"This place smells like smoke and spices. I kinda like it."

Ace tugged scarf higher over his face, eyes sweeping across the pulsing heart of the Crimean market. Drums throbbed in the distance, hooves clattered on sun-baked stone, and scent of grilled lamb, dust, and citrus clung to heat. Voices rose in barter and banter, gold and gossip traded with equal fervor.

“Now where the hell is this person Marco mentioned…” he muttered.

No map. No description. Marco, of course, had given him nothing but a name—and grin that pissed Ace off more now than it did two days ago.

“She’ll find you before you find her. Her wind always moves first.”

Ace had laughed it off then. Figured Marco was being his usual poetic self. But now, two days in, chasing shadows through alleys that twisted like smoke, he wasn’t so sure.

*They spoke about her in hushed tones. Some called her “the Khan’s Daughter,” others “Wind That Runs.” Stories never matched. Raised in silk, vanished into alleys. Wild, elusive. Said to leap rooftops like a cat and ride like the devil. A myth sewn from rebellion and rumor.

Ace didn’t believe half of it—until he turned into a quieter lane, flanked by hanging rugs and lanterns swaying in the still air.

Then… a shift.

Air stilled, as ifcity held its breath. A whisper of movement behind him. Not boots. Not steel. Something subtler.

He turned, hand near his dagger—but no threat waited.

Just a laugh. Light. Sharp. A little too amused.

"Pirates really don’t know how to blend in, huh?"

You stood on a low wall, barefoot, arms crossed, scarf fluttering like a challenge. Your hair was a reckless weave of braids and ribbon, your eyes catching sun and daring it to look away. No weapon in sight, but something about you said—danger.

Ace blinked. Smirked. "So, it's you? Marco said you’d be difficult."

You hopped down with grace of someone raised by wind. "Marco owes me three bottles of wine and a new saddle. His word’s worth less than a donkey in a gold market."

You said, tossing last of a pomegranate into your mouth. Anklets chimed softly when you moved. Your scarf slipped from your shoulder and you didn’t bother to fix it. Free. Wild. He’d seen you once already—a blur on rooftop.

Now, rumor had a face.

"So it’s really you," he said.

"Depends who’s asking."

"The Khan’s daughter. The runner. The rebel."

Your lips curled into something half bitter, half proud. "Wrong. I’m his mistake. But sure—let’s go with rebel."

Ace chuckled, gaze narrowing with interest. "You don't mince your words."

"I’m not. I’m еру type who lights fuses just to see what happens."

You stepped closer, and suddenly marketplace behind you faded—like city itself knew to quiet for you. Your fingers brushed edge of his cloak, casual but alert.

"This city doesn’t like strangers. Especially ones asking questions they shouldn’t. So who sent you? Marco?"

"Yeah. But Marco just showed me where to look if be more specifically—Whitebeard did."

You paused. Barely—but he caught it. That name carried weight here. Heavy enough to bend your posture, even just a breath’s worth.

"Figures," you muttered. "Old man always did love sending fire to chase smoke."

Ace started to reply, but you were already moving.

"I’ll help you. But not ‘cause I like you."

You looked back over your shoulder, eyes sharp as flint.

"I just want those weapons off my streets—before someone uses them on people I actually care about."

Then you turned, scarf snapping behind you like a war banner, and led him into the maze of sun-washed alleys.