The wood of the slave galley was always cold, always wet, and always stained with the blood of men who died with oars in their hands. For seven long years, that was the only world I knew. I was nothing but a number, a nameless orphan boy chained to the lowest bench of the Iron Vulture, the flagship of the black-sailed fleet that terrorized the northern waters.
My hands were raw, covered in deep, weeping blisters that never had time to heal. My back was a roadmap of faded white scars, courtesy of First Mate Craig’s heavy leather whip. To them, I wasn’t a human being. I was just a engine made of bone and muscle, meant to row until my heart gave out, and then be tossed over the side to feed the sharks.
On the night of the great storm, hunger was gnawing at my ribs like a wild animal. We hadn’t been fed in three days. The sea was raging, throwing massive walls of black water against the hull, and the slave drivers were pushing us to the brink of death to keep the ship from crashing into the coastal reefs. When a rotted, half-eaten salted fish fell from a guard’s bucket onto the slimy floorboards, I didn’t think. I lunged forward, grabbing it and shoving it into my mouth, swallowing the foul meat whole just to make the burning in my stomach stop.
But Craig saw me.
With a roar of pure hatred, he brought his heavy wood-handled whip down across my face. The blow blinded my left eye with blood and knocked me flat against the filth of the floorboards. He grabbed the heavy iron chains around my neck, dragging me up the wooden steps, out of the dark cargo hold, and onto the main deck where the freezing rain slapped me awake.
“We have a thief among the cattle!” Craig bellowed, his voice cutting through the howling wind. “A useless, starving dog stealing from the ship’s stores!”
The crew gathered around in a circle, their dirty, bearded faces twisted into cruel smiles. To them, the public execution of a miserable slave rower was better than gold. It was entertainment. They cheered and shouted insults as Craig threw me at the feet of the Fleet Commander, the ruthless warlord who ruled these seas with an iron fist.
The Commander sat in his high wooden chair, his cold eyes looking down at me as if I were a piece of seaweed washed up on his deck. He didn’t say a word. He just nodded to Craig, giving the silent order for my death. Craig drew his heavy, notched steel cutlass, forcing my head down onto a wooden chopping block. I closed my eyes, listening to the rain, waiting for the cold steel to end my misery.
But as Craig violently grabbed my torn collar to pull my neck bare for the strike, the swinging lantern light hit the side of my throat.
Craig stopped. The heavy blade slipped from his fingers, clattering loudly against the wet deck planks. The cruel smile vanished from his face, replaced by a pale, breathless terror that I had never seen on a man before. He stumbled backward, his knees buckling, pointing a shaking finger at my neck.
The entire crew went dead silent. Even the wind seemed to quiet down as the Fleet Commander slowly stood up from his chair, his eyes fixed on the burned mark beneath my collar.
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FULL STORY
CHAPTER 1
The wood of the slave galley was always cold, always wet, and always stained with the blood of men who died with oars in their hands. For seven long years, that was the only world I knew. I was nothing but a number, a nameless orphan boy chained to the lowest bench of the Iron Vulture, the flagship of the black-sailed fleet that terrorized the northern waters.
My hands were raw, covered in deep, weeping blisters that never had time to heal. My back was a roadmap of faded white scars, courtesy of First Mate Craig’s heavy leather whip. To them, I wasn’t a human being. I was just an engine made of bone and muscle, meant to row until my heart gave out, and then be tossed over the side to feed the sharks.
On the night of the great storm, hunger was gnawing at my ribs like a wild animal. We hadn’t been fed in three days. The sea was raging, throwing massive walls of black water against the hull, and the slave drivers were pushing us to the brink of death to keep the ship from crashing into the coastal reefs. When a rotted, half-eaten salted fish fell from a guard’s bucket onto the slimy floorboards, I didn’t think. I lunged forward, grabbing it and shoving it into my mouth, swallowing the foul meat whole just to make the burning in my stomach stop.
But Craig saw me.
With a roar of pure hatred, he brought his heavy wood-handled whip down across my face. The blow blinded my left eye with blood and knocked me flat against the filth of the floorboards. He grabbed the heavy iron chains around my neck, dragging me up the wooden steps, out of the dark cargo hold, and onto the main deck where the freezing rain slapped me awake.
“We have a thief among the cattle!” Craig bellowed, his voice cutting through the howling wind. “A useless, starving dog stealing from the ship’s stores!”
