CHAPTER 3
The heavy, polished oak doors of the grand council chamber felt like the boundaries of a completely different world, separating the raw, freezing terror of the outer deck from a suffocating, dust-filled silence that smelled of ancient parchment, dried blood, and burning whale fat.
I remained on my knees, my breath coming in ragged, painful gasps that rattled deep inside my chest. The salt water I had swallowed during my time in the Storm Cage still burned the back of my throat, leaving a bitter, metallic taste on my tongue. I could feel the cold, sticky pool of spilled red wine soaking through the tattered fabric of my trousers, staining my skin, but I didn’t dare move a single muscle.
Before me, Captain Kaelen—the Iron-Eye, the undisputed ruler of the northern black-sailed fleets—remained on one knee. His massive, scarred face was only inches from mine. I could see the tiny lines of silver hair in his thick beard, the deep, rugged valleys of the scars that mapped his long life of violence, and the intense, trembling light in his single blue eye. It was an eye that had looked upon burning cities, sinking navies, and mountains of gold without ever flickering. But right now, looking at the base of my neck, that eye was wide with an emotion that looked terrifyingly like reverence.
“My Lord,” Kaelen repeated, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly whisper that was meant only for my ears, though it carried an immense weight that seemed to alter the very air in the room. “The trident… the broken links… I would know that mark even if I were blind and dying. Speak your name. Let the ghosts of the Sea Throne hear it.”
I swallowed hard, my throat feeling as though it were lined with broken glass. For fifteen years, that name had been a heavy iron lock on my tongue. For fifteen years, I had been told by the old woman who hid me in the coastal taverns that if I ever spoke it aloud, the wind would carry it to the ears of the men who had murdered my family, and the ocean would turn into my grave. I had spent more than half my life training myself to forget it, to bury it beneath the identity of a nameless, broken cabin boy who accepted kicks and curses as his daily bread.
I looked past Kaelen’s massive shoulder and saw Torstein. The First Mate’s face had gone from a flush of arrogant, drunken excitement to a pale, sweating mask of absolute confusion and rising panic. He was gripping the hilt of his heavy cutlass so tightly that his knuckles were stark white, his eyes darting between his kneeling captain and my pathetic, shivering frame on the floor.
“Captain Kaelen!” Torstein stammered, his voice losing all of its booming authority, cracking slightly as he stepped forward, his heavy boots making a desperate, uneven sound against the wood. “What is the meaning of this? You bend your knee to a bilge rat? A thieving, useless piece of deck-trash? The men outside… they are waiting for the execution! They saw him fail the Storm Cage! If we do not throw him over the side, it will look like weakness! The crew will think—”
“Silence, you miserable dog,” Kaelen muttered, not even turning his head to look at him. The absolute quietness of the King’s voice was infinitely more chilling than his previous roar. It was the tone of a man who had already decided exactly how someone was going to die.
Kaelen’s single eye never left mine. “Speak it, boy. Do not fear him. He is already a corpse walking; he simply does not know it yet. Tell them who you are.”
I straightened my back, ignoring the sharp, stabbing pains that shot through my cracked ribs from where Torstein had kicked me earlier. The cold water was still dripping from my hair, running down my face like heavy tears, but my gaze did not waver. I looked directly into the eyes of the five fleet commanders who sat around the massive oak table, men who had just moments ago laughed and voted to have me fed to the sharks.
“My name,” I said, my voice starting as a weak, trembling whisper before catching a sudden, fierce current of strength that surprised even myself, “is Eric of the House of Valerius. Son of Admiral Robert the Great. Lord of the Three Crests, and the last true blood of the Lost Sea Dynasty.”
The words seemed to hang in the air like a heavy frost.
The reaction was instantaneous. One of the fleet commanders, an old, gray-haired captain named Vance whose face was covered in naval branding, stood up so violently that his heavy wooden chair crashed backward against the stone hearth. His eyes went completely wide, his hand dropping away from his wine cup as if it had turned into a venomous serpent.
“Valerius…” Vance whispered, his voice trembling with a deep, ancient fear. “That’s impossible. The line was broken fifteen years ago at the Siege of the White Harbor. I was there. I saw the flagship The Iron Monarch go down in flames. I saw the Admiral’s palace reduced to ash. Every child, every servant, every soul carrying that blood was slaughtered by the High King’s personal guard. There was no survivor.”
