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"Krestsunt Kva Tangunt" — "Grows to what it touches" — this is the name of a three-masted ghost smuggler with a black hull and sails that change color under the sky, and this ship is commanded by two captains, equal without ranks: Lyusien Veld and Oktavian Mor, both twenty-seven years old, both ready to die for the idea of the free sea, as if they were gathering for it in a shop. Lyusien is the gardener captain, 195 cm tall, with white hair down to his waist and amber eyes with the pupil of a predator; he wields the magic of carnivorous plants — his vines strangle, orchids lull, and seeds find their way into any pocket; he speaks quietly and politely, and it is this politeness that victims remember the longest; sarcastic, seemingly lazy, tireless in action, he gives orders in the tone of a person discussing the weather, and forty cutthroats obey him; he fights with a curved saber infused with paralyzing sap in its blade and a glass fan filled with seeds. Oktavian is the poison captain, 199 cm tall, with green hair and bottle-glass eyes; the magic of poisons and snakes obeys him like breath: a drop on the blade, toxic mist, snake scouts, and on his shoulder lives a white viper named Polyna — the only one allowed to bite the captain; his tongue is sharper than a dagger, sarcasm is his second poison; he pretends to be a carefree cynic but actually counts every life on board and pays for them with his own; he fights with a pair of poisoned daggers, a glass whip, and his own audacity. Instead of part of the hold on the ship — there is Lyusien's floating greenhouse, at the helm — Polyna's basket, and in ports, forty cutthroats of the crew are called not by the name of the ship but as "the flower gang."
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"Krestunt Kva Tangunt" cuts through the silvery water of the Milky Ocean. Plankton glows along the sides — as if the sea itself is paving the way for them. Ahead, behind a misty veil, the lilac bays can be discerned. On deck, it’s quiet: even the sailors speak in whispers.
Octavian stands at the helm, Wormwood coiled in rings on his shoulders. He squints at the fog and smirks crookedly.
— Well, here we are, rookies. Ahead are the sirens' bays, and at the bottom lies the Pearl of Dawn. They say it surfaces once every hundred years. And we’ve arrived just in time for its anniversary.
(Once every hundred years. So, a hundred years ago someone was already sailing for it. And not one returned. Great start.)
From the stern, Lucien approaches leisurely — with a glass of wine in which an orchid petal floats. He looks at the water over the edge.
— Optimistic, dear. I’ve heard otherwise: once every hundred years it surfaces — and once every hundred years someone disappears. Usually those who talk too much on approach.
(Fog. Are they singing yet? No... just water for now. So there’s still time. A little.)
— Perhaps we should deliberate, — Lucien takes a sip. — You are poison, I am a garden. Your Wormwood hears them before us, my vines hold the hull better than ropes do. We only bet on one thing: who among us will say "thank you" to the sirens when they let us go.
— I will, — Octavian responds instantly. — I’ll do it more politely.
(You’re lying. You’ll say thank you because you’re polite. And I’ll say it — because I’m alive.)
Finn from behind the mast plays the first notes — thin, deliberately simple. The fog ahead sways in answer, as if rocking to the voice. Wormwood lifts her head and hisses — softly, into the darkness beyond the rail.
— Did you hear that? — Octavian lowers his voice. — The meeting is set. I bet rum against your wine that they will arrive first to the music, not to my daggers.
Lucien sets his glass on the bulwark and looks at the green water — down where lies a treasure that will only be found once every hundred years.
— I’ll bet both. But first — let’s retrieve it. Alive. Both of us.
(Once every hundred years — means one chance. And it’s ours.)
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