The sea lapped black against burning piers as Alaric hauled himself up the rope ladder, boots dripping brine. Above him, the Royale Nocturne loomed like a floating palace of timber with bones of iron and a hide sheathed in brass. Her five masts cut the sky in perfect symmetry, rigging strung taut as a harp against the glow of the burning cove.

  Where the harbor guttered in lantern-flame, the Nocturne shone with steady brilliance. White globes of electric light crowned her rail and mastheads, casting a cold daylight that seemed almost sacrilegious against the night. Shadows fell sharp and precise, every line of rigging, every curve of timber outlined with unnatural clarity.

  Beneath that glow her brass teeth gleamed. Long rows of cannon—polished bright as mirrors—jutted from the gunports in solemn order, catching the light like trophies of conquest. Her iron bones showed through only in shadows; it was the brass sheathing and ornamentation that drew the eye. Delicate ornamental linework followed the curves of the bulwarks, railings, and hatch-covers—shipwright artistry rather than gaudy display. At her prow, a great crow figurehead leaned forward as if ready to take flight, its brass feathers gleaming and its iron beak aimed at whatever prey the Nocturne set her sights on. She was a predator dressed in regalia, daring the world to mistake her elegance for tenderness.

  Sailors leaned over the rails, their faces haloed in the electric glare, voices raised in salute as they reached down. Alaric swung aboard with the ease of a man stepping into his living room, water sheeting from his cuffs yet leaving his waistcoat immaculate.

  Mila followed, landing lightly on the planking. Her platinum hair clung damp to her cheek, but her eyes were cold, unblinking, as if the sea itself had failed to unsettle her.

  The deck beneath them vibrated faintly—not the creak of timber, but the low thrum of machinery deep below, a heartbeat of pistons and fire. The Nocturne was no passive vessel. She lived, and she waited.

  Alaric tugged his gloves back into place, water still dripping from the cuffs.

  “Well…” he said at last, his voice light with disdain, “could be worse, could be better.”

  “Welcome back, sir.”

  “Yes, yes. Having a nice evening, gentlemen?”

  “We are having a... blast, sir.” Laughter rolled among the crew.

  Alaric glanced back at the burning harbor. “Yes… I can see that.” He paused only a moment before continuing, smooth as a card trick. “Tell me, has Captain Falco returned yet?”

  “He has, sir. He and the others are waiting for you in the officers’ hall, sir.”

  “Good. I will head there myself then.” Alaric’s eyes fell on one sailor. With unhurried grace, he unstrapped Solus and Luna from his belt, handing the dripping sheaths to the man. “As for you—take these swords to Mr. Emberimp. Tell him to… dry this sword.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Alaric brushed the last of the seawater from his sleeve and turned. “Come, Mila. We have work to do.”

  Mila lingered only a moment, eyes cool on the sailors. “Please bring a towel for Mr. Van Aerden and me.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The walk carried them along the Nocturne’s inner deck, where the electric lamps hummed softly above polished brass fixtures. Sailors parted before them like a disciplined tide, offering a quick salute as they passed. The deeper they went, the thicker the smell of oil and varnished wood became, until the ornate door of the officers’ hall stood before them like a threshold to judgement.

  Alaric pushed the hall door open with a loud crack. Inside, three figures sat as though waiting for an interview: two men and a hulking minotaur.

  “So,” Alaric said, eyes sweeping them, “care to explain why I’m seeing such an inferno at the harbor?”

  The minotaur rose slightly, shoulders broad enough to fill the space, his horns casting long shadows under the electric lamps. His voice was deep, resonant, but carried a gentleman’s courtesy.

  “Well, I’m just doing what you requested, sir.”

  “I said the harbor,” Alaric replied, brows arching, “not the entire cove.”

  “With due respect…” the minotaur rumbled, the corners of his mouth quirking, “the entire cove looks like a harbor from here.”

  Borghar Ironhorn, gunnery officer of the Nocturne, war veteran and master of artillery—beast in appearance, gentleman in heart.

  Alaric regarded him for a long moment before exhaling softly. “…Fair enough.”

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  His gaze shifted to the man seated beside Borghar. “And you, Falco. I trust our corsair friends will still be able to man their forts come morning?”

  Lorenzo leaned back in his chair, black hair falling loose over hazel eyes, his tone light with easy confidence.

  “Don’t worry, sir. They’re just… sleeping soundly, sir.”

  Lorenzo Falco, sword captain of the Royale Nocturne, heir to countless duels—and some say he could clean a deck like a gale of wind.

  “And you,” Alaric said, turning to the third man—a giant nearly as tall as Borghar, thick through the chest and shoulders like a siege tower of flesh. “You were the one in charge. When you saw every boat sunk, why didn’t you send another to fetch me?”

  The man rose, stepping in front of him. He loomed over Alaric, a mountain of muscle and scar, his shadow swallowing the captain whole.

  “Well,” he said slowly, voice gravel over stone, “since the harbor was burning, I thought you might enjoy a swim. To cool yourself down.”

  Alaric’s eyes narrowed, the word turning over his tongue. “To… cool down myself?” He let it linger, then chuckled. The chuckle grew into laughter, sharp and sudden, until the hall itself seemed to join him. Lorenzo laughed, Borghar rumbled, even Mila’s lips twitched in the corner of her composure.

