~The Beach, mid-day.

The gentle sounds of the waves rising and falling over the shimmering sands of the beach imbued Ezekiel's surroundings with a reverential bliss; a far cry from the cacophonous crowd he had emerged from a few hours prior. The noise seemed so distant, so far removed, and the rage that seethed in him was now no more than a speck of dust drifting idly in the wind. The breeze inspired a quaint, meditative aura that Ezekiel had hitherto not experienced since berthing at these forgotten shores. Time itself seemed to be frozen in place.

A whispered conversation brought Ezekiel back to reality. He opened his eyes, sheathing them momentarily from the unforgiving rays of the Sun. Pulling himself up into a sitting posture, he stretched and yawned. Rubbing his eyes, he turned his gaze towards the murmurous sounds. An overturned fishing boat lay wedged deep into the sands.

He rose, bare feet sinking into the scorching dunes. The makeshift dock was quite a ways away—the place at which the bazaar street terminated. The beach was to its East, the golden sands stretching all the way to the muddy shores on the other side of the island, where the Empire's galleons stood tall.

Dusting off his ebony cloak, Ezekiel plodded across the sands to the silent mumblings. The nearer he got, the clearer they became. Upon reaching the capsized boat, Ezekiel leaned against it, closed his eyes, and listened keenly to the hushed conversation.

"M'bhean, it is with great sadness I say this, but I cannot provide you with any more coin. Lest I wish to degrade my business in these lands."

A man's voice, thick with an Árabe trill, yet coated with a distinct Gallic tenor.

"But—"

"I am sorry, a duine, it is entirely out of my control."

The girl began to sob. "B-But my master will punish me. My sister r-ran away, a-and now he wishes for me to pay her worth in silver." A pause. "Please, you must understand. All I need is twenty more soldos."

The Moor sighed. "Ten is all I can offer you. But you must return fifty within the next moon."

Coins clinked. Then a thump, followed by more intense sobbing. The girl's cries had now risen to a wail. "Please. I beg you, sir. Ten more, I promise to repay you."

The Arabé clicked his tongue, and more coins clinked over one another onto the sands below.

"Thank you! Thank you so much, sir!"

A disgruntled huff in response. "A hundred soldos within the next moon."

Ezekiel opened his eyes and turned to his right. The girl dashed ecstatically from behind the upended boat, hands close to her chest. A tattered dress draped her malnourished body.

"This ailén will be my doom." The moneylender sighed.

"Enlighten me, senhor, since which age has usury been fair under our law?"

The Moor chortled. "M'sieur, why must you hide if you wish to run my poor name through the mud?"

Ezekiel rounded the corner of the vessel and laid eyes upon the man whose melange voice had until then been detached from his visage. "I hardly know your name, meu amigo, if I indeed wished to do what you accuse me of."

The Arabé sat crouched on the hot afternoon sands, tightening his knapsack of riches unknown. "You know as well as I, m'sieur, that a commoner such as I would not dare keep his name from a highborn."

A smirk grew on the ebony-clad youth. "And why do you think me to be of high birth?"

The man heaved the sack containing his belongings and strung it over his left shoulder. "Because men of low birth do not speak with such candor."

"Candor?" Ezekiel chuckled sardonically. "In that case, I must assume you are of high birth yourself—"

"Yosef, m'sieur." He tipped his cotton turban.

"Yosef. You are quite the rarity here. Where do you hail from?"

"Suckled my mother's teat in the Calipháit. Bred and raised a merchant's slave in Gallia. But do not misunderstand, m'sieur, I am a man of no land. My loyalty lies with coin, and coin alone."

"I do not care for your loyalties, Yosef. All I care for is the business you conduct. Now tell me, how do you make such wealth as to lend it away?"

Yosef chuckled. "A naïve question, m'sieur." He tossed a coin toward the unprepared Ezekiel, who snagged it from the air. On examining it, it appeared to be a Gallic argant. Vercingetorix VII on the obverse, the Celtic triquetra adorning the reverse.

"One of those magnifique coins is worth a hundred réis." He inched closer to Ezekiel and whispered, "But only in these sorrowful lands."

The pensive vice-general absent-mindedly twirled the coin between his fingers, lost in thought. One argant begets two réis in the Continent. If what he speaks is indeed the truth—

"Do not mull over it so much." Yosef made a dismissive gesture. "It will turn your mood sour."

"Yosef, tell me, does your repertoire of skills include money changing?"

The Moor smiled slowly with understanding.

Ezekiel smirked. "Perhaps you wish for a job. One that is not as unpredictable as your current endeavor."

The sunburnt man began to plod in the direction opposite to him. "You misunderstand, m'sieur. You see, men of your birth see men such as myself as cheap, expendable vermin willing to do their bidding at their behest. But I am no free man, mo cara, I know well my worth."

