Chapter 12: Beneath the Wake
Two days after leaving the drifting wreck behind, the Tempest Wing made landfall on a nameless reef island — a flat strip of stone, coral, and muddy jungle at the far edge of a thin trade current.
Kira stepped off first, boots sinking into wet moss, eyes already scanning the trees.
Sayida followed, journal tucked under one arm. "We stopping for supplies?"
"No," Kira said, voice quiet. "We're waiting."
"For what?"
"News."
They weren't alone on the reef.
A traveling food barge was anchored at the far edge — patched sails, crab pots clinking along its sides. A floating shop, nothing more. Family-run. Honest faces. Not a threat.
Kira approached at sundown.
She bought dried fish, sea salt, and two bags of boiled starch roots. Paid in clean coin. Spoke three words.
But as she turned to leave, the old man behind the counter hesitated.
"You two from the east?"
Kira stopped.
"Passed through," she said.
He nodded, eyes sharp beneath his calm tone. "Word says a Marine lieutenant's been taking tribute from islands off the bay. Not taxes. Not law. Just tribute."
Kira met his eyes. "Name?"
"Bellan. Mid-rank. Silver wolf tattoo on his neck. Doesn't wear the coat anymore."
Sayida said nothing.
Kira offered a silent nod.
The old man didn't smile.
"Best keep moving," he said.
They left the reef before dawn.
Sayida broke the silence first. "You think it's true?"
"Most rumors are half true," Kira said. "This one feels heavier."
Sayida leaned on the helm. "What do you want from a Marine?"
Kira stood at the bow, coat flapping.
"Not him."
"Then what?"
"His secrets."
The bay in question lay two days southeast — nestled between forested ridges and low salt plains. Three islands floated inside it, connected by trade ferries and fishing boats. None big enough for a Marine base, but too close to main routes to be free of attention.
Kira brought the Tempest Wing in low and silent, anchoring behind a curtain of mangrove roots near the easternmost island.
They rowed ashore at night.
Not to strike.
To listen.
The village was tired.
Sayida's eyes moved across worn roofs, smoke-stained windows, crates that looked half-looted. She whispered, "These people have been drained."
Kira nodded.
They entered the inn posing as traders — Sayida doing the talking, Kira seated in the shadows, silent and still.
They watched.
Three hours later, Sayida returned to their room with two full pages of whispered rumors.
Kira read them twice.
She stopped at one line.
"He only collects tribute from villages near the signal tower. Not those near the cliffs."
Her fingers tapped the page.
"Patterns," she murmured. "Always a pattern."
The next morning, Kira and Sayida slipped from the village and followed the ridge trail south.
It took half a day to reach the signal tower.
It wasn't military.
It was private — a tall iron pole built into the cliffside, linked with polished mirrors, tuned glass, and a communications bell powered by sea-wind rotors.
An old tech relay.
Still working.
Kira approached it slowly, then crouched behind a rock and stared.
Sayida glanced at her. "You think he's using this to coordinate something?"
"No," Kira said. "He's watching."
That night, they slipped into the second village — closer to the cliffs.
No Marines.
No guards.
The people there smiled more. Better food. No fear.
Kira's mind clicked together the picture.
The villages near the signal relay were drained, paying tribute.
The ones beyond its view? Spared.
Which meant this lieutenant didn't have surveillance over the cliffs.
Which meant he was blind there.
Which meant Kira had just found his blind spot.
The next two days were silent movement.
Kira charted patrols. Sayida mapped delivery routes. Together, they watched as men in civilian gear — no marine uniforms — entered villages, demanded payment, and left by private boats. Not a single marine vessel in sight.
This wasn't official.
This was theft.
Organized and masked under the name of a Marine.
Sayida exhaled sharply on the third night, flipping her notebook closed.
"This is bad."
Kira didn't answer.
Sayida looked at her. "We can leave. Pretend we never saw this."
Kira stared out toward the lights of the central island, where Bellan was rumored to be staying.
"No."
Sayida's breath caught.
"Then… what?"
Kira's voice was low.
"We find his ledger."
They rowed quietly through the inlet toward the central island just before midnight.
Kira had memorized the rotation — Bellan's guards didn't walk the beach path until the bell tower signaled its second chime.
That gave her eighteen minutes of cover.
She moved like the sea wind.
Soft. Cutting.
The estate was guarded, but not fortified — clearly built for comfort, not war.
Inside, Kira struck once — one guard, no noise. A single pulse of current through the wrist. The man collapsed gently into the dirt.
She found the office upstairs.
Sayida kept watch below.
The ledger wasn't locked.
Because Bellan was arrogant.
Inside were columns of names, amounts, delivery points, and codes. All scrawled in careful hand. None of it labeled as illegal.
But Kira knew better.
She flipped to the most recent entry.
Seven crates. Raw ore. Island 3. "Silver share."
She copied the page into Sayida's journal.
Then she placed a small blue feather inside the book.
Right where it could be seen.
They were gone before the morning bell rang.
By the time Bellan's guards found the open ledger with the feather tucked inside, Kira and Sayida were already back aboard the Tempest Wing — sails ready, wind full.
Sayida leaned over the map table, face pale.
"That feather…"
Kira nodded.
"It's time to start leaving messages."
Sayida looked over, uneasy. "You want to make enemies of the Marines?"
Kira stared ahead, cold and quiet.
"Only the rotten ones."
That night, across three islands, whispers spread like wildfire:
A ghost with lightning in her hands.
A woman with no name, no crew, and no flag.
Leaving behind scorched traces and strange feathers.
A warning.
A promise.
And a storm building, far off, just beyond the wake.
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