francis said, before realizing how manipulative that sounded. “Not unless you gave me a reason.”
Fortunately, her skin quickly regained color, undoubtedly Rejuvenation taking effect.
“Why should I believe you?” the Siren barked as her blonde hair began to grow back.
In all fairness, she had a point. From an outsider’s perspective, Francis was an upstart who had made a name for himself by burning a ship to a crisp. Why should anyone believe him?
Might as well take the bet.
As Eloise’s hair returned to its former length, Francis knelt on the ground, hands behind his head, deliberately placing himself at her mercy.
“As I said, I wouldn’t go after you if you don’t give me a reason.”
His words seemed to shake something loose within her. Her enraged expression softened into hesitation.
“Why did you do that to Dirty Fang?”
Francis didn’t hesitate. “Because he was an irredeemable piece of filth who ruined the lives of dozens.”
“A bounty hunter with principles?” Eloise spat. “What’s next? You gave the bounty to the poor?”
“I wasn’t always a bounty hunter,” Francis replied. “I only became one a few days ago.”
Eloise still didn’t look convinced, yet he didn’t move a muscle. Everything hinged on his cooperation.
“Yves isn’t even my real name,” he added. “I’m actually a pirate working under Captain Valeria.”
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“Huh?” the Siren said, the last of her anger washing away.
“Yeah. Most of my companions got captured by the Church, while our first mate fled.”
Eloise seemed inclined to doubt him once more, but she had no reason to.
“Come to think of it, I did see you with Sir Robert the other day,” she said, placing a hand on her chin. “So that’s what that was about.”
Francis considered getting up, but that would’ve undone everything he’d worked toward, so he stayed put.
“I hope you weren’t sent to kill me by the Church.”
“What? No,” Eloise said in disgust. “I did it of my own accord. The last thing I need while nursing my brother is a bounty hunter chasing my tail.”
“Your brother?” Francis asked, puzzled. He’d heard nothing about the pirate traveling with a relative.
Eloise’s expression changed, as if realizing her mistake. “No matter. I still don’t have a reason to trust you.”
“Didn’t I recount my predicament?”
“Recounting isn’t the same as proving,” she said as she drew closer, reluctantly. “If you want to prove you hold no ill intent, hand over your Rejuvenation artifact.”
The request momentarily confused Francis before her mention of her brother clicked.
“I can’t. The tower would kill me in minutes.”
Then he remembered something else. “Wait—don’t you have it as well?”
“Mine is a fragment,” the Siren explained.
“A fragment?”
Her resolve faltered, replaced by puzzlement. “You’re a bounty hunter, yet you don’t know about the existence of fragments?”
“Should I?” Francis asked, faintly embarrassed.
“If this is your idea of manipulation, then you’re doing a horrid job,” Eloise said in frustration.
“I genuinely don’t know what fragments are,” he replied, as earnestly as he could.
“Regardless,” Eloise said after a long silence, “I’d like to borrow the artifact for a short while after you leave this place. Do that, and I’ll consider trusting you.”
“Where should I deposit it?”
“La Frontera Bar,” she said as she turned away. “Find a man named Luca and tell him you have a package for Alize.”
The task sounded simple enough—certainly simpler than investigating a contaminated tower—but caution was warranted regardless.
“Understood,” Francis said, not daring to move until Eloise was gone.
If he were honest with himself, killing her would’ve been much easier. He’d neutralize a threat and claim her artifact in one stroke.
Yet none of it felt right. Her actions weren’t driven by malice; otherwise, she wouldn’t have walked away.
Or talked for as long as she did.
Besides, if the artifact vanished, her beloved bar would have a problem on its hands—one it would be eager to resolve if the incentive proved lucrative enough.
Her absence nearly lulled Francis into relaxing, until the ailments and putrid stench reminded him of his predicament.
“I’m going to gag,” he muttered as he followed the source of the smell to a room at the far end of the floor.
He braced himself, then opened the door.
What greeted him was exactly as expected.
The room was modest: a nightstand, a weathered closet, a desk—and a bed.
The bed, however, was occupied.
A corpse in an advanced stage of decomposition lay atop it.
The gore was enough to make Francis vomit the little he’d eaten hours earlier. He needed a moment before daring to approach.
As he drew nearer, he noticed a parchment on the desk. Francis was no English scholar, but his mother had taught him enough in preparation for joining the Royal Navy.
“Yet here I am, working for the Iberians instead.”
Though ethnically Iberian, he’d never truly identified with the culture. He spoke the language well enough, but French and English came far more naturally.
If I’m honest with myself, it’s probably because of the locals in my hometown.
Still, speaking two international languages was a skill he didn’t take for granted—especially with the Iberians controlling much of the western Atlantic.
The stench snapped him out of his thoughts. Francis grabbed the parchment and stepped back into the hall before reading it in silence.
To whoever is reading this: I hope you didn’t have a hard time reaching me, for I know my curse hasn’t made it easy.
As for what led me to commit such an act, I’ll do my best to shed light on the matter.
Make no mistake—I’m neither asking for sympathy nor understanding. This is merely an explanation, in a world that offers none.
A few years ago, I was but a wee lad living in Anguilla with my parents and sisters. Life there was no haven—just endless toil for daily bread—but it was peaceful, at least for a while.
The peace ended when a piece of filth calling himself Captain Read plundered our town and milked it dry.
Men were recruited if deemed fit, slaughtered if not. The women suffered the same judgment, but with different purposes.
My parents didn’t survive. The pirate found them frail. My sisters, however, were deemed “excellent” and taken aboard his ship.
Too much happened at once. My parents were dead. My sisters met a worse fate. And I hid behind a crate like a coward. I know I couldn’t have done much—how could I? He was infamous, surrounded by hardened men. Yet a smaller, irrational part of me still screams that I should’ve done something, even if it meant dying.
Francis had to pause. The words were too heavy.
He’d always known pirates were a revolting bunch, and the testimony only sharpened his loathing.
His time with Valeria and her crew had nearly made him forget how awful the rest of these plunderers were. Truth be told, many romanticized the lifestyle, and being certain of one’s intentions was no simple matter.
He was certain of one thing, however.
Read was a dead man walking.