An open palm stopped the Arabé in his tracks. His eyes gleaned with the avarice of victory.

"You have judged me too swiftly, meu amigo. My birth is the lowest of the low. And the only truth I have lived my entire life is this." He held up a gold cruzado between two fingers, brandishing it to his onlooker. "So do not lecture me on what is free and what is not. I have lived every waking moment in its shadow." He tossed the coin toward the elated Arabé. "Meet me here tomorrow at the same hour if you so wish. If you do not, I shall brand you a thief, and I shall personally cut off your head upon your capture."

A deep smile washed over the Moor's countenance. He tipped his colorless turban and disappeared behind the rear of the upturned boat.

***

~Upper Deck, Esperança, early morning.

"The fuck—What the fuck happened 'ere?!"

Four sailors tasked with readying the masts of the Esperança lay incapacitated on the deck of the ship.

"I SAID WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED 'ERE, YE SLUGGARDS?!?!"

One sailor rushed to the captain and stammered, "C-Cap'n, 'twas the m-monster Cap'n Dan f-f-fought yesterday."

Mattheus picked up the blabbering runt by his collar. "And what the fuck wer' you doin'? Shaggin' one of yer mates?!"

He flung the frightened sailor off the starboard side of the ship before he even had a chance to reply.

"FOUR MEN NEEDED AT STARBOARD!!!"

"Oi, oi, quiet down, old man. I'm tryna get some shut-eye." Daniel appeared out of nowhere, fingering his left ear and yawning.

"Did one of yer lackeys do this?" The disgruntled admiral pointed to the four unconscious bodies.

"Hell if I know. Unlike you, old fart, I don't keep track of every single shit my men take."

"Damn it to hell. It matters not. If my men lost a bout of valor to one of yers, they's arse dun' deserve to be on my ship." He grabbed onto the four unconscious sailors and flung them off the ship as well.

"WHERE THE FUCK ARE THE FOUR MEN I ASKED FER?! ARE YE SLUGGARDS DEAF IN THE EAR?!?!"

"They might as well be." Daniel yawned deep and ambled back to his chambers.

***

~Araqiel's Tent, The Encampment, early morning.

Faint wisps of fragrant smoke rose from the burning ends of incense sticks that framed the altar. Araqiel sat cross-legged on a red cushion embroidered with gold. Eyes closed, he held a pestle in his right hand and a mortar in his left, nestled into his lap. Rhythmic clacks of stone on stone assumed undisputed dominance over the dimly lit tent.

On being satisfied with the consistency of the beige paste, he set it on the altar. Feeling his pockets, he exposed a miniature obsidian statuette and placed it discreetly at the center of the altar's mensa. He carefully transferred the paste into a small silver censer with intricate patterns, and with the help of a brass press he evened out the concoction.

He struck flint against steel, erupting a burst of cinders which he used to set the amalgam ablaze. An equally exquisite silver lid was placed atop the burning blend, and a bucolic, oaky scent now overpowered the tranquil abode.

He picked up a knife that lay beside the altar and clenched his free fist taut, outstretching his arm over a voluminous earthen bowl. Jaw clamped tight, he sliced the arm already riddled with a hundred scars of bygone times, and fresh blood oozed into the container below. Beads of sweat dripped down his forehead and bare back. As soon as the crucible had had its fill, he tied a linen cloth about the gash.

Eyes shut once more, he cupped the bowl in his hands and poured it gently over the idol. The blood traversed the nooks and crannies and congealed, endowing the statuette with a reverential air. He then placed the earthen container to his lips and consumed the sanguine nectar of the gods. Silence reigned; his being frozen in place, an eerie similitude to the pitch black sculpture under the tremorous rays of sunlight that peeked within.

After what felt like an eternity, he opened his eyes and stared into the bulbous beads of the statuette. A wave of sorrow washed over him, coalescing into debilitating frustration, and finally into a belligerent rage.

"Do you still not deem me worthy, O' Lord Shemyaz?!"

Silence. His nostrils flared, veins taut, his breathing unsteady. He thrashed all that lay beneath the altar with unbridled fury. The bowls clattered onto the cold hard ground, shattering into pieces; remnants of congealed blood and incense strewn into a chaotic tapestry of sable and scarlet hues.

***

~The Hold, Esperança, early morning.

Mari shivered awake. She felt a dampness spread across her groin and thighs. Her eyes fell to her trousers, and she groaned in frustration that she had forgotten to wear wool below. Rakkah glanced awkwardly at the blood that trickled from her trousers. Looking away, he tore off a large piece of his garment and offered it to the young woman.

