Chapter 123

The Driftwood Tavern buzzed like a kicked hornet's nest, its ramshackle walls vibrating with laughter, clinking mugs, and the sizzle of Lucky Roux's infamous "Dragon's Breath" barbecue. The air hung thick with the aroma of charred sea-king ribs, citrus-glazed pineapple skewers, and the tang of briny seaweed ale—a recipe stolen from a Wano brewer who'd "retired" after one too many encounters with Shanks' charm. The tavern's ceiling sagged under decades of pirate memorabilia: cracked Marine helmets repurposed as lanterns, frayed Jolly Rogers plastered with doodles of mustachioed seagulls, and a taxidermy octopus wearing a tiny tricorn hat. 

"Another round, Silas!" Benn Beckman barked, slamming his empty mug on the bar. The former assassin-turned-bartender rolled his good eye, his tattooed arms (still bearing faded WG kill marks) deftly pouring a frothy pint of Eclipse Rum. "Keep it up, and I'll spike yours with octopus ink," Silas muttered, though the ghost of a smirk betrayed him. 

"Oi, Lucky! These ribs got more kick than Harlow's prosthetic!" Gab shouted, his mouth full, grease dripping down his chin. 

"That's the 'holy fire' chili from Mary Geoise!" Lucky Roux beamed, flipping a whole roasted boar on a spit with one hand while gnawing on a drumstick with the other. "Stole the seeds from a Celestial Dragon's garden. They cried real pretty when I uprooted their prize petunias!" 

Captain Veyla "Storm-Eye" Rask sat across from Shanks at a corner table crafted from the hull of a noble's yacht. Her patched Marine coat hung on the back of her chair, the brass eyepiece on her face catching the firelight as she nursed a mug of "Dragon's Tears"—a rum so spicy it made even Branson Hale, the tavern's owner, tear up. "Your flag's a bold offer, Red-Hair," she said, voice gravelly from decades of barking orders. "But this ain't a town that kneels. Even to emperors." 

Shanks leaned back, grinning as Bonk Punch launched into a bawdy sea shanty on his accordion, accompanied by Building Snake's off-key humming. "Kneeling's overrated. Think of it as… a friendly deterrent. WG's got a long memory, and your little haven's on their naughty list." 

Before Veyla could retort, a trio of chaos incarnate tore through the tavern. "INCOMING!" Jelly Squish warbled, his gelatinous body stretched into a makeshift slingshot, launching Tavi and Kip onto the bar. The twins brandished stolen spoons, drumming a cacophony on Silas' polished counter. 

"Oi! Either drink your milk or take the circus outside!" Silas snapped, tossing a rag at them. It landed on Jelly's head, morphing into a lopsided hat. 

"But Uncle Silas," Kip whined, puffing out his cheeks in a perfect imitation of Mihawk's scowl, "we're practicing our secret pirate tactics!" 

"Tactics, my ass," Silas grumbled, though he slid three mugs of mango milk their way. "Drink. Or I'll call the Navy to come get you." 

The trio gulped the milk, slammed the mugs, and bolted for the door, Jelly whooping, "ADVENTURE AWAITS!" as they vanished into the moonlit street. 

"You've got your hands full," Shanks chuckled, watching Veyla's eye twitch. 

"Worse than a New World storm," she sighed, though pride flickered beneath her grit. "How's the girl?" 

Shanks' grin softened. "Still out. Hongo's keeping watch. Says her vitals are… stubbornly human, whatever that means." 

Outside, a shadow passed the tavern's stained-glass window—a familiar silhouette cloaked in black, clutching a bottle of South Blue cabernet like it owed him money. 

"Speaking of stubborn," Shanks stood, chair scraping. "Duty calls. Offer stands, Veyla. Don't take too long—tides wait for no one." 

He slipped into the night, leaving the tavern's warmth behind. The cobblestone street glistened with bioluminescent algae from the morning's tidal surge. Ahead, Mihawk strode toward the docks, his stride deliberate, wine bottle glinting. 

"Hawkeyes!" Shanks called, falling into step beside him. "Stealing my wine stash again?" 

Mihawk didn't slow. "It's Yoru's birthday. She prefers red." 

"Right, right. Forgot swords have such refined tastes." 

They walked in silence, the distant shrieks of Tavi, Kip, and Jelly echoing from the rooftops. Finally, Shanks nudged him. "She'll wake up. Kid's got her mother's spine and your pigheadedness." 

