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

The meeting was set at the Medici family's headquarters—Palazzo Medici. This grand structure, inspired by Roman architecture, stood on a fortress-like base made of sturdy rusticated stone. Above the entrance, the massive family crest gleamed: a golden shield adorned with six deep-red spheres, representing Medici dominance in six key industries—banking, wool, dyeing, medicine, silk trade, and crafts.

The carriage stopped discreetly at a side door. A middle-aged butler led the group along a quiet side path to the main residence. It felt fitting for a secret visit—but Victor understood this subtle protocol was more about the Medici patriarch reinforcing legitimacy to his "rival" scion than courtesy.

Menacing looking guards lounged in the garden—well-dressed yet brutish, their silent stares were thinly veiled threats. But the pirates of the Red Lion made anything here seem tame in comparison.

At the main door, six burly attendants bowed with aristocratic precision and disdainful eyes. Their leader addressed Hayreddin:

"Honored guest, please leave your weapons here for safekeeping."

Nick and Carl exchanged glances—each long robe concealed deadly intent.

Hayreddin grinned and calmly placed his Damascus sword on the offered tray. He glanced to Nick, who set down her sickle, and Carl, who unstrapped his swords. In this house of arms, it hardly mattered.

"Pardon, but a quick check is required," announced the attendant.

Before Carl could object, Hayreddin spread his arms wide in invitation. The search proceeded—Carl followed suit and Victor was scrutinized until the same-faced guard recoiled, uneasy. All attention shifted on Nick.

"Oh! This one won't do."

Before Carl could react, Hayreddin swept Nick into his embrace and declared:

"Only I may touch her. A host should show equal respect to his guest."

His commanding aura halted the guard. He ran a finger over Nick—a fair-haired youth much less threatening than his weapons, and lowered his gaze.

"Well then, generous hospitality is our rule. Please follow me inside."

So Nick, still clutching two hidden daggers, entered the Medici stronghold.

Inside, priceless artworks—Masaccio, Botticelli, Raphael, Michelangelo—lined halls as though mere decoration. A crimson-carpeted grand staircase led to a waiting youth with open arms.

"Welcome, esteemed guests! My dear brother—long time no see!"

As Piero Medici descended with affected elegance and embraced Victor, the ship's doctor tensed with distaste and stiffly backed away.

"Long time… cousin Piero."

"Still icy, my beautiful iceberg," teased Lorenzo II, ignoring their bitter family history. Piero had exiled him from Florence years ago.

Lorenzo was undeniably handsome—pale, nervy eyes, tall and slender. But Victor's outward frost came across as pride, while Lorenzo's lithe figure veiled venom, his gaze cold and menacing.

Hayreddin remained unshaken, smiling cordially. Carl frowned; Nick felt a shiver at that gaze—poised, lethal, serpent-like.

Hayreddin sensed her discomfort and held her close. When Lorenzo ushered the others into the reception room, Hayreddin whispered to Nick:

"Stay here, little one—palazzo tours are once-in-a-lifetime."

Nick nodded and took position at the door.

The kindly butler guided her through ornate galleries.

"This is Raphael's 'Madonna del Giardino…'"

Nick feigned interest, but only watched guards and drawn sightlines from the window. Her mind drifted.

"Sir… you seem pleased with the doctor?" the butler whispered in a quiet alcove.

"Oh—yes, him," Nick muttered.

"He was kind as a boy—reed-collecting birds, gentle soul. Different from typical Medici, aloof and shy."

"His… interests were unusual," Nick whispered back.

"Seeing him relaxed today makes me happy. Thank you for this visit."

Nick actually smiled. Then they turned a corner and the butler resumed formality.

"This—'White-Robed Amazon'—is by an unknown artist, but prized."

Nick looked at the heroic woman in the painting, spear in hand, standing before a ruined red fortress. She recalled the legend:

"Spanish palace—Granada, Moors' last stronghold."

"Yes—that's Queen Isabella in her campaign. Thirty years ago, she led ten thousand troops and swore not to remove her white gown until victory. Final reunification of Spain."

Nick, though unimpressed by Spain, recognized Isabella's fame: a pristine Christian ideal, even if her children suffered afterward.

A sudden galloping brought a rider into the courtyard. The butler frowned and raced away as the rider hurriedly spoke into his ear, pointing repeatedly toward the reception room.

Nick rushed to the doors and pushed inside without waiting.

Inside, the room froze. Any disturbance in a backroom deal could turn bloody. Hayreddin stepped forward, gaze on Lorenzo, while Carl moved to block the door.

"Trouble already?" Hayreddin asked softly.

"Bored now—someone's galloping in," Nick answered, feigning innocence.

Lorenzo calmed the others and sat, offering empty palms:

"Please, no worries—if negotiations fail, honor remains. No benefit to upsetting the Red Lion."

The butler entered.

"My lord, the visitor from the southeast has arrived."

Hayreddin smiled darkly: Florence's southeast lies in the Papal territories. A Medici relative from there? Only one man—the Pope himself, Leo X.

Lorenzo smiled graciously:

"My dear uncle planned dinner tonight, but you two had history. Best not to meet."

Hayreddin bowed:

"We understand."

Lorenzo hugged Victor again, whispering in his ear:

"Miss you, dear Piero…"

Victor's face froze, but he stilled his reaction.

"Farewell, Piero. I'll miss you too."

The guests exited through the side wing. Hayreddin lingered, admiring art.

Soon a gilded carriage arrived. Lorenzo knelt before the red-robed man—clearly the Pope—kissing his ring and whispering "papa," the weight of heaven-and-earth authority evident in the gesture.

The audience ended abruptly—not a resounding failure, yet far from victory. Hayreddin secured a tentative promise from the Medici—not a treaty, but a foothold.

"It's complicated—trading with bandits makes politics messy."

Victor murmured:

"We're no bankers. The Pope and Spain both suffered Red Lion losses. Lorenzo's uncle and he share the same snake."

Nick, observing the scene, whispered:

"That snake's eyes… it drank all joy from that room."

Back at the hotel, rain fell bitterly. Carl paced nervously. Nick hadn't returned. Soon, thunder rolled.

Carl dashed into the storm to retrieve her. Victor sipped tea:

"She won't pay for an umbrella—but won't she shelter somewhere?"

Hayreddin said nothing, scanning the sky and awaiting word from the Vatican.

Later, drenched and carrying a bundle, Nick emerged. Carl shaded her with his umbrella, despite soaking.

"Why so late? Why move so slow?" he fretted.

"I got the blanket—but it's expensive," she murmured.

Carl handed her the umbrella. They returned, both soaked, stumbling inside. Victor handed towels and asked to see her purchase.

She revealed a heavy Persian-patterned blanket—only half-sized, the factory's cut-too-short reject piece, sold cheaply to commoners.

Victor roared:

"You—miserly to the limit! The Captain gave you more than enough!"

Nick shrugged:

"It's thick, it's warm—and one-tenth the cost."

"You come all this way for junk goods? This is embarrassing!"

"It's just for me—no one else sees it. And there are berth blankets on the ship."

Carl finally exploded:

"Stop! If—I mean because she needs the best!"

Victor paused, humbled, muttered "sorry" and left.

Nick tilted her head:

"Why so serious?"

Carl glared, eyes red.

In the drenched room, with thunder rolling, Hayreddin watched from the window.

The storm has arrived.