Madame Sasha's Arc

Chapter 3 of 3

Sasha stood at the harbor's edge and watched ships unload cargo from places she'd never seen. Crates stamped with foreign marks stacked along the pier. Barrels rolled past her boots, smelling of spices and tar. She needed to know where those ships came from—what routes they sailed, what waters they crossed, what dangers made captains turn back. The Scarlette Fyre would need destinations worth chasing, places that existed beyond tavern rumors. She pulled the sealed chart from her coat and studied the strange coastlines again. Real sailors had been there and returned to draw these lines. That meant the edge of the world wasn't just myth—it was a place she could reach if she learned the way. She tucked the chart away and headed for the tavern three streets inland. Rusty rode her shoulder, his tail brushing against her neck as she walked. Inside, smoke hung thick over a rough wooden table surrounded by weathered men who smelled like salt and old rope. She pulled up a stool and waited, listening to them swap stories about returning voyages. One captain mentioned waters that glowed at night—far south, past the trading routes. Another described rocks that rose from nowhere and crushed ships against cliffs no chart showed. Sasha leaned forward and asked about the symbols on her sealed map. The captain nearest her went quiet, then traced a finger along the table's grain as if drawing a route. He'd seen those waters himself, he said, but turned back when his crew refused to go further. She nodded slowly, committing his words to memory. The Scarlette Fyre would sail where others stopped, and now she knew exactly which direction to point her bow when the time came. An old pirate at the far end of the table started talking louder, gesturing with hands that looked like tree bark. His grey beard hung in tangles past his chest, and his coat showed stains from a dozen voyages. He'd sailed the unmarked routes twice, he claimed, and returned both times with cargo no one else could find. The other sailors went quiet and listened. Sasha watched his face, studying the lines that decades of salt wind had carved there. That was what legend looked like—not the stories themselves, but the proof written in scars and survived years. He caught her staring and grinned with half his teeth missing. She grinned back and raised her mug toward him. The Scarlette Fyre would take her past where others turned around, and someday sailors would point at her the same way—proof that the impossible waters could be crossed and survived. Outside, she spotted a wooden signpost near the dock entrance, its arrow pointing toward the trading post. She followed it back to Paulie's warehouse, where she'd bought the sealed chart days before. This time she asked about crew—where sailors gathered when they wanted work that paid better than honest routes. Paulie scratched his jaw and pointed her toward three other taverns, each one marked by its own signpost along the waterfront. She'd need sailors who wouldn't turn back when the waters got strange, people hungry enough to chase legend instead of coin. Rusty chittered and climbed down her arm, sniffing at a crate near the door. She scooped him back onto her shoulder and headed out. The Scarlette Fyre had a route now, and stories from men who'd survived the journey. All she needed next were hands willing to sail her there.