Sea Reaper: The Legend of the Black-Eyed “Boy”

Soft music drifted into the night, mingling with the faint scent of roses and lilies. In the gallery, an old man and a girl stood side by side admiring the paintings, neither of them noticing anything out of the ordinary.

Just moments ago, Leonardo da Vinci had been holding the delicate hand of the young lady with the air of courtly elegance. The next, an iron grip clamped down on his fingers, making the joints crack like dry twigs. The old man went pale, his tone shifting instantly.

"Wait! Wait! These old bones can't take abuse—I still need that hand to paint!"

Nick's gaze remained fixed on the plump woman in the painting, expression unreadable. She tightened her grip. "You're left-handed. Don't lie to me, old man."

"A genius like me comes once in a thousand years—losing me would be a loss to all mankind!"

"What's that got to do with me?"

"I—at least show some respect for an old man, won't you? Whatever happened to virtue?"

"You didn't seem too concerned about virtue when you were picking out girls at the brothel."

The pretense dissolved. Nick dragged him into the shadows of the garden. Once out of sight, she released him. Leonardo barely had time to catch his breath before her silk-gloved fingers brushed his throat.

Sweat poured down the old man's face. "I didn't tell anyone! Swear on my art. Just wanted to scare you, you little beast. Look at me—I'm ancient. What could I possibly do? And you're the one who snatched my transit pass when you left!"

Nick turned her head toward him. Moonlight illuminated his wrinkled face, more weathered than she remembered. And yet, with those gnarled hands, he had forged for her a scythe unlike any other in the world.

"You're practically in the grave—why are you still so annoying?" She let go, the danger dissipating.

"What's wrong with liking handsome boys? I never married. Genius comes with eccentricity." He leaned against a column, panting. He recalled that his apprentice had said something similar that very day. Ah, these young people…

Nick shrugged. "You can shout my name in the streets, I don't care. But don't mess things up for the captain. He's got plans. Until he's gone, you'd best keep your mouth shut." She paused, eyes dark as obsidian, gleaming with unspoken menace.

"Fine, fine. Dead men keep secrets best, right?" Leonardo dusted off his robes, oddly pleased. As a painter, he understood better than anyone how beauty fades with time. But those eyes—those feral, cold, defiant eyes—had not changed.

He remembered the first time he saw her: a filthy, ragged creature in a pauper's cloak, hair matted with grime. Yet her eyes shone like a wild animal's, burning with a desperate will to live. He hadn't even known her gender when he brought her home.

"You've changed so much—I didn't recognize you at first. What's with everyone joining pirate crews lately?"

"Pays well," Nick muttered, then instantly regretted it. "And don't get any ideas—I've got no money on me!"

A diamond the size of a walnut hung from her neck. Leonardo could only laugh.

"Please. I'm not that shameless. Two years ago in Florence, a very handsome young man saw your portrait and went mad trying to find you. I never took a coin from him. Didn't tell him what you do either—just said you were a model working your way home."

Nick frowned. "Blond, blue-eyed? Name's Karl?"

"That's him! Gorgeous fellow. Looked like an angel!"

Nick rolled her eyes. "You should've told him I was dead. Now he won't leave me alone."

Leonardo chuckled. "So he found you? I didn't have the heart to crush his dream. Poor boy was chasing a fantasy. But that red-haired heartthrob of a captain of yours—he doesn't seem the jealous type."

"Of course not. He's my boss. Why would he care?" Nick leapt onto the corridor ledge, smoothing her skirt and tucking loose strands behind her ear, becoming once again the picture of a refined young lady. "I'd better go. He'll get mad if I'm late."

"Help me up, will you? Getting old's no joke—I can't even handle a step." Leonardo's eyes gleamed. "Say, what if I'd already told the French everything?"

Nick's face went blank. "Then I'd push you into the garden pond and say you slipped."

Leonardo gasped. "You heartless little wretch! I fed you so many white rolls—wasted on a dog!"

"That was earned. I stood naked for three days in the dead of winter. You still owe me for medical expenses."

Bickering quietly, the odd pair returned to the grand ballroom, instantly regaining their elegant composure. Hayreddin and the French king were gone. With the host absent, gentlemen swarmed toward the unattended Mademoiselle Nicole, eager for a dance. A ship without a helmsman, Nick was lost without orders. Refusing would offend, so she gritted her teeth and danced with them all.

Her shoes pinched, the corset strangled her ribs, and her dance partners wouldn't stop with their inane chatter. Nick felt as if she were dancing on knives. It was like that old fairytale—every step agony, a mermaid on land.

Meanwhile, King François I locked the signed secret treaty into a golden box and secured it with satisfaction. This so-called Islamic hero from North Africa had shown surprising indifference to religion and, after a few adjustments, readily agreed to an alliance.

"The Papal States side with Spain and Portugal," the king sighed. "France has gained nothing in the New World."

Hayreddin smiled calmly. "His Holiness Leo X likely believes he's infallible. But Your Majesty might consider a different approach."

