The walk back from 's island didn't feel like a return. unfolded exactly as it always did — cobblestones worn smooth by generations, balconies spilling lantern light into the dusk, banners lifting on the ocean wind — and yet everything looked slightly displaced, like he was watching a memory rather than standing inside the present moment.

The city was celebrating. Drums pulsed out of the plaza in layered rhythms that seemed to move through stone as much as air. Laughter rose in bright bursts over the steady murmur of conversation. Vendors turned spits heavy with roasting meat; spice smoke curled up from shallow bowls. Lanterns swung between the eaves, throwing gold light across faces that finally looked like they could breathe again. Victory had given the city permission to relax.

walked through it untouched. He registered the noise, the color, the motion — none of it got past the quiet Sophus had left in him. The ant clinging to its leaf kept surfacing in his mind, small and, somehow, complete. The breeze from the jungle felt closer now — not stronger, just present, like a thought that hadn't finished making itself known.

People bowed as he passed, or lifted a cup in silent tribute, or simply stepped aside — respect that didn't need a gesture to prove itself. He nodded back, nothing more.

At the plaza's center, stood in a knot of revelers, trying to enjoy himself while staying alert to everything moving around him. Relief crossed his face when he spotted Sals — then something closer to concern replaced it.

Before he could cross the distance, three strangers stepped into his path. They didn't belong to the festival — travel stains too fresh to be costume, posture built for readiness rather than ease, the kind of stillness that comes from not yet deciding whether a place is safe.

The tallest inclined his head politely, though his eyes stayed sharp. "Excuse me. We're here to see the Sea Master."

Luis looked them over openly. "Bad timing for formalities. The city's celebrating."

The second man stepped forward, something restless under his composure. "We didn't come for the celebration."

The first man's hand moved just enough to part his cloak, revealing the hilt of a blade at his side — not a threat, more a statement of fact. Lantern light caught the metal and threw back a cold gleam that had no business among the festival's warm glow. "We're traders," he said quietly. "Of ."

Luis's expression changed — not fear, recognition. "From where?"

"."

The name landed with the weight of something Luis had only ever heard in stories, never met face to face. He gave it a moment, then nodded. "Wait here."

He crossed the plaza fast, catching Sals near the fountain where the city's spring spilled into its wide stone basin. "There's a group asking for you," he said, low. "They're not tourists."

Sals followed his glance without turning his head. "Where?"

"Eastern arch."

He found them — read their stance, the spacing between them, the way they watched the plaza instead of admiring it. Travelers, but not lost ones. Purpose carried like a second spine.

"Let's not keep them waiting," he said.

When they closed the distance, the first man bowed his head — not deep, not performed, just deliberate. "Sea Master Sals."

Sals returned it with a small nod of his own. "You have the advantage of me."

"." He tipped his head toward the second man. "This is ."

Carlos gave a short nod, his gaze running over Sals with the frank, assessing intensity of someone pricing a horse before a long trip.

"We've come from Mayaimi," Miguel said. "A coastal realm, far to the west."

"A long way to travel, given the state of things," Sals said.

"We wouldn't have come otherwise."

The music surged as dancers spun past behind them, bright fabric catching the light like flame. None of the three strangers looked away from Sals.

"We have a problem that can't be solved at home," Miguel said. "A creature. Persistent. Adaptable. Costly to keep ignoring."

"The White Devil," Carlos added, voice tightening on the name. Luis drew in a breath despite himself. Sals's face didn't move.

"And you think I'm the solution."

Miguel held his eyes. "We think you're capable of finding out whether one exists."

Not flattery. A delegation of trust, plainly offered.

Sals considered that. "I don't kill for hire."

Carlos stepped in before Miguel could answer. "This isn't hire." Something raw slipped into his voice for the first time — not desperation, more like exhaustion that had run out of places to hide. "It's survival. Our land is becoming unlivable. Livestock gone. Hunters who don't come back. Villages relocate and it follows them anyway. It doesn't behave like an animal."

Miguel's voice dropped. "We came because you faced something like it here — and won."

Sophus's words settled into the moment without asking permission. Notice. Don't chase.

"What exactly are you asking of me?" Sals said.

"Come to Mayaimi. See it yourself. If you decide it's not yours to carry, you're free to leave." Miguel let the offer sit there, unembellished. "If not —" He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to.

Luis leaned in close, voice barely audible. "Could be connected. Another outbreak. Another pattern."

Or another pull, Sals thought, and didn't say it out loud. He looked past the three of them, toward the dark line where the sea met the harbor walls, and for one bare instant felt it again — that quiet, impossible breeze, as if something a long way off had noticed him looking. Not calling him. Just waiting.

When he turned back, the decision was already made. "Mayaimi," he said, testing the shape of it.

Miguel's posture tightened, anticipation breaking through the restraint he'd been holding onto. "Yes."

Sals extended his hand. "Then you'll stay tonight as guests of this city. You picked the one night no one here will question strangers in the street."

Miguel took the offered hand, grip firm but measured. "You honor us."

Carlos let out a breath he'd clearly been holding. "We'd hoped to see the creature you captured," he admitted. "Meeting the man the stories are about turns out to be enough."

A faint, almost private smile touched Sals's mouth. "Stories are rarely reliable. Judge for yourselves."

The drums picked up as dancers circled closer, the celebration rising around them like a tide reclaiming the ground it was owed.

Miguel inclined his head once more. "We'll speak again." They parted without ceremony.

Luis watched the three of them vanish into the crowd, unease threading in under his relief. "You're really considering this," he said quietly.

Sals didn't answer right away. His eyes stayed on the horizon, where the dark was starting to erase the line between sea and sky.

"Yes," he said finally.

Not because of what they'd asked. Not out of duty. Because something past that horizon felt closer than it had yesterday — and for the first time, ignoring it felt like it would cost him more than following it would.

THE AMBASSADORS OF MAYAIMI