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

"One-two-three-four, turn—two-two-three-four, turn. Watch your posture. Keep your waist graceful and light. Don't look down at your feet. Look at my face—your gaze should be soft. Do you understand what I mean by soft? Like melting almond cream, with the sheen of silk—smooth, delicate..."

Victor tried his best to explain the fundamentals of court dancing, only to receive a murderous glare from the small figure in his arms.

Nick's eyes gleamed green with hunger as she growled, "If you use food as a metaphor one more time, I'll stomp your toes into jelly."

Victor cautiously pulled his foot back. "Doesn't matter if you break them. The captain said if you don't learn this routine by noon, you don't get lunch."

Nick shoved the ship's doctor aside and dove toward his workbench, rummaging through every drawer from the surgical kit to the skull model—no sign of hidden snacks.

"Don't bother. All confiscated. Not even a crumb left," Victor said sympathetically. "There's no winning against the captain. You might as well surrender."

Nick crouched down in despair, clutching her growling stomach, her skirt trailing lifelessly on the floor.

"All right, alliance is one thing, but why must I go to France too?" she grumbled bitterly. Then turned to glare at Victor. "You speak French, you dance. Why not send you instead?"

Victor adjusted his shirt with a theatrical sigh. "Obviously, I'm an indisputable, rare specimen of both brains and beauty. But the invitation from King François I was addressed to 'Barbarossa Hayreddin and his companion.' Casual flings aside, it would be rather scandalous to bring a man to a formal royal banquet."

"Ugh…" Nick groaned, utterly defeated.

France and Spain—two great Catholic powers—had long clashed over their shared border and competing ambitions. The young Spanish king Charles V, heir to the vast Habsburg dynasty, had inherited not only Castile, Aragon, and Navarre but also Sicily, Sardinia, and all of New Spain. With rivers of gold and silver flowing in from the New World, he cast a long shadow over the Mediterranean.

France had been evenly matched in its Italian ambitions for the last twenty years, but ever since Charles's coronation, the winds had shifted in Spain's favor. Now the enemy of France's enemy—North African corsairs—had become potential allies. France, desperate, was finally lowering itself to extend a hand.

"The captain's been maneuvering for this for a while," Nick muttered. "French ships wouldn't let us near their coast before."

"Indeed. He's a rare man of vision," Victor said coolly. Though born low, Hayreddin's political instincts were sharper than most blue-blooded statesmen. He had carefully orchestrated signals of friendship until the French king took the bait.

Victor cast a thoughtful glance at Nick. Compared to noble ladies, she was crude, brash, and wild—but perhaps it was that very wildness that led the captain to choose her.

"Why are you staring at me? Is the dress that ridiculous?" she asked, suspicious.

"No, I was just thinking… You and I, we're somewhat alike."

"Not at all. My eyes are black. Yours look like cloudy glass marbles."

"I didn't mean physically." Victor pulled her up and stood beside her before the large training mirror. "See—your skin is unnaturally pale and doesn't tan easily. You're thin, with long bones and fine features. There's something… fragile."

He rolled up his sleeve to reveal an almost translucent wrist, pale veins pulsing beneath the skin. Nick looked down at her own arm. Indeed, they shared that same eerie complexion.

"So?" she asked.

"These traits—I saw many like them in Florence. Most came from inbreeding. My parents were first cousins, and my grandparents were uncle and niece. Our family tree is more of a circle."

"Is that so strange?" Nick shrugged. "I heard Egyptian pharaohs married their sisters. Racehorses and hunting dogs too—they keep the bloodline pure that way."

"Do you know how many defective colts are born for every one perfect specimen? Sure, inbreeding can enhance talent, but it also breeds madness and deformity. Take Charles V—his mother was mad, his father died young, and he inherited that massive jaw. As for my family, one of my uncles had twin sons—one a giant, the other a dwarf."

"Oh wow. That pair must've turned heads."

Victor let out a dark chuckle. "They won't be turning anything anymore. Drowned in secret before their fifth birthday—can't have the neighbors gossiping. I dug up their little graves later. Bones were twisted like corkscrews." His pale eyes gleamed as he polished his glasses. "Our family crypt is a treasure trove of curiosities. That's where my interest began, you know—one lineage filled with lunatics, fools, poets, and artists. Fascinating."

"No wonder you survived." Nick stared into his misty gray eyes. "If you were born a peasant, the Inquisition would've strung you up."

"Ah, the perks of privilege." Victor smiled faintly. "Though in the end, they kicked me out of the family tree."

"A bunch of rotting corpses who still think they rule the world," Nick muttered.

"Exactly. But it's those corpses who decide the fate of everyone else. Come now—if you want to eat, you better learn to perform. French banquets are famous. You have a natural sense for movement, but your facial expressions… abysmal."

"I can smile," she mumbled.

"Smile? Real smiling is an art." Victor waggled a finger. "A noblewoman's smile should be warm, elegant, kind—but also faintly aloof. It should radiate lineage, exude subtle contempt for all beneath her. Try it."

Nick braced herself and attempted a smile.

Victor leaned in and scrutinized her face. "Congratulations. You've mastered the expression of a stroke victim."

Luxurious velvet, satin, and furs were piled high. Rows of embroidered lambskin dance shoes lay in neat lines. The European tailor held up bolts of shimmering fabric, measuring them against the girl perched on a stool.

"My lord, velvet is all the rage in Paris this year. With a touch of mink trim and jeweled buttons, it's utterly bewitching."

