As Claude sipped his beer, he realized that the air felt… different. It wasn’t a difference brought about by a Stanza ripple, nor was it the elements.

  Such an occurrence would’ve been a cause for concern, had it not been Havana.

  While Reverends—and even Venerables—were virtually non-existent everywhere else, the capital of Iberia had dozens of them, making him sure it served as a hub of sorts.

  “No wonder,” he said as he took another sip. “Who would choose living on a remote island and risk their ripples attracting a Saint?”

  No one replied.

  Galway, New York, and, naturally, London were the only cities that could even come close. But those had their own challenges.

  And so that only left Havana.

  He nearly applauded his cleverness before acknowledging that Saint LeFay herself was the one who sent him there. And as far as intellect went, she was second to none.

  “Either way, the thieves wouldn’t be foolish enough to take the thing to London,” he said as he took a big gulp.

  Claude then got up, went to the counter, and filled another mug.

  “What are you even good for?” he said to the bartender.

  No response.

  “Ugh. It just isn’t the same without tobacco,” he protested as he got up again, took a cigarette case from someone’s pocket, and put one to his mouth.

  “Oh no! I forgot my matches. What will I do?” Claude exclaimed mockingly as he lit the cigarette using Ignition.

  The problem at hand, however, remained. Rumors might’ve pinpointed its approximate location, but they had to be proactive. Petty thieves and mercenaries were one thing; a Pirate King under the English Crown was another matter entirely.

  “Of course they chose Blackbeard of all people,” he sneered after exhaling smoke.

  As far as the Pirate Kings went, Edward Teach was the most notorious.

  “Then again. A Saint of Deprivation was no small fish,” Claude said as he reclined and exhaled once more.

  “I agree,” a random feminine voice said, causing a lump to form in the Venerable’s throat.

  Fear didn’t linger, however, as he immediately began surveying his surroundings. Anyone capable of bypassing a Concealment Stanza was bound to be at least a Reverend.

  And at most a Saint.

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  Suddenly, the bar’s liveliness gave way to unnatural silence, a harrowing scene made even more terrifying by the patrons freezing in place.

  Ale stayed suspended in the air. Smoke refused to dissipate.

  And he was stuck.

  Claude tried to move, but not a limb obeyed.

  He screamed. No one reacted.

  He threatened. That finally got him a response.

  “Quite the delusional bunch you are, heretical dogs,” the woman from earlier said as she showed herself. Her green eyes and fair skin could’ve rendered her from anywhere, but the orange hair gave away her Irish heritage immediately.

  “Who do you work for?” Claude barked, his voice working this time.

  “My dear Dominion Venerable,” the young woman said as she took a seat across from him, a long black dress veiling her completely. “Do you think you’re in a position to order others?”

  Who wears such a dress in this weather?

  Claude attempted to use Divination to read her mind, but it had no effect.

  At least a Venerable.

  “Technically speaking, yes.”

  Her response created a larger lump in his throat as his heart hammered in his chest.

  “Did you just—”

  “Divine your thoughts?” the woman interrupted. “Yes. I’m quite the expert.”

  “Who are you?” Claude asked, his tone far more reverent. He was outmatched in every single regard.

  He didn’t know of a Stanza capable of stopping time, but he figured it must’ve been a Saintly one.

  “There you go being heretical again. They’re only ‘Saints’ in your Shanty nonsense,” the woman said in annoyance. “But we both know they’re merely humans who listened to the abyss for far too long.”

  A predatory grin stretched across her lips. “Wouldn’t you agree, Master Venerable?”

  Claude tried to speak, but he was stopped once more.

  “The question was rhetorical, imbecile,” she groaned.

  Who are you?

  “You finally get it!” she chuckled. “Sorry to disappoint, but you wouldn’t know me.”

  Why are you doing this?

  The deranged woman turned solemn. “Why fight a heretical church that claims holiness at the expense of everything I hold sacred? I wonder.”

  Aren’t you a heretic too?

  The thought should’ve angered her—or at least annoyed her—yet she remained calm.

  “Because I believe in salvation, especially since this blight was enforced upon me.”

  Such a thought process was impossible to come by, at least among people of their stature. Most abandoned archaic ways of thinking in favor of observable ones long ago. Yet here she was, speaking of mythology like a scholar of yore.

  “Rather ironic, don’t you think?” the woman said as she leaned closer. “Are you even listening to your own diction?”

  Begging would’ve probably been ideal at this stage, but that was dishonorable. Death was a hundred times preferable to disappointing Saint LeFay.

  “I can’t believe you’d commit idolatry while believing in a malevolent pantheon,” she said with a hearty laugh. “And here I thought nothing could surprise me anymore after all these centuries.”

  Centuries?

  Suddenly, it clicked. Concealment. Divination. And now, Immortality. She was of the Dominion Shanty. That also explained how she could stop time.

  That must be it. That must be the forbidden Stanza.

  “Rather bright, I see,” the woman said. “But I’m afraid certain realizations come at a price.”

  Her face turned serious, and Claude realized that for the first time that evening, he was being taken seriously.

  The woman then pulled a flintlock from beneath the table and aimed it at his temple.

  “Shanties are quite fascinating, don’t you think?” she said as she cocked the hammer. “One would think they’d at least grant some form of protection.”

  Claude should’ve felt afraid. Perhaps regretful. Yet there was… nothing to be felt.

  “Yet here you are,” the stranger added. “Vulnerable. As harmless as a deer—assuming you even know what that is.”

  Initially, the eerie calm served as a comfort. Then a cold, hard truth set in.

  She even took my emotions.

  “You are indeed deserving of the Venerable rank,” she said with a raised brow. “Very well. You’ve earned an answer to your question.”

  The woman pressed the cold barrel against his skin.

  “The name of Dominion’s fifth Stanza is Imagination.”

  The hammer was released.