Mihawk's gaze flicked to the Tidecaller's Spire, its fractured lens shimmering. "If she doesn't, I'll carve a path into the Navy itself." 

"Dramatic," Shanks snorted. "But leave some Marines for the rest of us, yeah?" 

Behind them, the tavern erupted in a fresh wave of song as Monster arm-wrestled a Pacifista's detached fist. The night smelled of salt, smoke, and the faintest hint of dawn—a promise that in Haven of the Eclipse, even the darkest storms eventually passed.

The Red Force's sick bay hummed with the soft, rhythmic beep of Marya's heart monitor, a sound as steady as the ship's creaking timbers. The room smelled of antiseptic brewed from Skypiean herbs and the faint, citrusy tang of Hongo's homemade salves—scents that clashed oddly with the lingering musk of sea salt and cannon smoke. Shelves lined with amber jars of medicinal fungi glowed faintly in the lamplight, casting warm pools of light over charts pinned to the walls: star maps annotated with Shanks' doodles of grumpy seagulls, and a faded wanted poster of Buggy the Clown with a mustache drawn in charcoal. 

Hongo adjusted the IV drip feeding into Marya's arm, the liquid a shimmering blue-green concoction brewed from rare algae and crushed mushrooms. "Vitals are stable," he muttered, more to himself than anyone. "Stubborn as her old man." 

Mihawk sat in the corner, a high-backed chair he'd commandeered days ago now permanently molded to his silhouette. A bottle of South Blue cabernet—stolen from Shanks' private stash—rested at his feet, alongside a leather-bound copy of The Tempests of the Grand Line: A Navigator's Lament. He turned a page, the sound crisp in the quiet, his golden eyes flicking intermittently to Marya's still form. 

Shanks leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, his usual grin tempered into something softer. "Hongo. How's our patient?" 

The doctor snorted, snapping his medical kit shut. "Same as yesterday. And the day before. Her body's healing, but the mind…" He trailed off, glancing at Mihawk. "She'll wake when she's ready. Or when he stops brooding." 

Mihawk ignored him, sipping his wine. 

"Thanks, Hongo," Shanks said, dismissing him with a nod. The doctor grumbled about "overprotective swordsmen" as he slipped past, the door clicking shut behind him. 

Shanks dragged a stool beside Mihawk's chair, the legs screeching against the floorboards. For a moment, the only sounds were the creak of the ship, the beep of the monitor, and the distant laughter of Lucky Roux challenging Benn to a chili-eating contest from outside. 

"So," Shanks began, stretching his legs. "The Navy's gonna come back swinging. You planning to keep that fancy Warlord title? Or finally join the fun on our side?" 

Mihawk turned another page. "I wasn't aware there were sides. Only nuisances." 

"C'mon, Hawkeyes." Shanks swiped the wine bottle, taking a swig. "You've been camping in this room for days."

A muscle twitched in Mihawk's jaw. "Is there a point to be made?" 

"Fair." Shanks studied the label on the bottle—a vintage from a Mariejois vineyard they'd raided years ago. "What brought her here, anyway? Last I saw, she was knee-deep in Consortium secrets. Now she's… what? Playing apprentice?" 

Mihawk's gaze lingered on Marya—the faint scar on her brow from a childhood duel, the way her fingers twitched as if clutching an invisible blade even in sleep. "Her reasons are her own." 

"And yours?" 

The question hung, sharp as Yoru's edge. 

Mihawk closed his book with a soft thud. "The World Government erased her mother's name from history. She intends to carve it back in. A fool's errand." 

"But you're here," Shanks pressed, grinning. "Fond of fools?" 

"Annoyed by them." 

Shanks laughed, the sound warm and familiar. "Same difference." 

Outside, dawn's first light crept through the porthole, painting Marya's face in gold. Mihawk stood abruptly, tucking the book under his arm. "She'll wake today." 

"Oh? Got a sixth sense now?" 

"No." Mihawk nodded to the heart monitor. The steady beep had quickened, just slightly. "She's always hated lying still." 

As he strode out, Shanks lingered, watching Marya's eyelids flutter. Somewhere above deck, Yasopp whooped as he nailed a target blindfolded, and Bonk Punch's accordion wheezed into another shanty. 

