The salt water had eaten into the skin of my ankles for three long years, leaving raw, red sores that never had time to heal. Down in the dark, rotting belly of the warship Leviathan, there was no sun, no fresh air, and no mercy. There was only the heavy, rhythmic thud of the drum, and the endless, agonizing pull of the massive oar.
I was nothing but a slave rower. Number Forty-Two. That was the only name the guards used when they hit me with the heavy, salt-soaked leather whip. My hands were thick with black calluses, my ribs pressed tightly against my skin from months of starvation, and my mind was permanently clouded by the thick, sickening smell of bilge water, sweat, and moldy wood.
But tonight, the hunger was too much to bear. My stomach burned with a fierce, tearing pain that felt like a wild animal trying to claw its way out of my chest. Two days had passed since the last moldy biscuit was thrown into our rowing trench. Men around me were already dying, their hands stiffening on the oars before the guards simply unchained their cold bodies and tossed them out of the portholes into the black sea.
I knew I wouldn’t survive another night. So, when the guard went upstairs to fetch the midnight water barrel, I crawled through the slimy mud of the lower hold, my chains clinking softly against the ballast stones. My fingers shook as I reached into a broken crate of officer supplies and grabbed a single, hard piece of salted beef. It was no larger than my palm, but to a starving boy, it looked like life itself.
I never even got to taste it.
A heavy, iron-toed boot slammed directly into my face, breaking my nose and sending a blinding flash of white pain through my eyes. I fell backward into the filthy water, gasping for air as thick, warm blood poured into my mouth.
“Thieving rat!” a voice boomed through the dark hold.
It was First Mate Kaelen. He was a massive, brutal man with a face scarred by old boarding battles and eyes that held absolutely no human kindness. He loved the whip. He loved the power he had over the hundreds of broken souls trapped beneath the decks. He grabbed me by my matted, dirty hair and dragged me out of the dark trench, my heavy iron leg irons banging violently against each wooden step as he pulled me up toward the main deck.
The cold ocean air hit my face like a slap, clearing the fog of pain just enough for me to realize where I was. A fierce sea storm was raging, tossing the massive warship over the dark, crashing waves of the naval kingdom. The wind howled through the high black sails, and rain washed the blood from my cheeks.
But the deck was not empty.
First Mate Kaelen threw me down onto the wet, slippery planks right in front of the high wooden table where the Fleet Council sat. These were the rulers of the sea empire, men who wore thick navy blue coats adorned with gold lace and heavy iron armor. At the center of the table sat Grand Admiral Vance, a legendary, terrifying man whose name was feared across every coastal city in the North. His white hair danced in the fierce wind, and his cold, calculating eyes looked down at me as if I were a piece of rotten kelp washed up on his clean deck.
“This worthless trash was caught stealing from the officers’ stores, Admiral,” Kaelen shouted over the roaring storm, his voice filled with cruel pride. “The law of the naval kingdom is clear. Any slave who steals food during a campaign shall be broken and executed before the crew.”
A large crowd of rugged, weathered sailors and armored ship guards gathered around the deck, forming a tight circle. They looked at me with cold, uncaring eyes. To them, a slave rower was not a human being. We were just disposable engines used to push their warships through the water. Some of them even laughed, pointing at my trembling, emaciated frame.
“Cut his throat and throw him to the sharks!” a sailor shouted from the back.
“Waste of a good oar,” another muttered.
First Mate Kaelen grinned, placing his heavy boot firmly on the back of my neck, forcing my face deep into the freezing ocean water that pooled on the deck. I gasped, coughing as the salt water filled my lungs, but his weight was too immense. I was completely powerless, a broken orphan deckhand trapped beneath the heel of a monster.
Grand Admiral Vance raised a single, heavily ringed hand, and the murmuring crowd instantly fell silent. The only sound left was the howling wind and the violent crashing of the waves against the hull.
“The laws of the sea must be maintained,” the Grand Admiral spoke, his voice deep, calm, and utterly devoid of pity. “If we show mercy to one thieving dog, the entire lower deck will revolt. Call the executioner. Let the crew watch what happens to those who forget their place.”
A massive ship guard stepped forward, unsheathing a heavy, broad-bladed boarding cutlass that gleamed menacingly under the dim, swinging light of the naval lanterns. Kaelen lifted his boot from my neck and grabbed my torn, wet shirt, dragging me toward the wooden execution block at the center of the deck.