The crew gathered around in a circle, their dirty, bearded faces twisted into cruel smiles. To them, the public execution of a miserable slave rower was better than gold. It was entertainment. They cheered and shouted insults as Craig threw me at the feet of the Fleet Commander, the ruthless warlord who ruled these seas with an iron fist.
The Commander sat in his high wooden chair, his cold eyes looking down at me as if I were a piece of seaweed washed up on his deck. He didn’t say a word. He just nodded to Craig, giving the silent order for my death. Craig drew his heavy, notched steel cutlass, forcing my head down onto a wooden chopping block. I closed my eyes, listening to the rain, waiting for the cold steel to end my misery.
But as Craig violently grabbed my torn collar to pull my neck bare for the strike, the swinging lantern light hit the side of my throat.
Craig stopped. The heavy blade slipped from his fingers, clattering loudly against the wet deck planks. The cruel smile vanished from his face, replaced by a pale, breathless terror that I had never seen on a man before. He stumbled backward, his knees buckling, pointing a shaking finger at my neck.
The entire crew went dead silent. Even the wind seemed to quiet down as the Fleet Commander slowly stood up from his chair, his eyes fixed on the burned mark beneath my collar.
I stayed on my knees, my face pressed against the wet, salt-crusted wood. The rain felt like needles against my bare skin, but the sudden, heavy silence on the deck was far colder. Just seconds ago, fifty grown men had been screaming for my blood, their voices filled with the twisted joy of watching a powerless boy die. Now, the only sound was the creaking of the ship’s massive timber masts and the distant roar of the crashing waves.
“Craig,” the Fleet Commander spoke, his voice low, vibrating like thunder before a terrible storm. He stepped down from his raised platform, his heavy leather boots thudding deliberately against the deck. “What is the meaning of this? Pick up your blade and finish the thief.”
Craig didn’t move to grab the cutlass. His large, calloused hand stayed pressed against his own chest, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. He looked at the Commander, then back down at me, his eyes wide and unblinking.
“Commander…” Craig whispered, his voice cracking, losing all the arrogant malice that usually kept the slave rowers shaking in fear. “Look at his neck. Look at the flesh below his collar.”
The Commander frowned, a deep line carving itself into his weathered, scarred forehead. He was a man who had sailed through a hundred bloody battles, a warlord who had burned coastal cities and put thousands to the sword without flinching. He did not know fear. He walked closer, his dark woolen cloak snapping in the wind, until he stood directly over me.
I didn’t try to hide. I had nothing left to lose. I lifted my chin slightly, allowing the freezing rain to wash away the sweat, grease, and blood that covered my skin.
The Commander bent down, his powerful hand reaching out to grip my chin. He forced my head up, his thumb pressing hard against my jawline. With his other hand, he grabbed the rough, frayed collar of my slave rags and pulled it aside, exposing the deep, pale scar that ran down the right side of my neck toward my collarbone.
It wasn’t a normal scar from a blade or a whip. It was a burn mark, old and deeply set into the skin, shaped perfectly like a three-pronged anchor surrounded by a crown of broken waves. It was the ancient crest of the Lost Sovereign, the royal naval bloodline that had ruled the entire Eastern Reach before the black-sailed fleet rose from the shadows and slaughtered them all.
The Commander’s grip on my jaw tightened so hard I thought my bone would shatter, but his hand was shaking. His face, usually flushed from ale and sun, turned a sickly shade of gray. He stared at the mark as if he were looking at a ghost.
“Where did you find this boy?” the Commander asked, his voice barely audible over the wind, addressing Craig without looking away from me.
“Seven years ago, Sire,” Craig stammered, dropping to one knee on the wet deck, not out of respect for me, but because his legs could no longer support him. “When we burned the royal harbor at Eldergard… we cleared the wreckage. We gathered the surviving children to sell into the galley markets. He… he was just a nameless toddler wrapped in mud and ash. I didn’t see… I swear by the sea, I never saw the mark!”
“You fool,” the Commander hissed, his voice dropping into a deadly whisper that sent a shiver down my spine. “You brought a curse onto my ship.”
The surrounding crew members began to mutter among themselves, their faces pale under the flickering yellow light of the storm lanterns. They knew the legends. Every sailor on the northern seas knew that the High King had offered a mountain of silver for any trace of the lost naval prince, the boy who was supposed to inherit the Sea Throne before the great betrayal. For seven years, the world believed the boy had drowned in the burning waters of Eldergard.
Instead, he had been sitting in the dark, breathing the filth of the lowest cargo deck, pulling an iron-weighted oar under the whips of the very men who destroyed his kingdom.