"Yeah," Shanks murmured, raising the bottle to the rising sun. "Stubborn runs in the family." 

The Red Force creaked, its crew's laughter a counterpoint to the quiet hope humming in its belly.

*****

Beneath the Tidecaller's Spire, in a cavern lit by bioluminescent algae and the faint glow of Mira's third eye (conveniently bandaged under a gauze wrap that kept slipping), the Syndicate member paced like a caged sea-beast. His mask—a polished onyx slab etched with a laughing squid—clashed comically with his neon-orange Hawaiian shirt, a souvenir from a disastrous undercover mission in Dressrosa. 

"Enough riddles, Oracle!" he snapped, nearly tripping over a basket of prophetic clamshells. "Is Marya a threat or not? The Void Moss reacted to her like it was starving!" 

Mira "The Veiled Oracle" sat cross-legged atop a pile of soggy tide charts, nibbling a seaweed cracker shaped like a crescent moon. Her veils fluttered despite the lack of wind, and her third eye's cerulean glow pulsed in time with the distant thrum of Nika's drums. "The tide asks not if it will crash," she mused, sprinkling crushed seastone into a teacup filled with squid ink. "Only where." 

The Syndicate member groaned. "We're not paying you in rare teas and driftwood art to speak in limericks! The WG's breathing down our necks. If Marya's the Keybearer—" 

"Is she the key?" Mira interrupted, sipping her ink-tea with a serene smile. "Or the lock? Or the hand that turns?" She gestured to a mural behind her, where a stick-figure Nika danced atop a kraken labeled Sea Devourer (dinner reservations pending). "The Void hungers. The Dawn fidgets. Marya… snores." 

"Snores?!" 

"Metaphorically." Mira plucked a glowing jellyfish from a nearby tank and balanced it on her head like a hat. "Her power is a conundrum. To reconcile gods, one must first… lose their shoes." 

"Lose their—?! The Syndicate member facepalmed, his squid mask clacking against his forehead. "This is why nobody invites Three-Eyed Tribe to strategy meetings!" 

Mira giggled, the sound like wind chimes in a hurricane. "The moon wept thrice when the Arch of Tartarus cracked. The World Government erased Elisabeta's name, but ink washes away. Blood… stains." She tossed a handful of Void Moss into a brazier; the flames turned violet, casting shadows that danced like Joy Boy's silhouette. "Marya is the tide's answer to a question the Void forgot to ask. Funny, no?" 

The Syndicate member slumped into a chair shaped like a depressed octopus. "You're not taking this seriously." 

"Seriousness is a rock in the shoe of destiny," Mira chirped, producing a conch shell from her sleeve. "Here! A gift. Blow into it during the next lunar eclipse, and it shall… probably do something." 

"Probably?!" 

"Oracle's discount!" 

Outside, Branson's parrot swooped into the den, squawking "IMU SEES! IMU SEES!" before stealing the Syndicate member's squid mask and crash-landing into a pile of prophetic kelp. 

"Fine!" The Syndicate member yanked off his now-maskless face, revealing… another mask underneath (a frowning tuna). "But if the WG burns this island to ash, I'm blaming you and your shellfish!" 

Mira waved him off, already scribbling a haiku about Marya's eyebrows onto a parchment made of dried seagrass. "Tell your masters this: The Keybearer cannot be caged. But she can be… tickled." 

As he stormed out, Mira whispered to her jellyfish hat, "He'll trip on the lobster on step three." 

Thud. 

"CURSED ORACLE!" 

Giggle.

*****

The air in the sick bay was thick with the sting of antiseptic and the metallic tang of blood. Virgo stirred, his vision swimming into focus beneath the flickering glow of a faulty lantern. Bandages crisscrossed his chest, each breath sharp as glass shards in his lungs. The memory hit him like a cannonball: Mihawk's daughter, Marya, standing defiant atop the Temple of Dawn's Echo, her obsidian blade, Eternal Eclipse, drinking the sunlight as if it were wine. Then—Shanks. The Red Hair Pirates' arrival had been a tempest, their captain's Conqueror's Haki a thunderclap that crumpled Virgo's resolve before his sword even left its sheath. 

"Report," Virgo croaked, his voice raw. The cot creaked as he pushed himself upright, the ship's hull groaning in sympathy. Across the dim room, Smoker exhaled a plume of cigar smoke, its gray tendrils curling around the hilt of his jitte. Tashigi stood rigid beside him, her glasses fogged, fingers white-knuckling the sheath of her katana. 

