Yvette watched the hybrid creature—scales glistening like some ghastly marriage of lizard and fish—twitch its final moments beneath the harpoon pinning it to the deck. Blood spread in macabre brushstrokes across the planks as its death-throes stilled.

Finally. She exhaled, shoulders slumping. Enhanced physique or not, that armored hide had nearly outlasted her. Ambushes proved futile against such foes—their unnatural fortitude demanded drawn-out battles of attrition.

Still, physical threats paled against curses. Miss Shah's plight haunted her—struck by a Sleeping Beauty hex without warning. No strength could defy such reality-bending afflictions. Compliance wasn't a choice when curses operated on cosmic laws. Give her tangible enemies any day.

Her last Flame Cloak potion's dregs lingered phantom-like in her veins. Months would pass before she'd again taste that liquid wildfire—the ecstatic rush of limitless energy unleashed.

Ulysses' promised New World excursion couldn't come soon enough. A vacation hunting salamander blood, he called it. She'd settle for restocking rare alchemical components away from London's stuffy ballrooms.

Peeling the blood-crusted lace from her neck required agonizing focus. Overexertion had left capillaries burst—rust-colored streaks framed her nostrils, her trembling hands barely functional. Even blinking scraped like sandpaper.

The harpoon's black powder blast laid bare her limits. Previous experiments used controlled flames—hearth-warmth, potion-induced coronas—steady energies she siphoned like a pampered lordling sampling wines. But today's detonation? Raw chaos. Its ferocity outclassed even roaring hearths, though total heat fell short—else that first test subject would've roasted alive rather than complaining about "overheating" before diving overboard.

Hubris, she chastised herself. Today's backlash—muscles frayed, vision blurred—warned against future recklessness.

After three attempts, the locket's chain slipped free. Blood clogged its filigree, masking the golden sheen.

Let this work. The materials—Albion's crown jewels, that sliver of Voidkin essence—were priceless. Losing them to a single desperate ploy would sting.

The miniature portrait inside resembled a mutilation exhibit. One eye gone, the other radiating pure malice. Bullet wounds wept crimson threads that defy logic—dripping from the painted paper onto her palm. Grotesque, yet it stole death from her today.

Gratitude softened even the Voidkin's snarl. "Hate me if you must," she murmured, inspecting the healing gashes. Three days' estimate. Satisfied, she buffed the locket shut.

Now the uglier task...

Seamanship eluded her. The slain fishman had likely navigated these waters effortlessly—his gill slits hinted at submarine talents. Choosing this sewage dump as battleground had been wise; seawater might've empowered him further.

She peered overboard. Dark sludge oozed below. Even leviathans would drown here—best let "sewage-breathing" remain hypothetical eldritch nonsense.

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

Hiding the corpse sufficed. Her messenger raven would've reached allies by now. Rescue couldn't lag.

The harpoon ripped free with a sickening slurp. Icy blood drenched her sleeve—so cold it burned. Her head swam, vision fracturing...

She snapped alert, scanning horizons. A prickling sixth sense—someone saw her, not casually but with focused malice. Ridiculous logic argued—the distant harbor's ships resembled crumbs. No human eyes pierced that haze.

Shrugging off dread, she hauled the corpse below.

Harborside, an unremarkable man lowered a brass telescope. His sketchpad bore a haunting youth's likeness—raven-haired, eyes twin abysses.

"Quality optics, sir," a passing sailor remarked.

"Passable. Our German cousins craft finer." He tapped charcoal over azure irises. "But this vantage? Irreplaceable."

The sailor squinted at the seascape canvas. "Odd subject for dockside sketching."

"Oh, I never draw what's physically present." Delicate highlights transformed painted eyes—suddenly alive with stolen skies and seas. "Modern tools reveal hidden perspectives."

"Family portrait?"

"An introduction," the artist smiled. "Soon, we'll meet properly."

Packing up, he savored his gamble's payoff. Using the Drowning King cultist as bait had paid twofold—the Secret Police's hasty reaction confirmed their alertness, while his true surveillance went unnoticed.

Through telescopic lenses, he'd studied Yvette like a biologist observing rare fauna. His curse required eye contact—normally dangerous, as targets sensed the violation. But lenses bypassed the primal awareness. Miles apart, he'd branded her psyche with a tracer even hounds couldn't scent.

Delicious irony—their vaunted "detectives" becoming his marked prey.

Soon, little hawk, he mused, watching Yvette's ship shrink on the horizon. We'll see how you fare when the hunter becomes hunted.

Before noon, a Royal Navy vessel arrived under signal flags—only for the boarding party to discover the entire crew unconscious. Whispers of "curse" slithered through the ranks. Yvette grimaced: sailors’ superstitions and a ship steeped in strangeness made deception futile.

She’d stashed the fish-man’s body in a cotton crate, but the soldiers’ thoroughness guaranteed exposure. Worse, her own presence defied explanation under the captain’s piercing gaze.

The officer interrogating her wore his authority like armor: immaculate navy uniform, eyes sharp as cutlasses. He’d marched straight to her, dissecting her evasion attempts with surgical precision.

"...You’re here on someone’s alert, Captain," Yvette deflected. "Surely they explained my role?"

She’d signaled her organization, but this felt wrong—no ally would send such an inflexible investigator.

When name-dropping society connections failed, the captain coldly reiterated: "Answer plainly."

Yvette weighed using the Nightmare Ring again—risking ghost-ship legends—against exposing the monster. Passing it off as a giant lizard? Impossible: human clothes undid that lie. Why hadn’t she stripped the damned thing?

A soldier’s report interrupted: blood found on deck, awaiting orders to search below.

Yvette tensed. Despite her cleanup, harpoon-splintered planks bled residual stains. As she reached for the ring, the captain grabbed her wrist.

"Stand down," he ordered his men. "My informant secured evidence. I’ll proceed alone."

Dragged below, Yvette gaped as the captain’s face shifted—revealing Ulysses’ trademark smirk. "Settled the matter, I see?"

"You—!" she sputtered. "Why this charade? A simple command—"

"Spare me the palace red tape," Ulysses drawled. "By the time Her Majesty’s hierarchy rubber-stamped orders, you’d be barnacle food."

Yvette rubbed her temples as he pantomimed an absurd chain of command.

"Disapproving, are we?" he teased, voice sugar-coated steel.

"Immensely grateful," she deadpanned.

He snorted, then inspected her injuries. "Overexertion. Capillary bursts. Weakness." Applying salve, he demanded details.

"One attacker: scaled, coherent, water-aligned."

"Scales..." Ulysses peeled back the corpse’s armor, exposing a kraken tattoo. "Dagon’s brood."

He dispatched Yvette ashore: "Devise a cover story. Unauthoized naval deployment smells like mutiny to Crown noses."

Alone, Ulysses hunted the dead man’s bunk. Dagon’s cult was organized, but another player lurked—this curse reeked of deeper schemes.