“There was one,” Kaelen said, slowly rising to his full height, his massive form drawing up like a dark cloud blotting out the sun. He turned around to face his commanders, his single eye sweeping over them with a fierce, possessive loyalty. “The youngest boy. Prince Eric. The Admiral’s personal maid smuggled him out through the burning bilge channels before the walls collapsed. I searched for him for five years across every northern port, every hidden cove, every slave market from here to the southern ice. I thought the sea had taken him. I thought my master’s blood had been extinguished forever.”
Kaelen walked slowly toward the table, his hand resting on the pommel of his heavy, gold-hilted broadsword. “But the sea does not destroy what belongs to it. It only hides it until the time is right. Look at his neck, Vance. Look at the branding. That is not a slave mark. That is the Trident of the Sea Throne, burned into the flesh of the royal heirs on the day of their first ocean voyage. I watched the Admiral burn that very mark onto his son’s shoulder with my own eyes, using the golden seal of the fleet.”
The room descended into a frantic, terrified murmuring. The five captains looked at me not with the amusement they had shown a few minutes prior, but with a profound, superstitious awe. In our world, bloodline was everything. The House of Valerius hadn’t just been rulers; they were the legendary architects of the great black fleets, the ones who had written the laws of the ocean and commanded the respect of every pirate, privateer, and naval officer who ever set foot on a wooden deck. To find a living heir of that house was like finding a living god among the ruins of a destroyed temple.
“This is madness!” Torstein suddenly shouted, his voice high and desperate as he realized the ground was completely sliding out from under his feet. He looked around at the commanders, trying to find a single ally among the terrified faces. “It’s a trick! A clever lie! The boy is a gutter rat! He probably found that mark on some dead body or had an old beggar tattoo it on him to save his skin! Captain, you are letting old ghosts cloud your judgment! Look at him! He is weak! He screamed like a girl when I dragged him across the deck! He nearly drowned in forty seconds inside the Storm Cage! Is this the blood of your great Admiral? A shivering, pathetic coward?”
Torstein lunged forward, reaching out a massive, dirty hand to grab my hair again, determined to pull my head back and prove his point through raw violence. “I’ll show you what he is! I’ll cut his throat right now and show you that his blood is just as red and worthless as any other—”
Schwing!
The sound of Kaelen’s sword clearing its scabbard was like a single, sharp crack of winter ice.
Before Torstein’s hand could even come within an inch of my wet hair, the heavy iron blade of the Pirate King flashed through the torchlight. There was a dull, wet thud, followed by a sudden, agonizing shriek that ripped from Torstein’s throat.
Three of Torstein’s fingers flew through the air, landing with a soft splash into the pool of spilled wine on the floor.
The First Mate stumbled backward, clutching his mutilated, bleeding hand against his chest, his face twisting into a hideous mask of agony and shock. Blood sprayed from his stumps, splattering across the pristine white maps laid out on the oak table.
“If you touch him again with a single finger,” Kaelen said, his voice terrifyingly calm as he held the tip of his bloody broadsword an inch from Torstein’s throat, “I will not just kill you, Torstein. I will skin you alive, hang your flesh from the main mast, and force your sons to watch the gulls eat it. You are speaking to the rightful heir of the Sea Throne. You are speaking to my master.”
Torstein fell to his knees, panting heavily, his large body shaking as the reality of his situation finally began to pierce through his thick, arrogant skull. He looked up at Kaelen, then slowly, with a look of pure horror, he turned his eyes toward me. The cabin boy he had spent months kicking, starving, and spitting on was now standing under the absolute protection of the most dangerous man on the northern seas.
“Vance,” Kaelen commanded, never taking his eye off the bleeding First Mate. “Assemble the entire crew. Every single man on The Leviathan, from the master gunners to the lowest galley slaves. Bring them to the main deck. Even in the middle of this storm, they will stand and witness the judgment of the fleet.”
“Captain,” Vance hesitated, looking out at the dark windows where the rain was still slamming against the glass. “The storm is at its peak. The waves are washing over the waist of the ship. It’s dangerous to call a full assembly now.”
“Then let them drown if they cannot hold their footing!” Kaelen roared, his patience completely exhausted. “The true King of the Fleet has returned to his ship, and by the ancient laws of the black sails, the crew will kneel or they will bleed! Move!”
Vance didn’t hesitate another second. He turned and sprinted out of the cabin doors, his boots pounding against the deck as he began to blow the heavy silver assembly horn. The deep, mourning wail of the horn cut through the sound of the howling wind and roaring thunder, signaling to every man on board that something monumental was happening.