"We withdrew," Smoker said flatly. "Marya unleashed something… corrupted…. dark. Possessed the men. Turned them into puppets with black veins crawling under their skin. They attacked their own." His jaw tightened. "Shanks' crew mopped up what was left." 

Vergo's fist slammed into the bulkhead, the clang reverberating like a funeral bell. "Fourth time," he snarled, his bamboo staff trembling in his grip. "Fourth time she slips through our fingers! That witch—" 

"Enough," Smoker cut in, his voice a low growl. "We lost a third of the fleet. You want to turn around? Take on an Emperor and a Warlord with half a ship and broken men?" His eyes narrowed. "What's your history with her, Vergo? This obsession isn't protocol." 

Vergo's silence was a blade unsheathed. 

A chuckle, cold and crystalline, slithered from the shadows. "Tsk. Such squabbles," purred Mirror Marcellus, stepping into the lantern's jaundiced light. His hair—shards of glass catching the gloom—tinkled faintly as he tilted his head. Behind him, Guillotine Gereon loomed, his executioner's mask a porcelain abyss, the seastone chain Karma coiled at his feet like a serpent. 

"CP0," Vergo spat. "Why are you here?" 

"Courtesy of me," Smoker said, exhaling smoke. "They offered… insight." 

Marcellus flicked a speck of dust from his immaculate suit. "Insight, yes. And disappointment. The corruption in Marya's veins? Deliciously tragic. But your blundering forced our hand." He sighed, examining his glass-laced nails. "Saint Saturn won't be pleased. We'll have to… rephrase your failure." 

Vergo lunged, bamboo staff aimed at Marcellus' throat—but Guillotine moved faster. Karma's chain snapped taut, its shadowy Haki vapor smothering the air. The staff halted mid-strike, trembling as if pressed against an invisible wall. 

"Pathetic," Guillotine rumbled, his voice a graveyard echo. The chain quivered, seastone teeth gleaming. 

Marcellus smirked. "Do mind the decorum, Vergo. We're all friends here." With a flick of his wrist, the porthole behind him shattered. Shards of glass levitated, knitting into a spectral ship beyond the railing—its sails sheer as ice, catching moonlight like a prism. "Ta-ta. Do try not to drown in your indignity." 

As the CP0 agents stepped onto the glass vessel, Vergo turned to Smoker, his rage a live wire. "You let them mock us—" 

"They're a symptom, not the disease," Smoker muttered, watching the ship dissolve into the horizon. "This mission was doomed the moment Marya tapped into that power. You saw what her sword did to the ruins—the air itself rotted where she struck." 

Tashigi's voice wavered. "Sir… the men she possessed. Their eyes—they were empty. Like they were dead…" 

Virgo's hand drifted to his bandages, fingers brushing the jagged scar beneath. He could still see it: Marya's blade cleaving the sky, the world splitting into a maw of black tendrils. And Shanks—damn him—standing calm in the storm, his grin a challenge. "You picked the wrong dynasty to cross, Marine." 

"We retreat," Smoker said, crushing his cigar into a tray. "Regroup at G-14. The World Government can stew in their own hubris." 

As the others filed out, Vergo lingered, his reflection warped in a puddle of spilled medicine. Somewhere, deep in the ship's belly, a wounded Marine whimpered—a sound raw and animal, stripped of pride. Vergo's grip tightened on his staff. 

Fourth time. 

But not the last. 

*****

The sick bay reeked of iodine and iron, the air stagnant save for the rhythmic drip-drip of saline from a cracked IV bag. Vice Admiral Venus Harlow's prosthetic leg clicked against the floor as she paced, the sound sharp as gunfire. Her blond hair, usually meticulously styled, hung in frayed strands around her scarred face. A half-crushed cigar smoldered in her fist, its ash dusting the bandages wrapped around her thigh—where Marya's cursed blade, Eternal Eclipse, had grazed her three battles ago. The wound still seeped dark ichor when her rage boiled over. 

The door slammed open. Captain Nuri Evander stumbled in, his flame-red hair matted with dried blood, one wing—still half-transformed from his Arambourgiania hybrid form—dragging limply behind him. The bone-white membrane was punctured by a perfect, smoldering hole. Yasopp's work. In his trembling hand, he clutched his steel bat, its engraved "MVP" now scratched raw.

