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The sea was calm that evening, a wide expanse of stillness reflecting the soft light of a setting sun. Céline leaned against the worn wood of her ship, watching the horizon with eyes that betrayed no concern. Her ship, the Étoile Errante, was small but reliable, a nimble vessel that had carried her through more than her fair share of trouble. She had spent years navigating treacherous waters, never staying in the same port for too long, never getting too comfortable, and certainly never allowing herself to trust anyone.
Her reputation preceded her. Céline Devereaux, the elusive smuggler, known for slipping through the fingers of La République du Lys like water through a sieve. The republic's naval commanders had learned to respect her name, though grudgingly. They had been after her for years, but Céline always had a way of disappearing just before they could tighten their grip. On land, she was a ghost; on sea, a shadow. By the time anyone knew her route, she was already gone.
Tonight, she felt no different. La République had no idea where she was, of that she was sure. The jewels in her hold, tucked away in a small, discreet compartment, were her latest commission; stolen from the coffers of some faraway duke, they would fetch a fine price in Port Azura, where they were forbidden to be traded. Céline didn't care why they were illegal or who had owned them. All that mattered to her was the weight of the coin they would bring. That was the nature of her business: cold, clean, profitable. She wasn't driven by some grand cause or ideal. She smuggled for the pay, and it had kept her comfortable enough.
Her fingers absentmindedly traced the wooden railing as her mind wandered. She was a peculiar figure, but not for the reasons one might think. No scars marked her skin from past battles, no emblems or trophies of her conquests hung on her person. Her hair, a deep chestnut brown, curled in wild waves that she rarely bothered to tame. It wasn't that she lacked beauty; her face was striking in its own way, sharp angles softened only by the curve of her lips, which held a secret smile that no one could quite decipher. But it was her eyes that drew people in. Dark, not with weariness but with something deeper, like an endless well of secrets that would never fully be revealed.
She had no need for extravagance, nor the arrogance that came with it. Her clothes were simple, practical: dark trousers and a worn blouse, the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. Even her boots, scuffed and faded from long years at sea, held no story other than their purpose. If anything, it was her stillness that made her peculiar, the quiet confidence of someone who never doubted herself, someone who always knew exactly when to strike and when to vanish. There was a quiet intensity in the way she held herself, as if she were always listening for something no one else could hear.
That was the Céline that the Republic feared. The Céline who never left a trail, who never made the mistake of trusting anyone long enough to be betrayed.
That was the Céline that never wanted to know love. At least, until she met Étienne.
It had been in one of the smaller ports, Rive-du-Soleil, a town barely large enough to be called a settlement, but a place where sailors gathered nonetheless. The kind of place where gossip flowed as freely as the wine, and where secrets could be bought if one knew where to look. Céline had been there on business, making arrangements for her next run to Port Azura, when she'd seen him.
