The morning mist hung low over Zhemchug’s harbor, turning the bay into a bowl of pewter light. Smoke rose from chimneys and shipyards, smearing the skyline into vague strokes of gray and brass. The city’s domes glimmered faintly through the haze, like the crowns of half-sunken kings.

  Through that stillness came Royale Nocturne, gliding silent and sure. Her black hull cut the water without a ripple, paddle wheels turning slow beneath their armored housings. Frost clung to her rigging like threads of glass, and her masts loomed high and motionless, proud against the fog.

  “Pilot boat approaching, sir,” came the lookout’s cry.

  Alaric looked up from the rail. Out of the mist, a small steamer emerged—narrow, battered, its brasswork dulled by salt. Two men stood aboard, bundled in fur coats, their flag bearing the white pearl sigil of Zhemchug’s port authority.

  “Let them come alongside,” Alaric said. His tone was calm but exact, the kind that made sailors straighten instinctively. “Signal no weapons, and keep our engines idle.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Lines were thrown, caught, and secured. The pilot clambered up the ladder—a broad man with a frost-bitten nose, his beard dusted white with rime. He paused at the rail, eyes widening at the ship’s polished brass and gleaming gunports.

  “By the saints,” he muttered, half to himself. “Never seen one like this.”

  “Welcome aboard,” Alaric said, stepping forward. “Alaric Van Aerden, master of Royale Nocturne. You’ll guide us in?”

  The pilot blinked, then bowed quickly, tugging off his cap. “Aye, Captain Van Aerden. Name’s Mikhael Drozhin. Harbor channel’s narrow this season—ice floes along the inner wall. Best we take it slow.”

  “Your judgment is trusted, Mr. Drozhin,” Alaric replied smoothly. “Though I assure you, the Nocturne handles like a lady on glass.”

  Mikhael gave a low whistle as he stepped toward the wheelhouse. “Aye, she’s no merchant hull, that’s for certain. Your crew drilled like the navy, yet she didn’t fly any crown colors.”

  Alaric smiled faintly. “The world is full of contradictions, Mr. Drozhin. You’ll find I make good use of them.”

  The pilot hesitated, unsure whether to laugh. Then he took the wheel, squinting into the mist. “Keep half-speed, all sails furled. Current’s fickle this time of year.”

  The Nocturne obeyed like a living thing. Her engines hummed, low and confident. The hull turned with grace, gliding between the stone jetties that marked Zhemchug’s outer gate. Chains rattled far below the surface as the tide locks shifted, their mechanical groan echoing through the bay.

  As they entered the inner harbor, the mist began to lift. Zhemchug revealed itself in fragments—ice-crusted docks lined with iron cranes, foundries coughing black smoke into the cold air, merchant ships moored beside hulking war hulks stripped for parts. Over it all rose the citadel spire, brass and gold, catching the first pale gleam of the sun.

  Mikhael exhaled through his teeth. “Dock Twelve’s ready, sir. But you’ll want to mind her beam—the berths were built for cargo steamers, not warships dressed like court ladies.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment,” Alaric said dryly. “Ease her in.”

  “Aye, sir. Half a chain forward—steady now… steady…”

  Ropes flew. Capstans groaned. The Nocturne came to rest with the quiet authority of a predator folding her wings.

  The pilot turned, cap in hand. “You’ve a fine crew, Captain. I’ve brought in imperial warships with less grace.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Drozhin,” Alaric said, slipping a silver coin into the man’s palm. “And remember—grace is not born, but trained.”

  The man blinked, then grinned despite the chill. “Aye, that’s a captain’s wisdom if ever I heard it.”

  As the gangway dropped and Mila appeared beside him, Alaric took one last look at the skyline—the brass towers, the black smoke, the glint of the Admiral’s Palace at the far quay.

  Zhemchug.

  Cold, proud, and watching.

  And for the first time in years, it watched him return.

  Alaric’s boots clicked against the brass decking as the gangway settled into place. “Mr. Falco,” he said without raising his voice, “you’ll maintain guard of the ship. Double watches, no shore leave to all crew unless I said so. If anyone asks who we are or why we’re here, tell them we’re here to pick up Lady Katerina.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Falco replied, fist to chest. “We’ll be ready should you need us.”

