Lucius’

Everywhere in the port, covering sailor-recruitment notices and petty-thief posters, hung fresh sheets still smelling of ink-his own face stared back from every one, beneath loud headlines: “WANTED. LUCIUS. CHEF AND DUELIST. DANGEROUS. BOUNTY. DEAD OR ALIVE.” Lucius stopped and tore one down. From the fog stepped figures in Marine Guard blue.

“Lucius! Surrender! By order of His Majesty. We won’t rest until we wipe that smirk off your face. It ends here!”

Lucius pushed off the ground not toward cover, but up, landing on the sloped roof of a tavern, leaping from ledge to ledge. Then from the fog emerged John, a commander gripping a hammer. The hammer traced a short arc and slammed into Lucius’s chest. He felt ribs crack as he flew back, crashing into a stone statue of a weeping angel. The world blurred while John loomed over him, raising the hammer for the final strike.

“You should’ve joined us back then. Farewell, legend.” — John growled.

At the last instant, clarity returned. Lucius lunged aside as the hammer shattered the angel’s head to dust. Gasping from the sharp pain in his chest, he deflected the next swing and tumbled down the embankment, landing on a small battered schooner at the dock’s edge. With one motion he severed the rope and pushed off with a pole.

The current and evening breeze carried the vessel into open sea, toward fog and freedom. Only when the port lights vanished in the haze did the pain crash over him again. He descended into the cramped cabin to bandage his ribs and find a sip of water, but in the darkness he noticed someone sleeping in a hammock. Realization struck - he wasn’t alone.

His black suit was dust-covered, a dark stain spreading across his shirt near the ribs; he held his chef’s knife tight, still ready for a fight, eyeing the sleeper warily.

“Wake up. I may have borrowed your vessel, but I can be your chef - if you help me hide.”