“Say your prayers, rat,” Kaelen whispered in my ear, his breath hot and smelling of cheap ale. “Though I doubt the gods listen to the cries of a nameless slave.”
He gripped the collar of my rags and violently tore the shirt from my body, baring my scarred, bruised back to the freezing rain so the blade could strike clean.
But as the heavy fabric ripped away, the swinging storm lantern swung directly over my right shoulder. The bright, yellow light illuminated a large, thick mark that was deeply embedded into my flesh. It wasn’t a normal scar from a whip, and it wasn’t a brand from the slave markets. It was a massive, perfectly detailed naval burn mark—a majestic crest of a rising sea dragon holding a broken crown, surrounded by three royal stars.
It was the ancient, forbidden mark of the lost sea throne.
The massive executioner, who had already raised his heavy cutlass high into the air, froze mid-swing. His arms began to tremble violently. His eyes went wide with a sudden, primal terror as he stared down at my shoulder. He stepped back, nearly tripping over a coil of heavy rope, his sword clattering loudly against the wooden deck.
First Mate Kaelen frowned, his face twisted in anger. “What are you doing, you fool? Strike his head off!”
But the executioner didn’t move. He couldn’t speak. He just pointed a shaking finger at my back.
Grand Admiral Vance leaned forward, his annoyed expression instantly hardening as his eyes locked onto the illuminated burn mark. In a fraction of a second, all the color drained from the legendary commander’s face. His skin turned a sickly, dead pale. The heavy silver iron cup he was holding slipped from his fingers, crashing to the table and spilling dark red wine across the white naval maps.
The Grand Admiral gripped the edges of the table so hard his knuckles turned white, his breath catching in his throat as he stared at my broken, shivering body.
The entire deck fell into a sudden, suffocating silence. Even the wind seemed to quiet down as the highest officers of the naval kingdom stared at a starving slave boy in absolute shock.
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FULL STORY CHAPTER 1
The salt water had eaten into the skin of my ankles for three long years, leaving raw, red sores that never had time to heal. Down in the dark, rotting belly of the warship Leviathan, there was no sun, no fresh air, and no mercy. There was only the heavy, rhythmic thud of the drum, and the endless, agonizing pull of the massive oar.
I was nothing but a slave rower. Number Forty-Two. That was the only name the guards used when they hit me with the heavy, salt-soaked leather whip. My hands were thick with black calluses, my ribs pressed tightly against my skin from months of starvation, and my mind was permanently clouded by the thick, sickening smell of bilge water, sweat, and moldy wood.
But tonight, the hunger was too much to bear. My stomach burned with a fierce, tearing pain that felt like a wild animal trying to claw its way out of my chest. Two days had passed since the last moldy biscuit was thrown into our rowing trench. Men around me were already dying, their hands stiffening on the oars before the guards simply unchained their cold bodies and tossed them out of the portholes into the black sea.
I knew I wouldn’t survive another night. So, when the guard went upstairs to fetch the midnight water barrel, I crawled through the slimy mud of the lower hold, my chains clinking softly against the ballast stones. My fingers shook as I reached into a broken crate of officer supplies and grabbed a single, hard piece of salted beef. It was no larger than my palm, but to a starving boy, it looked like life itself.
I never even got to taste it.
A heavy, iron-toed boot slammed directly into my face, breaking my nose and sending a blinding flash of white pain through my eyes. I fell backward into the filthy water, gasping for air as thick, warm blood poured into my mouth.
“Thieving rat!” a voice boomed through the dark hold.
It was First Mate Kaelen. He was a massive, brutal man with a face scarred by old boarding battles and eyes that held absolutely no human kindness. He loved the whip. He loved the power he had over the hundreds of broken souls trapped beneath the decks. He grabbed me by my matted, dirty hair and dragged me out of the dark trench, my heavy iron leg irons banging violently against each wooden step as he pulled me up toward the main deck.
The cold ocean air hit my face like a slap, clearing the fog of pain just enough for me to realize where I was. A fierce sea storm was raging, tossing the massive warship over the dark, crashing waves of the naval kingdom. The wind howled through the high black sails, and rain washed the blood from my cheeks.
But the deck was not empty.