  Alaric’s gaze flicked briefly toward the harbor—fog, ice, and the gleam of dockyard lanterns reflected in water the color of old iron. “Good. Keep a close watch, Mr. Falco. I have a feeling we are expecting trouble.”

  Then, turning slightly: “Mila, my sweet—assemble your detachment.”

  Mila bowed her head once. “At once, sir.”

  Moments later, fifty figures lined the gangway in silent discipline—men and women in dark blue coats trimmed with black cord, their collars high against the cold. Each carried a cutlass at the hip and pistol with some kind of round brass ball protruding just beneath the breech. The brass of their buttons gleamed dull beneath the overcast light, catching only a faint echo of the ship’s reflection. They looked less like sailors and more like an honor guard, the kind that might flank an emperor rather than a privateer.

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  At their head stood Mila Weiss—expression blank, gloves immaculate, her short platinum hair bright against the sea fog. She gave the smallest nod. “Ready, sir.”

  “Then let us not keep the city waiting.”

  Alaric descended the gangway first, his coat sweeping like a shadow. The harbor air was sharp and metallic, stinking faintly of coal and brine. Mila followed half a pace behind, her escort fanning out in two perfect columns as they took to the cobblestones.

  The docks of Zhemchug were alive yet wary. Steam wagons hissed past, laden with crates stamped with the double-eagle seal of the Ruskan Empire. Dockhands paused at their work, staring in uneasy silence as the column of blue-coated marines passed. A few removed their caps out of instinct or fear. Others simply stood back, muttering under their breath.

  “They think we are the navy,” Darian said quietly beside Alaric. “I bet if we came across some guard, they’d salute us.”

  “Then money well spent, I say,” Alaric replied, not slowing his stride.

  The sound of their boots—fifty pairs—rolled through the narrow streets like a drumbeat. Each echo chased ahead of them, scattering beggars and merchants alike. Shopkeepers peered through frosted glass; constables stiffened at corners and offered uncertain salutes, unsure if they faced naval officers or foreign dignitaries.

  A group of street urchins ran alongside for a time, wide-eyed, before one yelled, “Long live the Tsar! Death to Gallia! Urraaa!” Darian glanced at them and yelled back, “Urraa!” The boys shrieked with laughter and fled into an alley.

  “What are you doing, you oversized child?” Alaric said, holding a smile.

  Darian chuckled. “Just uplifting the Tsar's loyal subjects, sir.”

  “Maybe I should loan you to Tsar Vladimir. Perhaps then I could finally open a branch here,” Alaric said, half-joking, half-serious.

  “And who’s going to command the Nocturne while you’re on land?” Darian raised his brows.

  Alaric just rolled his eyes. “Fair point.”

  Zhemchug unfolded around them—a city of iron and frost, where carriages rattled past smokestacks and cathedrals gleamed like machine parts under the gray sun. Brass pipes ran along old stone walls; every few blocks a boiler vented white steam into the cold, sighing like the city itself tried to breathe.

  Their destination loomed at the crest of a hill: a mansion of pale stone and wrought iron, guarded by a gate of black steel carved with twin swans. The Morozov residence.

  Katerina’s home.

  As they approached, the guards at the gate snapped to attention. Their uniforms were Imperial green with crimson breast, marking a Ruskan regular—but their muskets were of an older pattern, auxiliaries at best.

  “Who are you? Identify yourself!” one of the guards barked, raising his musket toward Alaric.

  Alaric stopped, calm as ever. “Alaric Van Aerden. I have an appointment with Lady Katerina.”

  The guard blinked, then lowered his weapon. “I’m sorry, sir. It’s just precautions.”

  “It’s fine, man. You’re just doing your job.”

  The guard nodded, visibly relieved. “Vadim, open the gate.”

  “What? Why me?” the second guard—Vadim—snapped.

  “Because I said so. Now open it up.”

  “You think you’re the captain? You just served one month earlier than me!”

  “Vadim, this is not the time,” the first guard whispered harshly.

  “I don’t even have the key.”

  “What? I thought you have the key.”

  “No, I thought you have the key.”

  For a moment, the entire formation stood awkwardly, frost misting from their breaths. The two guards exchanged a panicked look, then turned to Alaric like guilty schoolboys.