Kaelen slowly lowered his sword, wiping the blood on a piece of discarded linen from the table. He turned back to me, his harsh expression instantly softening into something resembling a proud father. He reached down and picked up his heavy iron goblet from the floor, placing it back on the table, though he didn’t refill it.
“My Lord,” Kaelen said softly. “You have worn rags for too long. You have carried the weight of their cruelty in silence. But tonight, that silence ends. Follow me. Let us remind these dogs what happens when they forget who gave them their freedom.”
I stood up, my legs trembling, but my spirit felt lighter than it had in fifteen years. The pain in my ribs seemed to vanish, replaced by a cold, burning hunger for justice. I looked down at Torstein, who was still groveling on the floor, trying to stem the flow of blood from his hand with a torn piece of his coat.
“Get up, Torstein,” I said, my voice cold and clear, echoing perfectly in the quiet cabin. “The crew is waiting for us.”
The First Mate looked up at me, his eyes wide with a pathetic, whimpering terror, realizing that the long night of his cruelty was finally coming to a bloody, unyielding end.
CHAPTER 4
The main deck of The Leviathan was a scene of absolute, chaotic fury. The northern storm had turned the ocean into an active battlefield of towering, black-green waves that crashed over the heavy wooden bulwarks, sending massive sheets of freezing, white-foamed water cascading across the deck. The sky was completely black, illuminated only by the occasional, jagged forks of blue lightning that split the clouds, casting a brief, ghostly glare over the ship.
Despite the blinding rain and the dangerous, rolling motion of the vessel, nearly two hundred men stood assembled in the waist of the ship. They were holding onto ropes, cargo nets, and the bases of the massive masts just to keep from being washed into the sea. They were confused, angry, and shivering, their faces wet and wild under the dim, flickering light of dozens of iron storm lanterns that swung violently from the rigging.
In the center of the deck stood the heavy iron Storm Cage, still dripping with the freezing water that had almost claimed my life less than an hour ago.
The heavy wooden doors of the grand quarter-cabin flew open, and Captain Kaelen stepped out into the rain. He did not wear a coat; he stood in his velvet doublet, his long silver-streaked hair flying wild in the wind, his single blue eye cutting through the darkness like a beacon. Behind him came the five fleet commanders, their expressions grim and resolute.
And between them walked me.
I was no longer wearing the tattered, torn rags of a cabin boy. Kaelen had thrown a heavy, deep-red captain’s cloak over my shoulders, the thick wool instantly blocking out the biting chill of the wind. The gold-embroidered edges of the cloak flashed whenever the lightning struck above us.
Behind me, two heavy guards dragged Torstein out onto the deck. The First Mate was no longer the terrifying mountain of a man who had ruled the ship with a leather whip. He was on his knees, his bleeding hand wrapped in a messy, stained rag, his face pale and slick with rain and tears, his chest heaving with dry, pathetic sobs.
A collective gasp ran through the two hundred pirates assembled on the deck. They looked at each other in absolute bewilderment, their murmurs drowned out by the thunder. They had expected to see my dead body thrown into the sea; instead, they saw me standing alongside the Pirate King, while the brutal First Mate was being dragged like a condemned prisoner.
“Listen to me, you wolves of the black fleet!” Kaelen’s voice boomed across the deck, carrying over the roar of the wind with an impossible, supernatural strength that commanded immediate silence. Even the storm seemed to lessen its fury for a brief moment as the King spoke.
“For months, you have watched this boy scrub your decks,” Kaelen shouted, pointing his massive, ring-covered hand toward me. “You have kicked him. You have stolen his food. You have called him a nameless rat, and tonight, under the direction of that sniveling coward Torstein, you watched him be thrown into the Storm Cage to drown for your amusement!”
The crew remained perfectly still, some of them shifting uncomfortably on their feet, their eyes darting toward Torstein, who was whimpering on the wet wood.
“You thought he was an orphan with no name and no family!” Kaelen continued, his voice rising to a fierce, emotional crescendo. “But tonight, the sea gods swung the lantern and revealed the truth! This boy carries the Trident of the Sea Throne upon his neck! He is Eric of the House of Valerius! The true, surviving son of Admiral Robert the Great! The rightful heir to the fleets we sail and the waters we control!”
A stunned, deafening silence fell over the entire crew. The men looked at me, their mouths open in disbelief. The older pirates, men who had sailed under my father twenty years ago before the great betrayal, instantly dropped their weapons. One by one, their hardened, weather-beaten faces softened into a look of profound, emotional shock.