"No mink. Married women wear fur." Victor waved the suggestion away. "The French are bumpkins. Always trying to imitate Italy, but never getting it right—just piling on gems and brocade like gaudy villagers. We'll take the velvet. Trim the waist, flare the hem into a fishtail. Pearls for buttons. No frills."

"Yes, sir! You must be Italian—you've got the eye," the tailor grinned, scribbling notes. In the 16th century, Italian taste still reigned supreme.

"And the evening gown?" the tailor asked. "Back in Paris, everyone wants low-cut, corseted styles—very… provocative."

"Um…" Nick spoke up timidly. "Victor, I… I can't wear a low neckline. The marks would show."

"Pfft. Don't worry." Victor waved dismissively, voice razor-sharp. "There's nothing to see anyway. Not even a bump to fake it with. I'd sooner show your bare ribs and sternum than that flat patch."

Nick looked down, slightly deflated. Maybe… maybe there had been a little change lately…

"Poor thing," Victor added. "Next to the captain's women, you're a molehill beside the Alps."

"…I get it," Nick whispered.

"How's the training?" Hayreddin entered, giving the girl on the stool a once-over. The dress, which once looked stolen, now almost suited her.

"Still one dance to go," Victor reported.

"Better hurry. We've got a month, but twenty days of that's travel." Hayreddin gestured. "Come practice with me."

Nick hopped down and gave him her hand. Before they could begin, she frowned.

"Captain… could you bend down a bit?"

Even on tiptoe, their height difference was absurd. Victor snorted behind his hand.

"Design a dance shoe with two-inch lifts," Hayreddin told the tailor.

"Sir, that's… stilts!" the tailor exclaimed.

"Make it elegant, flexible, and well-hidden under the skirt. How many assistants did you bring?"

"Six, all masters of the craft."

"Double pay. Clothes in five days. Shoes and accessories ASAP."

As always, the captain spared no expense. Nick looked at the decadent fabrics and sighed. All this, for a few fleeting appearances?

For two weeks, Nick, the infamous attack leader, vanished into a life of silk, smiles, and strict training. When the day of departure came, she was back in shirts and scarves, save for two heavy, locked trunks.

In early May, the Red Lion fleet set sail for France, arriving at Marseille. There, the pirates witnessed an extraordinary sight—every French warship in port lowered the royal flag and raised the black-and-white hourglass of the corsairs.

Barbarossa Hayreddin, the most feared pirate in the Western Mediterranean, was received like royalty. With a five-hundred-man escort, he and his companions—Nick, Victor, and the vice-commander—crossed France in royal carriages.

Mountains bloomed with irises. Sunshine bathed the May fields. Nick leaned against the window, chin in hand, as if remembering another life.

At every stop, the nobility pulled out all the stops to host them—and to send word to Paris. In no time, they reached the capital, a thousand-year-old city of bells and stone on the Seine.

The King's favorite, the Count of Navarre, welcomed them and housed them in a new chateau. Shortly after, an official invitation arrived—an opulent banquet at the Château de Fontainebleau.

"Well then," Hayreddin said cheerfully, reading the florid script, "it's showtime. Nick—no, Mademoiselle Nicole, change your clothes immediately. We're short on time."

Nick hadn't been called that name in ages. She felt awkward. Anxious. Could she pull this off?

She tiptoed into the sitting room, where Victor was sipping tea. "You're really not coming?"

Victor shook his head. "The French royal family often intermarry with the Medicis. I don't want to be recognized by some long-lost cousin. Besides, I'd rather browse books and medicine. Court banquets waste my brilliance."

"What about you?" she asked Karl. "We're supposed to bring guards."

To her surprise, the loyal hound also declined. Karl's face was unreadable, torn between pride and concern.

"I'll stay. Just be careful."

Victor giggled. "Sir Knight's afraid of being recognized too."

Karl didn't deny it.

Nick returned to her room, opened the trunk, and began dressing. After half an hour of waiting, Hayreddin knocked.

"Still not ready? Another delay and you'll be stuck with cold leftovers."

No response—only rustling and clumsy thuds. Frowning, he pushed the door open.

There was Nick, half-dressed and fighting with the back of her gown.

"It won't fit," she gasped. "It worked last month!"

Hayreddin raised a brow, picked her up, weighed her.

"Didn't gain any weight…"

He spun her around, then smirked.

"Well, maybe just a little. In the front."

Nick looked down—and panicked. Of all times to start growing those…

"What do I do?" she pleaded.

"Got a corset?" he asked.

She fumbled it out. He grabbed it, turned her toward the bedpost.

"Hold on. Deep breath."

With practiced hands, he yanked the laces. Her world blurred. Stars danced before her eyes.

When it was finally done, she was rigid as a statue.

"Try the dress now."

Perfect fit.

"I think… my eyeballs are about to pop out…" she wheezed.

Hayreddin chuckled, patting her head. "Your voice sounds lovely. Now, gloves. The maid's waiting to do your hair."

Nick paused, lifted her skirt, and strapped a dagger to her thigh.

Eight white stallions pulled their carriage toward Fontainebleau. Back at the window, Karl watched them disappear into the dusk. He didn't move for a long time.

Victor finally opened the door.

"No lights? You planning to stand there all night?"

"No, I just…" Karl turned. "Weren't you off to the market?"

Victor beamed. "Ran into an old teacher instead. He's in town working on royal decorations. Turns out he's attending the banquet too."

"A brilliant physician, no doubt?"

Victor nodded, then paused. "More than that. He was a master of… everything. Including grave-robbing. Taught me himself."

"Such a man in Paris?" Karl said, startled.

Victor, for once, looked truly reverent. "Oh yes. Most know him as a painter. But I'm sure you've heard the name—Leonardo da Vinci."