"Apologies for the… delay," Nuri rasped, flashing a grin that didn't reach his eyes. "Wind resistance calculations were… uh… mis-calibrated." 

Behind him, Captain Kai Sullivan leaned against the doorframe, his sniper rifle Silent Requiem slung across his back. His glasses were cracked, one lens spiderwebbed. A fresh burn scored his left arm—Yasopp's parting gift. His fingers drummed a frantic staccato against his thigh, the ghost of a hum trapped in his throat. 

Harlow's cigar glowed crimson as she inhaled. "Report." 

Kai straightened, his voice clipped. "Pacifista losses: twenty-five percent to the Dracules' slashes before the Red Hairs arrived. Another third incinerated by Shanks' crew. Retreat was… unavoidable." His hand twitched toward the violin case strapped to his back, as if the instrument could strangle the silence. 

Nuri chuckled weakly, tapping his bat against his mangled wing. "Did you know Yasopp's bullets curve at a 0.3-radian angle in crosswinds? Fascinating, right? Like a knuckleball, but with, y'know… death." His grin faltered as Harlow's stare hardened. 

"Who ordered the withdrawal?" she hissed. 

"Smoker," Kai said. "He cited… resource preservation." 

The cigar snapped in Harlow's hand. Embers scattered like dying stars. "Preservation?!" She limped to a porthole, her reflection warped by seawater and grime. Beyond it, the skeletal remains of Angkor'thal's temple spires pierced the horizon—monuments to her failure. "That witch turned our men into puppets. Black veins crawling under their skin, attacking their own brothers. And we retreat?" 

Nuri's bat clattered to the floor. "We tried flanking her! But Marya's mist… it ate the Pacifistas' circuits. They just… stopped. Then Shanks—" 

"Shanks laughed," Harlow spat. She could still hear it—that booming, liberating laugh—as the Red Hair Pirates carved through her fleet. As Mihawk's daughter stood atop the Temple of Dawn's Echo, her blade splitting the sky into a weeping gash of black tendrils. Third time. Third time she's slipped away. 

Kai's humming surged, a dissonant rendition of Beethoven's Fifth. "We're to regroup at G-14. Repair the ships. Await orders." 

"Orders?" Harlow whirled, her prosthetic screeching against the floor. "The World Government will bury this. Again. Just like Thorne." The name hung like a corpse in the air. Aric Thorne's face flickered in her mind—his smile, the way he'd shoved her clear seconds before the explosion sheared through his chest. Her failure. Her debt. 

Nuri flinched, his wings twitching. "Harlow, the men—they're broken. The corruption… it's not just physical. They're seeing things. Whispering about 'the Maw' in their sleep." 

"Then let them whisper!" She slammed her fist into a medical tray, sending scalpels clattering. "Marya's sword devours reality. Every second she's free, that power gnaws at the world. And Smoker wants to preserve?!" 

Silence swallowed the room. Somewhere, a wounded Marine screamed—a sound that frayed into wet, hacking sobs. Kai's fingers crept to his violin, plucking a single, quivering note. 

Nuri bent to retrieve his bat, his voice uncharacteristically quiet. "What's the play, Vice Admiral?" 

Harlow stared at the cracked photo on her desk—a younger self, standing beside Thorne on the deck of their first ship. "You picked the wrong dynasty to cross," Shanks had sneered. 

She lit a new cigar, the flame trembling in her grip. "We rebuild. Faster. Stronger. And when that Dracule-spawn and her cursed sword emerge again…" The smoke coiled around her like a shroud. "We'll be waiting." 

As the others filed out, Kai hesitated. "Harlow… your leg." 

She glanced down. The black veins from Marya's strike had crept past her knee. 

"It's nothing," she lied. 

But in the shadows, the Void whispered back. 

*****

The air in the sick bay reeked of burnt antiseptic and the metallic tang of blood gone stale. Casimer's remaining eye flickered open, the world a blur of shaky lantern light and shadow. His left socket throbbed where Marya's blade had carved through flesh and bone months prior, the scar tissue still raw and weeping. The memory of Angkor'thal's ruins surged back—Mihawk's daughter standing atop the Temple of Dawn's Echo, her cursed sword Eternal Eclipse cleaving the air into weeping gashes of void-black tendrils. Then Shanks. That damned laugh, like the Drums of Liberation made mockery, as the Red Hair Pirates descended like a storm. 