  Behind him, Darian was already grinning. “The best welcoming party I’ve ever seen,” he muttered.

  Mila’s eyes flicked toward Alaric. “Shall I?” she asked quietly.

  Alaric raised a gloved hand to stop her. “No, my dear. Let them finish their… democratic debate.”

  He tilted his head, the faintest trace of amusement curling at his lips as the two guards began patting their coats and arguing under their breath.

  “Check your belt, you idiot.”

  “I told you, I don’t have—ah, wait—no, that’s my pipe.”

  The lock clattered uncertainly as the guards fumbled with it. The blue-coated marines behind Alaric just stood perfectly still, their silence cutting through the absurdity like a knife, their faces just as unreadable as their captain—but no words needed to be spoken to know what they were thinking.

  After some attempts, with a resigned grunt, the first guard turned back toward Alaric. “Just a moment, sir! We’ll… we’ll sort it out immediately.”

  “I have no doubt you will,” Alaric said dryly.

  The guard pulled his friend by the breast of his coat, muttering something about “the handmaid having the spare” before retreating toward the mansion—still arguing over whose fault it was. One of them slammed the gate behind him, the sound echoing across the quiet courtyard.

  Alaric and his men remained outside, breath misting in the cold air.

  “I’ve seen a circus with better security,” Darian said, folding his arms.

  “They’re just auxiliary,” Alaric replied, eyes still on the gate. “The war against Gallia has pulled all the best men to the front—or so it would seem.”

  “Speaking of the war…” Darian’s tone shifted slightly. “Since Ruska joined the coalition, do you think they’ll win this time?”

  Alaric’s gaze drifted toward the city beyond the fog. “Maybe,” he said after a pause. “But I’m skeptical. The coalition outnumbers Gallia, yes—but numbers do not always translate to victory, especially when the other side has already changed the way wars are fought.”

  Darian arched a brow. “You mean their new army?”

  “Radically reformed,” Alaric said, voice quiet, thoughtful. “Discipline like the legionnaires of old, but with firepower and logistics decades ahead of anyone else. At this moment, Gallia might field the best army in the world.”

  “The best, eh?” Darian gave a short laugh. “That speaks volumes coming from you.”

  Alaric didn’t return the smile. “And they’re backed by the Guild,” he added. “They don’t just have the army—but also the money to win the fight.”

  The words lingered in the cold like smoke, heavy with truth neither of them wished to say aloud.

  Suddenly, the mansion door burst open. An old woman stormed out, dragging the two guards by their ears.

  “I can’t believe it, Alyosha! You make the lady look bad!”

  “Ow, ow—it’s not me, granny, it’s Vadim!”

  “Me? I haven’t even seen the key all morning—ow!”

  “Enough, you two!” she snapped, marching them to the gate.

  She released their ears, then ducked into the guard post. Moving aside a hat, she revealed the key underneath. Holding it up, she glared. “Is this the key you two have been looking for?”

  The soldiers looked at each other, speechless.

  “Unbelievable,” she muttered, unlocking the gate with a sharp click. With the help of the two guards, the gate finally swung open.

  “I am Olga Pavlovna, handmaid to Lady Katerina,” she said with a curt bow. “My deepest apologies for this… embarrassment.”

  “Oh, don’t worry. I’ve seen worse,” Alaric said politely.

  “Are you sure?” Darian whispered.

  “Darian,” Alaric hissed.

  Olga smiled faintly. “The lady is expecting you, sir. Shall I take you inside?”

  “Then we shouldn’t keep her waiting.”

  “But I’m afraid the house is too small to accommodate fifty people,” Olga noted.

  “They’ll wait outside,” Alaric assured her, then leaned to whisper:

  “Darian, stay in the garden with the marines. Run a perimeter check.”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  “Mila,” he continued, quieter. “Sweep the house. Discreetly. Find me when you’re done.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Then Alaric turned back to Olga. “Shall we?”

  The old woman nodded, gesturing for Alaric to follow.

  Alaric stepped through, the cold wind brushing his coat as he crossed into the courtyard. The mansion loomed above—its windows dark, its brass fittings gleaming faintly beneath the gray sky.

  And finally, two tigers shall meet.