Chapter Text
The ruins were hotter than hell, and Nate was already regretting the extra shirt Sully had insisted he pack.
“Come on, kid,” Sully grunted behind him, puffing a cigar as they trudged through the cracked stone archway. “You didn’t think the Clavis Ignis was gonna just fall into our laps, did you?”
Nate shot him a look. “I was hoping it’d at least come with air conditioning.”
The place was eerily quiet. Jungle roots split the old masonry, snaking across floors etched with worn Latin inscriptions. Somewhere in here was the first key to unlocking the legend of Greek fire — supposedly sealed away by Crusaders, then scattered like breadcrumbs through half the Mediterranean.
Nate crouched, brushing dust off a mosaic tile. “Looks Crusader-era, but the design’s Byzantine. Maybe the order brought it back during—”
A sharp click cut him off. The sound of a camera shutter.
Nate’s head whipped around. Standing near the far column, notebook tucked under one arm, camera dangling from the other, was a woman. Blonde hair pulled back from her face, travel-worn clothes covered in dust, and eyes sharp enough to cut glass.
“Well, well,” she said, her accent crisp, undeniably European. “Nathan Drake. Just my luck.”
Nate blinked. “Do I know you?”
“Not yet.” She snapped another picture of the mosaic before slinging the camera back around her neck. “But I do know you’re about to step on a trap tile if you don’t move.”
Nate glanced down — sure enough, his boot hovered over a suspiciously sunken square. He hopped back just as a dart shot from the wall with a hiss.
“See?” She gave him a small, satisfied smile. “You should pay more attention.”
Sully chuckled from behind. “Looks like you’ve met your match, Nate.”
The woman tilted her head, smirking. “Ilyssa Jacobs.” She extended her hand, though her eyes remained calculating. “Journalist. Researcher. Sometimes, the thorn in a treasure hunter’s side.”
Nate took her hand, grip firm but cautious. “Drake. Adventurer. Occasional professional thorn.”
Her smirk deepened. “Enchantée.”
Nate frowned. “That’s… French, right?”
“Very good,” she teased. “I was beginning to worry you only spoke in bad jokes.”
“Hey, I’ve got range,” Nate shot back. “I can order a beer in at least five languages.”
Sully groaned. “Don’t encourage him, lady.”
Ilyssa’s eyes sparkled with amusement, though her posture stayed guarded. She flipped her notebook open and scribbled something down.
“So,” Nate started, crossing his arms, “what’s a journalist doing chasing Crusader legends in the middle of nowhere?”
She looked up sharply. “The same thing you are, I imagine. Only difference is, I’m not planning to sell it to the highest bidder.”
Ouch. Nate raised his brows. “That’s cold.”
“Vérité,” she said simply, her French lilting. “Truth. That is what matters.”
Sully leaned closer to Nate, muttering out of the corner of his mouth. “I like her already.”
Nate ignored him, but his smirk tugged wider. “Well, Lady Jones, guess that makes us competitors.”
“Lady… Jones?” Her brow arched.
“Don’t take it the wrong way,” Nate grinned. “It suits you. Classy. Smarter than the rest of us, probably knows how to lecture in Latin.”
Her laugh was quick, surprised, and genuine. “Gott im Himmel, you are insufferable.”
“German too?” Nate shook his head. “Great. Now I feel underqualified.”
“Don’t worry,” she said dryly. “You’re more than qualified to trip every trap in here before me.”
Before Nate could retort, gunfire cracked in the distance. Shouts echoed through the ruins.
Mercenaries.
Nate sighed. “Of course. Nothing’s ever simple.”
Ilyssa’s gaze sharpened, and to his surprise, she pulled a compact pistol from her belt. Her stance was steady, professional. Not a tourist, not a dilettante.
Sully whistled. “Guess she’s full-service.”
Nate glanced at her again, the corner of his mouth tugging upward despite himself. “Well, Lady Jones… looks like we’re in this together.”
She smirked, cocking the pistol. “Try to keep up, Drake.”
And just like that, the ruins came alive with chaos.