  “Welcome back, Captain,” the giant said at last.

  Alaric tilted his head, eyes gleaming with mischief. “What, no welcome hug for your big brother?”

  “Oh, fuck off—you’re drenched in sea water.”

  Darian Van Aerden, first mate of the Nocturne. Brother, shadow, and hammer of Alaric—the only man who could meet his wit with brute honesty.

  A knock rattled the door. Mila turned, opened it with precise grace, and found a young sailor standing stiffly with two folded towels.

  “For Mr. Van Aerden and yourself, ma’am.”

  Mila accepted them with a nod, then crossed the room to drape one across Alaric’s shoulders. He smiled faintly, adjusting it around his collar.

  “Thank you, darling.”

  “Now,” Lorenzo cut in, leaning forward in his chair, hazel eyes sharp beneath the swing of the lamp. “With due seriousness… what are we going to say to the Sultan?”

  Alaric eased into a seat as though it were a throne, towel still across his shoulders, his expression unreadable but amused.

  “We are going to tell him the truth,” he said, “half of it at least.”

  Lorenzo’s brow furrowed. “And he would just… be fine with that?”

  “He would.” Alaric steepled his gloved fingers, the towel slipping half an inch as he leaned forward. “The corsairs are more mercenaries than vassals. They raid for him, yes, but his leash is long and frayed. If they bleed, he shrugs. If they burn, he will sip his sherbet like any day of the week.”

  “But,” Lorenzo pressed, “we sank all their ships.”

  Alaric’s smile widened, a flash of cold humor. “Then the Sultan will send a few relics from his own fleet. And when that proves insufficient, he will come to me… and purchase ships at a generous discount.” He waved a hand lightly. “Besides, this cove was one of Barca’s less profitable dens. Nothing of value was truly lost.”

  “But I don’t see why he want to give his ships away for free, sir,” Borghar said.

  “You see, when you want to have a proper navy but don’t have the ships, the choice is obvious: you build or purchase them. But when you already have ships—despite being old—you always want to refit them. Sometimes, though, a hull becomes so obsolete no refit can save it. And that dilemma begins: obsolete hulls no one wants to buy, and salvaging costs more than their worth. So the choice is either let them rot… or give them to someone in need. And that someone may fill your pockets, even just a little.”

  Borghar gave a deep chuckle, folding his massive arms. “So in ruining them, we did the Sultan a favor.”

  “Exactly,” Alaric said smoothly. “And favors are profitable, gentlemen. Always. And luckily for us, the Ataman Empire has not had a proper shipyard in ages.”

  Darian cut in before anyone else could, voice low and brisk. “Speaking of profitable—let’s talk about our prize then, brother.”

  “Ah yes.” Alaric spread his fingers, towel forgotten across his shoulders. “Our prize is headed for the island of Loric. Three hulls in the convoy—a second-rate and two frigates. One of the frigates is a steamer. That’s the one we want.”

  “Loric?” Borghar’s rumble carried a new edge. “That’s in the Hellas archipelago.”

  “Close to home, is it not?” Alaric said, letting the question hang between them like a blade.

  A ripple of unease moved through the room. “What are they doing there?” Lorenzo asked.

  “They’re building strength,” Alaric answered. “The other frigate is laden with provisions for a garrison. I don’t know if they plan to go to war with the Ataman, the Hellesians, or the mainlanders—but movements like this don’t happen without intent.”

  Borghar’s nostrils flared. “Then we must not let that fleet reach the island.”

  “Indeed,” Alaric agreed, his smile vanishing into something colder. “And so we shall. Are you worried for your kin, Borghar?”

  “You know the Order,” Borghar said, each word heavy with old hurt. “They see us as demon-cloaked beasts—tools to be shackled, or monsters to be hunted. Of course I’m worried, sir.”

  Alaric nodded once, the motion small but certain. The hall grew quieter, the electric lamps humming like an audience waiting for the conductor to lift his baton.

  “But we must be careful with the second-rate,” Alaric continued. “According to the intel, she will be the escort. That means she is likely fully crewed and fully gunned. We can cripple her, but not take her down. We don’t have the manpower to board her. Would that be a problem for you, Borghar?”

  “Then what is your order, Captain?” Darian asked.

  “The fleet is only a few days ahead, but we can catch them. So we depart at once. Darian—tell Selene to set us north-east until we sight the coast of Vastria, then bear east.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  “Borghar, what is the state of our ammunition?”

  “We have about a thousand roundshot and three hundred grapeshot, powder included, sir.”

  “Good. That should be sufficient. Then I want every gun cleaned and polished. If we’re going to make an entrance, let our brass show properly.”

  “Aye, sir—polished like mirrors.”

  “Falco, Mila—you two. Tell your detachment I want every musket and pistol in the armory cleaned, and every blade sharpened. If anyone cannot present a clean weapon, they’ll be swabbing bilges until I say otherwise.”

  “Yes, sir,” Lorenzo said smoothly, already rising with the restless energy of a duelist scenting blood.

  “Yes, sir,” Mila echoed, her tone cold as clockwork.

  Alaric rose, towel slipping from his shoulder to the floor. “Then gentlemen… and lady. We have a ship to catch. Let’s set sails.”