First Mate Kaelen threw me down onto the wet, slippery planks right in front of the high wooden table where the Fleet Council sat. These were the rulers of the sea empire, men who wore thick navy blue coats adorned with gold lace and heavy iron armor. At the center of the table sat Grand Admiral Vance, a legendary, terrifying man whose name was feared across every coastal city in the North. His white hair danced in the fierce wind, and his cold, calculating eyes looked down at me as if I were a piece of rotten kelp washed up on his clean deck.
“This worthless trash was caught stealing from the officers’ stores, Admiral,” Kaelen shouted over the roaring storm, his voice filled with cruel pride. “The law of the naval kingdom is clear. Any slave who steals food during a campaign shall be broken and executed before the crew.”
A large crowd of rugged, weathered sailors and armored ship guards gathered around the deck, forming a tight circle. They looked at me with cold, uncaring eyes. To them, a slave rower was not a human being. We were just disposable engines used to push their warships through the water. Some of them even laughed, pointing at my trembling, emaciated frame.
“Cut his throat and throw him to the sharks!” a sailor shouted from the back.
“Waste of a good oar,” another muttered.
First Mate Kaelen grinned, placing his heavy boot firmly on the back of my neck, forcing my face deep into the freezing ocean water that pooled on the deck. I gasped, coughing as the salt water filled my lungs, but his weight was too immense. I was completely powerless, a broken orphan deckhand trapped beneath the heel of a monster.
Grand Admiral Vance raised a single, heavily ringed hand, and the murmuring crowd instantly fell silent. The only sound left was the howling wind and the violent crashing of the waves against the hull.
“The laws of the sea must be maintained,” the Grand Admiral spoke, his voice deep, calm, and utterly devoid of pity. “If we show mercy to one thieving dog, the entire lower deck will revolt. Call the executioner. Let the crew watch what happens to those who forget their place.”
A massive ship guard stepped forward, unsheathing a heavy, broad-bladed boarding cutlass that gleamed menacingly under the dim, swinging light of the naval lanterns. Kaelen lifted his boot from my neck and grabbed my torn, wet shirt, dragging me toward the wooden execution block at the center of the deck.
“Say your prayers, rat,” Kaelen whispered in my ear, his breath hot and smelling of cheap ale. “Though I doubt the gods listen to the cries of a nameless slave.”
He gripped the collar of my rags and violently tore the shirt from my body, baring my scarred, bruised back to the freezing rain so the blade could strike clean.
But as the heavy fabric ripped away, the swinging storm lantern swung directly over my right shoulder. The bright, yellow light illuminated a large, thick mark that was deeply embedded into my flesh. It wasn’t a normal scar from a whip, and it wasn’t a brand from the slave markets. It was a massive, perfectly detailed naval burn mark—a majestic crest of a rising sea dragon holding a broken crown, surrounded by three royal stars.
It was the ancient, forbidden mark of the lost sea throne.
The massive executioner, who had already raised his heavy cutlass high into the air, froze mid-swing. His arms began to tremble violently. His eyes went wide with a sudden, primal terror as he stared down at my shoulder. He stepped back, nearly tripping over a coil of heavy rope, his sword clattering loudly against the wooden deck.
First Mate Kaelen frowned, his face twisted in anger. “What are you doing, you fool? Strike his head off!”
But the executioner didn’t move. He couldn’t speak. He just pointed a shaking finger at my back.
Grand Admiral Vance leaned forward, his annoyed expression instantly hardening as his eyes locked onto the illuminated burn mark. In a fraction of a second, all the color drained from the legendary commander’s face. His skin turned a sickly, dead pale. The heavy silver iron cup he was holding slipped from his fingers, crashing to the table and spilling dark red wine across the white naval maps.
The Grand Admiral gripped the edges of the table so hard his knuckles turned white, his breath catching in his throat as he stared at my broken, shivering body.
The entire deck fell into a sudden, suffocating silence. Even the wind seemed to quiet down as the highest officers of the naval kingdom stared at a starving slave boy in absolute shock.
First Mate Kaelen, completely blind to the sudden shift in the air, stepped forward angrily. He reached for his own dagger, determined to finish the job himself. “If the executioner has lost his nerve, then I will bleed this rat myself! No slave breaks the law on my watch!”
“Touch him,” Grand Admiral Vance’s voice suddenly cut through the dark night, not with anger, but with a terrifying, absolute quietness that made every veteran sailor on the deck shiver, “and I will personally skin you alive, Kaelen.”
