Celysia was reloading on the rooftop.
She knelt on one knee atop the roof diagonally across from the Red Skull Tavern, her back against the chimney's brickwork.
The barrel of her modified rifle was already too hot to touch barehanded. She used her sleeve to pad her fingers as she withdrew the magazine; the old one slipped through her fingers, and she shoved in a fresh magazine with a click.
She leaned half her face out from behind the chimney, narrowed her right eye, and scanned the intersection of the dock walkway and street through her scope.
She saw Barlow.
The young man and Dean were locked in an even fight, their flashing blades moving so fast through the night that even her scope could catch only afterimages.
She adjusted her breathing, resting the first joint of her index finger against the trigger guard without pulling. Dean was tangled up with the enemy. Firing rashly could hit one of their own.
She was waiting for the instant the two separated.
Her father had taught her that patience.
Celysia's father was named Alder, one of the finest pirate hunters in the South Blue.
Not the strongest—the finest. Because he only accepted jobs he could survive to finish, and never picked prey beyond his range.
Alder owned an old long rifle retired from the South Blue Marines, its stock engraved with the escort dates of every batch of pirates he had captured alive.
When Celysia was seven, Alder pressed the rifle stock to her shoulder and taught her how to line up the sights.
"The first lesson for a sniper, Celysia: don't rush to fire. First, see the wind direction, the distance, and where the prey will go next. Fire only after you understand all of that."
By the time she