Casimer's boots thudded against the floor as he lurched upright. His remaining eye narrowed at the figures looming over him: three Masked Syndicate operatives, their faces hidden behind featureless ivory masks etched with serpentine runes. Their robes, black as the abyss beneath Bootleg Island's chasm, seemed to drink the light. Behind them, Teivel leaned against a bulkhead, his spear propped lazily on his shoulder. A fresh bruise bloomed across his baby-faced cheek, courtesy of Yasopp's rifle butt. Onyx hovered nearby, her Gatling gun discarded, fingers nervously adjusting the heel of her shoe—snapped during the retreat. 

"Report," Casimer rasped, his voice a serpent's hiss. 

The lead Syndicate member tilted their head, mask glinting. "Withdrawal. The Red Hairs… complicated your strategy." Their voice was genderless, filtered through the mask into a metallic drone. 

Casimer's fist slammed into the cot's frame, the sound echoing like a gunshot. "You were there. Watching. You could have crushed them—" 

"We do not involve ourselves in petty squabbles," the Syndicate member interrupted, their tone glacial. A second operative stepped forward, drawing a blade from their sleeve—a kris dagger, its edge glowing molten red. The heat warped the air, casting hellish shadows across the room. 

Teivel snorted, picking at his teeth with a fishbone. "Petty? Mihawk's brat nearly turned our men into puppets. You call that petty?" 

Onyx flinched, her voice small. "The Pacifistas… they just… stopped. Like their circuits rotted mid-battle. Marya's mist—it ate them." 

Casimer's eye twitched. He could still see it—the black veins crawling under his soldiers' skin, their eyes hollow as the Void itself. Marya's curse, her mother's legacy, festering in her blade. And the Syndicate had done nothing. 

"You owe me," Casimer snarled, rising unsteadily. The molten blade pressed against his throat, searing the air with the stench of charred flesh. He didn't flinch. 

"We owe nothing," the lead Syndicate member hissed. "Our presence was… observational. You overreach, Velociraptor." 

The title—his Devil Fruit epithet—curled like poison in the air. Casimer's Velociraptor hybrid form lay dormant, suppressed by the seastone-laced bandages constricting his torso. Weakness. Her doing. 

Before he could retort, the cabin door creaked open. A fourth Syndicate operative stood silhouetted in the corridor's sulfur-yellow light, holding a transponder snail. Its shell was carved with Consortium sigils—a serpent coiled around a key. 

The lead operative lowered the blade. "Ah. They call." 

Casimer's jaw tightened as the snail's face morphed into the stern visage of Knox Penrose—Consortium Royal Guard, his voice crisp as a blade. "Status?" 

The Syndicate operative spoke, their mask tilting toward the snail. "The guardian lives. Angkor'thal's ruins… she climbs. The Eclipse Gate's secrets tempt her." 

Knox's holographic eyes narrowed. "And her allegiance?" 

"Unclear. The corruption in her veins… a liability. If she cannot be swayed—" 

"Understood. The Consortium's archives cannot fall to Mihawk's spawn." 

The snail's eyes dimmed. The Syndicate operative pocketed it, turning back to Casimer. "You see? Our interests… diverge." 

Casimer's velociraptor form jolted under his skin as he stepped closer, his voice a venomous whisper. "You used me. Lured me to Angkor'thal to flush her out—" 

The operative's blade flashed, slicing a lock of Casimer's hair. It sizzled as it hit the floor. "All pieces serve the Syndicate's design. Even broken ones." 

As they filed out, Teivel spat on the deck. "Creepy mask-wearing pricks. Bet they've never felt a woman's touch." 

Onyx whimpered, clutching her broken heel. "Sir… what do we do now?" 

Casimer stared at the charred hair on the floor, his mind racing. Marya, the Corruption, the Consortium's scheming—all threads in a tapestry he'd underestimated. But Shanks' mockery still rang in his ears. "You dance in shadows. But the dawn always burns through." 

He limped to a porthole, gazing at the distant silhouette of Angkor'thal's shattered spires. "We wait. Marya's sword devours more than flesh—it hungers. And when she cracks…" 

He smiled, the expression grotesque with half a face. 

"...we'll be there to feast on the scraps."