The First Mate stopped dead in his tracks, his blade hovering just inches from my chest. He looked up at the Grand Admiral, completely confused. “My Lord? He is just a slave. A piece of garbage from the lower holds. He stole food—”
“Shut your mouth!” Vance roared, slamming his heavy hand onto the table so violently that the wooden boards cracked. The raw power in his voice echoed across the crashing waves. He stood up, his tall, imposing figure trembling as he stepped away from the Fleet Council table.
The high-ranking officers around him watched in absolute silence, none of them daring to speak a single word. They all knew what that mark meant. They all remembered the great war from fifteen years ago, the night the royal fleet was betrayed, and the true royal family of the sea throne was supposedly wiped out in a sea of fire.
Grand Admiral Vance walked slowly across the wet deck, his heavy leather boots clicking softly against the wood. Every step he took toward me felt like a mountain moving. The fierce, arrogant sailors who had been laughing just moments ago quickly stepped back, lowering their heads in fear, realizing that something monumental was happening.
Vance stopped right in front of me. The man who had sent thousands of men to their deaths without blinking an eye slowly sank to one knee, right into the puddle of freezing ocean water. His hands, covered in scars from a hundred naval battles, shook uncontrollably as he reached out toward my right shoulder.
He didn’t touch the burn mark. He simply hovered his fingers over it, as if he were looking at a sacred ghost.
“The Sovereign Crest,” Vance whispered, his voice cracking with an emotion none of his crew had ever heard before. “The royal burn of the First Admiral. It was given only to the newborn heirs of the High House of Caelum… burned into their flesh with the sacred molten silver of the naval throne.”
He slowly raised his eyes to meet mine. For the first time in three years, someone looked at me not as a number, but as a human being. He looked deeply into my eyes, searching the shape of my jaw, the color of my iris, and the old, faded childhood scar near my temple.
“What is your name, boy?” the Grand Admiral asked, his voice trembling with a mixture of hope and deep, agonizing dread.
I wiped the mixture of rain and blood from my broken nose, my voice hoarse and raw from years of breathing the toxic fumes of the bilge. I had kept this name buried so deep in my heart, terrified that if I ever spoke it, the monsters who murdered my family would find me and finish the job. But looking at the pale face of the Grand Admiral, I knew the time for hiding was over.
“My mother called me Lucan,” I said, my voice echoing clearly over the silent deck. “Lucan of the House of Caelum. The true heir to the iron fleet.”
A collective gasp broke out among the hundreds of sailors gathered on the deck. Several old, gray-haired officers immediately fell to their knees on the wet wood, their swords clattering to the floor as they bowed their heads in absolute reverence.
First Mate Kaelen’s face went from confusion to absolute, horrified realization. He stepped back, his chest heaving, his eyes darting around the deck as he realized the helpless slave boy he had been torturing and whipping for three years was the rightful ruler of the very empire they served.
Grand Admiral Vance closed his eyes, a single tear escaping and washing down his weathered cheek. He placed both of his hands on my shoulders and bowed his head deeply before me.
“Forgive us, Your Grace,” Vance choked out, his voice filled with overwhelming grief and loyalty. “We were told you died in the great betrayal at the Sunken Bay. We thought the royal bloodline was gone forever.”
I stood there, shivering in the cold wind, my bare torso exposed to the storm, my heavy iron chains still binding my wrists and ankles. I looked down at the legendary Grand Admiral kneeling at my feet, and then I turned my gaze slowly toward First Mate Kaelen, whose arrogance had completely vanished, leaving only the pathetic terror of a trapped animal.
“The bloodline did not die, Admiral,” I said softly, the coldness in my voice matching the freezing northern sea. “But the men who betrayed my father are still sitting in high places. And some of them are standing on this very deck.”
Grand Admiral Vance slowly stood up, his face transforming from grief into a cold, murderous rage as he turned his gaze directly onto First Mate Kaelen.
CHAPTER 2
First Mate Kaelen stumbled backward, his hand frantically reaching for the rail of the ship to keep himself from collapsing. The rain poured heavier now, thick sheets of water slamming against the wooden deck of the Leviathan, but nobody moved to seek shelter. The entire crew of four hundred hardened naval warriors stood frozen, their eyes locked onto the scene.