First surprised, then flattered, she took the piece of cloth from his hand and thanked him. His eyes flittered of their own volition towards the girl once more. She was rummaging through her knapsack for a change of trousers. Rakkah awkwardly turned away, facing the opposite wall of the deck. Mari giggled and proceeded to change into her new trousers. The faint crackling of embers within the dimly lit lantern filled the silence. Once she was done, she stuffed the soiled clothing back into her bag.

"Hey... Mari... can I ask you something?" Rakkah asked, his head leaning onto the wooden wall near which they sat, still looking away.

"Mhm."

"Do you ever miss them...? Your family, I mean."

Mari stared at her feet, a sullen look on her face. "Of course I do. My papa was the loveliest person I knew. I owe everything I am to him. I don't remember my mama as much... but you know, from all the wonderful things papa told me about her, I'm sure she was a wonderful person too!"

"And your sister?"

The solemn face looked away. "Eliza... no, Misha will be free. He promised me." She had unknowingly sunk her fingers deep into her knapsack; the entirety of her prior cheeriness washed away.

Rakkah had turned back towards her, unsure of how to comfort her. "Y'know, my sister was a lot like you."

Mari craned her neck towards Rakkah, easing her grip on her bag.

"She was beautiful, kind, and caring. She was a beacon of light to me. I knew if I was ever sad or upset, I could always count on her to cheer me up." He brought his knees to his chest and hugged them close, his back facing the wall. "And he just killed her. In cold blood. And for what? To appease the gods? To appease Shemyaz?" He held back tears, but his voice wavered. "When Gavrīl saved you, I felt so utterly useless. Helpless. Worthless. I thought back to the time when my father cut her open piece by piece. When I did nothing to stop him. I should have known." Tears gathered in his eyes and his voice grew tense. "I should have known what those fanatics were capable of. I thought them harmless loons at first, but they... they..." He clasped his mouth with his hands just thinking about the depraved horrors he witnessed on that fleeting winter morning. 

Frail arms pulled him into a warm embrace, and he cried, and cried, and cried. "You have me now," Mari spoke weakly as she stroked his hair. "Perhaps it was..." She shook her head. "No, not the gods, perhaps it was your sister herself who sought me out and brought us to one another. Perhaps..."

The burning embers of the lantern crackled softly.

A sudden rattling of the ceiling hatch. Rakkah's heart rose to his chest, and his eyes grew wide. In a flash, he fizzled out the lantern and led Mari to the furthest corner of the deck laden with barrels of mead and wine. He shushed Mari, his reddened eyes now entirely dry.

From the dark recesses of the hold, they stared in wait, silent. A gush of light poured in, illuminating all that lay beneath. Rakkah steadied his hand on the hilt of his sword and swallowed. Legs descended from the now opened hatch, soon an entire body. Right as the man's face had come into view, the deck was once again plunged into pitch darkness.

Rakkah closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Two steps approached. He squeezed his hilt. One. Two. The footsteps grew nearer. Three. His heart beat like a thousand drums. Four. A rattle. A creak. A slosh. A glug. A slam. Dust rose around them. Dust—

Rakkah's eyes grew wide in terror, and he swung his head towards the young woman to his right.

"Atchoo!"

For a moment, all went still. The entire living world went numb to the young soldier. The next, he swiveled around the barrels, cold steel screeching out of its hold, crouched blade aimed at the unknown enemy's neck.

Resistance.

His blade felt glued in place, his feet unable to move. He fell backward. Wind sliced to his left and he ducked, rolling forward and crashing into the man in front of him. A punch to the gut, his innards squirmed in pain.

Two steps. One. Two. A slash from the right. He rolled to the center of the room. He knew he had no hope of winning if he could not see his opponent. He grabbed hold of the lantern as the footsteps approached, kindling it anew. The blaze threw the oppressive Hades into a violent luminescence, the flickering flames illuminating the hitherto unseen face. Old scars covered the sides of the man's face. A uniform of cerulean and ebony.

Using the moment of temporary blindness of his enemy to his advantage, he leaped forth towards him, slashing diagonally across. The man steadied into a stance, one that Rakkah recognized not. In one fell swoop, he defended against the boy's naïve attack, kicking him to the ground with his steel boot. Rakkah coughed up blood.

He looked up wearily at the approaching steed, squirming as he held onto his pulsating stomach. The man appeared as if Death himself. Azrael had risen from his slumber. 

Is this the end? He thought.

I promised her. His body grew numb.

I promised her I would get her to safety. His vision blurred.

I promised her I would save her. Specks of white filled the room in front of him. 

I'm sorry, Mari. I failed you, just as I did my sister—

Blood splurged all over him, shuddering him back to reality. An arrow, lodged lopsided in the man's skull, red liquid dripping down the shaft. A clank, then a thud. Rakkah raised his eyes to the figure that stood behind the fallen steed. Mari, nostrils flared, breath unsteady, sweat dripping down her forehead, bow pointed towards the ground.