Harek, the cruel pirate who had kicked me in the stomach earlier that day, let his heavy boarding axe slip from his hand. It clattered loudly against the wet deck. He looked at my face, tracing the lines of my jaw, seeing the undeniable resemblance to the legendary Admiral who had once unified the northern seas.
“It’s him…” Harek whispered, his voice cracking as he instantly fell to his knees in the pouring rain, his heavy head bowing down until his forehead touched the wet, salty wood of the deck. “By the old gods, it’s the Admiral’s boy. We… we laid our boots upon the blood of the Sea Throne…”
Like a row of dominoes falling in the wind, the hardened, bloodthirsty crew of The Leviathan began to drop to their knees. Two hundred brutal killers, pirates who feared neither king nor empire, knelt in the freezing saltwater, bowing their heads in deep, collective shame and absolute loyalty before a fourteen-year-old boy in a red cloak.
Only Torstein remained, trembling and weeping, isolated in his guilt.
Kaelen turned to me, drawing his heavy broadsword and presenting the hilt to my hand. “My Lord, by the ancient laws of the black sails, the punishment for striking, torturing, or attempting to murder an heir of the Sea Throne is death by the very instrument used for the crime. The judgment is yours to give.”
I took the heavy sword from Kaelen’s hand. It was heavy, the iron cold against my raw, blistered palms, but I held it straight and true. I walked slowly across the wet deck, my red cloak billowing behind me in the storm wind, until I stood directly in front of Torstein.
The First Mate looked up at me, his eyes wide with a pathetic, begging terror. He looked down at the iron Storm Cage sitting right next to him, realizing exactly what his fate was going to be.
“Please, Prince Eric…” Torstein whimpered, the title tasting like ash in his mouth as he groveled at my feet, his forehead pressing against my bare, wet toes. “I didn’t know! I swear to the gods, I didn’t know who you were! I was only trying to keep discipline! If I had known your blood, I would have protected you with my life! Have mercy! I have a wife… I have sons in the southern ports… please don’t throw me to the dark!”
I looked down at him, my face completely expressionless. I remembered every single kick. I remembered the freezing nights in the cargo hold, sharing moldy bread with the rats. I remembered the burning agony in my lungs as he lowered me into the dark, crushing depths of the ocean, laughing as I suffocated.
“You told me earlier tonight that my only purpose was to die when you told me to die, for your entertainment,” I said, my voice cutting through the wind like a cold iron blade. “You told me that begging only makes it sweeter.”
Torstein’s breath caught in his throat, his face turning an impossible shade of white as he realized his own cruel words had become his execution warrant.
“The sea does not look for tears, Torstein,” I continued, quoting the very rule of survival he had beaten into me. “It only looks for justice. And tonight, the ocean is very hungry.”
I turned to the two massive guards standing behind him. “Lock him in the cage.”
“No! No! Please! Mercy!” Torstein screamed, thrashing wildly as the guards grabbed him by his heavy arms. Even with his immense strength, he was no match for the entire crew’s anger. They dragged him violently over to the iron cage, shoving his large, bleeding body inside the narrow, spiked frame, bending his limbs until he was packed into a tight, miserable ball.
The heavy iron door was slammed shut, and the thick, rusty bolt was slid into place. It was the exact same sound I had heard when I was trapped inside it, but this time, the man inside was the monster who had built it.
“Lower him down,” I commanded, my voice firm and unyielding. “And do not bring him back up until the storm has passed.”
The crew didn’t hesitate. They hauled on the heavy hemp rope, lifting the cage off the deck. Torstein’s screams of absolute terror were swallowed by a massive crack of thunder as the winch spun rapidly, plunging the iron cage down through the dark night sky into the roaring, black abyss of the ocean.
Splash.
The water swallowed his cries forever, the sea taking back the cruelty that had ruled this ship for far too long.
I turned back to face the crew. The two hundred pirates remained on their knees in the pouring rain, their eyes locked onto me, waiting for my next command, ready to follow me to the ends of the earth or into the very mouth of hell itself.
Captain Kaelen stepped up beside me, a fierce, triumphant smile breaking through his scarred face. He raised his massive fist into the stormy sky, his voice echoing across the open water.
“Long live the King of the Black Fleet! Long live the House of Valerius!”
The crew erupted into a deafening, unified roar that shook the very timbers of The Leviathan, their voices carrying over the waves like a promise of war and restoration.
I looked out over the vast, dark ocean, the heavy red cloak keeping the freezing wind from my skin, and for the first time in many long, agonizing years, nobody knelt on my back again.