“This is a lie!” Kaelen suddenly screamed, his voice turning high-pitched and desperate as he pointed a shaking finger at me. “The boy is a clever liar! He is a common thief from the coastal slums! He must have seen an old drawing of the crest and branded himself to escape the oar! Admiral, you cannot believe this trash! He stole from your own personal rations!”
Grand Admiral Vance did not answer immediately. He slowly drew himself up to his full, towering height, his heavy navy blue coat snapping violently in the wind. The cold, mechanical efficiency that had made him the terror of the seven seas returned to his eyes, but it was now directed entirely at his own First Mate.
“Branded himself?” Vance asked, his voice dangerously low, cutting through the sound of the thunder. “Look at the scar, Kaelen. Look at the edges of the silver burn. It is a fifteen-year-old mark. The silver has grown into his skin, expanding with his bones as he aged. Do you take me for a fool? Do you think I do not know the mark of the man I swore my life to protect?”
Vance stepped toward Kaelen, and with every step, the surrounding ship guards drew their weapons—not to protect their First Mate, but to surround him. The heavy click of dozens of crossbows being cocked echoed across the deck.
“Moreover,” Vance continued, his eyes narrowing into slits, “only three people knew the exact pattern of the newborn prince’s crest. The High King, the Queen… and the trusted captain who orchestrated the attack on the royal flagship at Sunken Bay.”
Kaelen’s face turned from pale to an ashen gray. He tried to speak, but only a dry, choking sound came out of his throat.
“Fifteen years ago,” I spoke up, my voice growing stronger as the memories I had suppressed for so long came rushing back like a tidal wave. “The royal flagship was not sunk by an enemy fleet. It was ambushed from within. A young officer opened the lower gun ports during a midnight storm, letting the water rush in while the royal family slept. My father managed to throw me into a small wooden crate before the ship went down. I watched from the waves as that same officer stood on an enemy deck, holding a torch, laughing as the flagship burned.”
I took a step closer to Kaelen, the heavy iron chains around my ankles scraping loudly against the deck. The sailors looked at the chains, then at my bleeding face, and a visible wave of collective anger began to ripple through the crew. They had been complicit in torturing their own prince.
“I never forgot that officer’s face,” I whispered, staring directly into Kaelen’s terrified eyes. “Even when you were whipping my back in the dark holds, even when you were kicking me into the bilge water… I knew exactly who you were, Kaelen. I kept my mouth shut because I knew if I spoke my name before the fleet was ready to hear it, you would have drowned me in the middle of the night.”
The Grand Admiral turned to the heavy-set executioner who was still shaking on the deck. “Unlock the Prince’s chains. Now.”
The executioner scrambled forward on his knees, his hands fumbling with the heavy brass keys at his belt. He quickly unlocked the heavy iron cuffs around my wrists and the thick shackle around my ankles. As the heavy iron slammed against the wooden deck, a collective sigh of relief seemed to pass through the older sailors. For three years, the rightful ruler of the naval kingdom had been chained like a beast, pulling an oar in the dark, while a traitor lived in luxury in the officer quarters.
As soon as my hands were free, I rubbed my raw, bleeding wrists. I looked at Grand Admiral Vance. “Admiral, who gave Kaelen his commission as First Mate on your flagship?”
Vance’s expression hardened even further. “He was placed on my ship by the order of Fleet Commander Malakar… the man who took control of the naval kingdom after your father’s disappearance.”
“Then the treason goes all the way to the top of the High Council,” I said, a cold smile touching my lips despite the pain in my broken nose. “Malakar thought he had erased every trace of my family. He left Kaelen here to keep an eye on the fleet, ensuring no loyalists ever tried to rise up.”
Kaelen realized he was completely cornered. The men he had commanded with an iron fist for years were now looking at him like a rabid dog that needed to be put down. In a final, desperate act of madness, Kaelen lunged forward, drawing a hidden flintlock pistol from beneath his heavy leather vest. He didn’t aim it at the Admiral. He aimed it directly at my head.
“If I am going to hang,” Kaelen shrieked, “then the Caelum bloodline dies tonight!”
Before his finger could press the trigger, Grand Admiral Vance moved with the speed of a striking sea serpent. His heavy broadsword flashed through the rain, a brilliant arc of silver steel.
A loud, wet thud echoed across the deck.
Kaelen screamed, dropping to his knees as his right hand, still clutching the pistol, severed cleanly at the wrist and rolled across the wet wood into the drainage grate. Blood poured onto the deck, mixing with the seawater and rain. The crowd didn’t cheer; they stood in absolute, breathless awe of the Admiral’s swift justice.