The king's eyes lit up. "You mean privateers? But diplomatically…"

"Why admit to it? Charles is already everyone's target." Hayreddin chuckled. "And France won't be alone. Spain plunders the New World—we simply redirect the gold. No need for guilt."

François nodded. Unable to win on land, draining Spain's resources at sea with deniable forces was a shrewd move.

"One more thing—Emperor Maximilian is on his deathbed. His grandson Charles stands to inherit the Holy Roman Empire. If that happens, there'll be no stopping Spain."

It was true. Charles V was the apex of dynastic strategy—through inheritance, he was tied to every major royal family in Europe. As older relatives died, all crowns gravitated to him.

"In North Africa, we say: 'The cattle won through marriage are poorly tethered.' Bloodlines are fickle. And don't forget the East—Suleiman won't stay idle." Hayreddin's tone was light, but François stiffened. The Ottomans were a far greater threat than squabbling Christians.

A knock interrupted them—four rhythmic taps, repeated four times. The king, annoyed at first, changed his mind when he recognized the code.

"My apologies. Nicole must be worried." Hayreddin rose smoothly, reading the room.

François smiled, gracious again. "No offense taken. Let us talk again soon." He opened the door.

Outside stood a richly dressed noble, middle-aged, with a soldier's bearing. The two men nodded, brushed past each other, and were gone.

The room stood adjacent to the ballroom. Hayreddin returned just in time to see six or seven young nobles crowding around Nick, each offering food like suitors to a queen.

"Miss Nicole, this chocolate shell was brought from the New World! They say it tastes like love."

"Ladies shouldn't dabble in aphrodisiacs. Try this escargot instead—pure French elegance!"

"She hates bugs. Try veal tenderloin—marinated all night. I brought the best cut!"

Nick sat quietly, hands folded in her lap, skirt creased, eyes lowered, saying nothing.

Hayreddin watched a moment before stepping in with a smile. "Thank you for entertaining Nicole. But alas, she doesn't eat meat."

The crowd dispersed awkwardly. Hayreddin offered his arm. "Poor thing. Missed me?"

Nick looked up, her gaze murderous.

"You did miss me," he said with a grin. "Come, time to go home."

They left the grandeur of Fontainebleau behind.

Inside the carriage, Nick slammed the door, kicked off her heels, tore her corset's laces with a knife, and gasped for breath.

"You monster!" she cried. "My feet are blistered. I didn't even get to eat!"

"Mm." Hayreddin said nothing more.

She lit the oil lamp to see him slumped, collar loose, massaging the bridge of his nose, eyes shut in exhaustion. Nick froze—she knew how indomitable he was. He'd man the helm through hurricanes, go days without sleep. But one night in court had drained him completely.

"You okay?" she asked. "With all those beautiful women, I thought you'd enjoy yourself."

"If they were real women…" he groaned. "I forgot about the perfumes. I think my sense of smell is gone."

Nick remembered the overwhelming fragrances and grimaced. "They smelled weird."

"Of course. That's why they use perfume—they don't bathe. They think diseases enter through the pores. And they're proud of it."

He opened the carriage window. Cool night air swept in.

"The higher the rank, the filthier the soul. That's why Europe craves spices," he muttered.

Nick breathed deeply. "You know, I used to think all religions were the same. But at least Muslims brush their teeth."

Then she asked, "Captain, if you had to sleep with one of them to seal the deal… would you?"

Hayreddin flinched. "Forget the alliance—he could hand me his crown and I'd still say no."

Nick grinned inwardly. That crown was priceless. So was her boss, apparently.

Back at Fontainebleau…

Baron Castet, once a minor noble with no inheritance, had earned the king's favor through loyalty and foreign service. He had returned just in time for the banquet, where he now debriefed the king.

"She's not just a girl in a white dress. I saw her years ago in Spain—at a witch trial."

François turned grave. "Why didn't you say so earlier?"

"She might be a spy. Or worse."

Castet described the trial: the child accused of witchcraft, tortured, and marked with a six-pointed star. Her uncle, a Jewish merchant, had been flayed alive in front of her. The church confiscated their property, tried to force a confession.

François asked the critical question: "Would she ever serve Spain?"

Castet thought long, then shook his head. "No. I don't think so."

"Are you sure?"

"She was forced to eat her uncle's flesh. If she survived… she's probably not the same person anymore."

Outside, the cold moon reigned. The world lay in deep slumber.

In a lonely carriage beyond Paris, Hayreddin sat silently, strategizing.

Nick, utterly exhausted, nodded off at his side.

He looked at the tiny girl curled up like a kitten, clutching his coat in her sleep.

He had brought her not because she was pretty, but because she was the only one who instinctively hid a knife in her skirt.

He'd used her like a blade—expendable, replaceable.

But tonight, for the first time, he questioned not just his methods… but his morals.

He had used a child as a shield.

A child.

Night wind whispered through the trees.

In one window, a golden-haired man waited.

In a carriage, a red-haired man finally questioned his past.