“You are not fit to die by an honorable blade,” Vance growled, stepping over the screaming traitor and kicking him flat onto his back. He turned to the ship guards. “Bind his remaining arm. Throw him into the lowest cargo cage—the very one where he kept the starving slaves. Let him breathe the bilge water. Let him eat the moldy biscuits. He will remain there until we reach the Great Harbor of the High King.”
The ship guards slammed their heavy boots onto Kaelen’s chest, pinning him down as they roughly tied his arms with rough hemp rope. Kaelen howled in agony, his face covered in sweat and tears as he was dragged toward the dark, rotting hatch he had come out of just an hour ago. The sailors who used to laugh at his cruel jokes now spit on him as he passed.
Vance turned back to me, his fierce demeanor softening immediately. He unclasped his own heavy, fur-lined navy blue coat—the symbol of his high office—and gently placed it over my bare, shivering shoulders. The warmth of the thick wool felt like a distant dream against my frozen skin.
“Your Grace,” Vance said, his voice deep and solemn. “The fleet has been blind for fifteen years. We have served a false council, believing the true throne was lost to the sea. But the sea has returned what belongs to us. What are your orders?”
I looked around the massive warship. I looked at the hundreds of weathered faces staring at me with a mixture of fear, hope, and absolute loyalty. I looked down at the dark hatch where my fellow slave rowers were still chained in the dark, completely unaware that their world had just changed forever.
“First,” I said, my voice carrying the natural authority of a bloodline that had ruled the oceans for a thousand years, “bring up every single man from the rowing decks. Give them dry clothes, clean water, and the finest meat from the officers’ stores. They are no longer slaves. They are the first warriors of my new vanguard.”
“It shall be done immediately,” Vance replied, bowing his head.
“And second,” I continued, looking out into the dark, storm-battered horizon toward the distant lights of the capital city, “turn the fleet around. We are going home to take back my father’s throne.”
An old sailor in the front row suddenly raised his fist into the air, his voice cracking with emotion. “Long live Prince Lucan! Long live the Sea Throne!”
Within seconds, the entire deck erupted into a roaring, deafening chant that drowned out the sound of the thunder. Four hundred men shouted my name into the night, their voices carrying across the black waves.
But as I stood there, wrapped in the Admiral’s coat, the reality of what lay ahead began to settle into my chest. Fleet Commander Malakar had thousands of soldiers, a massive fortress built into the sea cliffs, and the entire wealth of the naval kingdom at his disposal. We were just one warship, accompanied by a crew of tired veterans and broken slaves.
Grand Admiral Vance walked up beside me, his eyes following my gaze toward the dark horizon. “The other captains in the fleet… many of them were loyal to your father, Your Grace. But they are terrified of Malakar’s wrath. When they see your mark, they will flip their flags. But Malakar will not give up the throne without a sea of blood.”
“Let him try,” I whispered, my grip tightening on the gold buttons of the coat. “He thinks he buried me fifteen years ago. He is about to find out that some things cannot be drowned.”
Vance nodded, a grim smile appearing on his weathered face. “The storm is getting worse, my prince. We should move you to the captain’s quarters. You need food, and your nose needs to be set.”
“No,” I said, stopping him with a firm hand on his arm. “I will not sleep in a warm cabin while the men who rowed beside me are still coming up from the dark. I will stay on this deck until every single one of them is free.”
Vance’s eyes shone with a profound respect. He bowed again, lower this time, acknowledging not just my blood, but my character.
For the next three hours, I stood in the pouring rain, watching as the broken, hollow-eyed slave rowers were brought up into the light of the storm lanterns. One by one, as they realized who I was and what had happened, they fell to their knees, weeping, their callused hands reaching out to touch the hem of the coat I wore. They were no longer nameless numbers. They were my people.
But just as the last man was brought up, a loud shout came from the high crow’s nest above us.
“Sails on the horizon!” the lookout screamed through the wind. “Three black-sailed warships! They carry the crest of the Fleet Commander! They are surrounding us!”
The chanting instantly stopped. The deck went completely still once more. Grand Admiral Vance grabbed the iron railing, his eyes straining through the thick ocean fog as three massive shadows began to emerge from the darkness, their cannons primed and aimed directly at our hull.