“He is a thief,” Craig said quickly, desperate to regain his footing, his voice rising in panic. “He broke the ship’s law, Commander! He stole food during a red storm! The law of the fleet says he must die, no matter who his father was! If the crew sees us spare a slave, there will be mutiny!”
The Commander didn’t answer immediately. He let go of my face, standing up to his full height. He looked out across the dark, stormy ocean, his mind spinning, calculating the danger. If word reached the High King that the lost prince was alive on this ship, a hundred royal warships would hunt them to the ends of the earth. But if he killed me right here, the secret would die with the storm.
He looked down at me again, his eyes turning cold and hard, the brief moment of shock passing. He was a warlord, and a warlord did not allow ghosts to dictate his fate.
“Craig is right,” the Commander said loudly, turning to face his crew, his voice booming across the deck to regain control. “A slave is a slave. The sea cares nothing for bloodlines, and neither do I. This boy is a thief, and he will die a thief’s death. Put his head back on the block!”
The crew raised a hesitant cheer, their fear fading as their bloodlust returned. Craig let out a sigh of relief, a wicked, terrified grin returning to his lips. He lunged forward, grabbing my hair with his left hand, shoving my face down onto the rough, splintered wood of the chopping block once more.
He reached down, his fingers wrapping around the hilt of his dropped cutlass. He lifted the heavy iron blade high above his head, the metal gleaming under the dark sky.
I closed my eyes. I didn’t beg for mercy. I had spent seven years in hell, and the thought of finally resting beneath the quiet waves didn’t frighten me anymore. I thought of my mother, whose face I could barely remember, and hoped the deep waters would be kinder than the men above them.
“Die, you royal rat,” Craig snarled, tensing his muscles to bring the blade down.
But before the steel could fall, a massive roar split the night—not from the mouth of a man, but from the very belly of the ship. A deafening crash echoed from below, followed by the sound of splintering wood and the terrified screams of the guards in the cargo hold. The entire 300-ton warship lurched violently to the left, throwing Craig off balance. His cutlass came down, missing my neck by an inch, burying its heavy blade deep into the wooden block instead.
The ship groaned as a second impact rocked the hull. The hatch to the slave quarters blew open, and a man covered in blood stumbled onto the deck, his eyes wide with horror.
“Commander!” the guard screamed, collapsing to his knees. “The rowers! They’ve broken their chains! The old wolf is leading them! They’re coming up!”
Before the Commander could even draw his sword, a giant figure exploded from the dark hatchway. It was Logan, the oldest slave on the ship, a massive warrior who had been chained next to me for five years. His body was covered in iron scars, his long gray beard matted with sweat, and in his massive hands, he held the heavy iron iron-bar he had torn from the galley walls.
Behind him came a roaring tide of eighty starved, angry slave rowers, their broken chains clanking against the wood like the drums of war.
“Protect the boy!” Logan’s voice boomed like a war horn, his eyes locking onto me on the chopping block. “The blood of Eldergard is on this deck! Tonight, we take the ship!”
CHAPTER 2
The deck instantly turned into a slaughterhouse.
The storm above us was nothing compared to the fury of eighty men who had been starved and whipped for years, finally breaking free from their cages. The slave rowers lunged at the armored pirates with bare hands, teeth, and pieces of broken wood. They didn’t care about dying; they only cared about taking as many of their tormentors into the dark water with them as possible.
Craig scrambled backward away from me, trying to pull his cutlass free from the heavy chopping block where it was stuck. I didn’t give him the chance. With my hands still bound by a heavy iron chain, I threw myself forward, slamming my body into his knees. The force of my weight knocked him off his feet, his head cracking hard against the iron-trimmed captain’s chair.
He groaned, dazed, blood pooling from the back of his skull. I scrambled over him, my breath coming in ragged gasps. I couldn’t reach his keys, but I managed to grab a small dagger tucked into his leather boot. It wasn’t enough to cut my chains, but it was enough to fight.
“Your Highness!” a voice shouted through the chaos.
I looked up to see Logan swinging his massive iron bar, crushing the chest of a pirate guard who had tried to sneak up behind me. The old warrior reached down with one massive, calloused hand, grabbing the center link of the chains around my wrists. With a roar of pure, primal strength, he twisted the iron until the weak link snapped, freeing my hands.
“You know who I am?” I shouted over the sound of screaming men and clashing steel, my voice trembling.
“I knew your father, boy!” Logan roared back, his eyes burning with a fierce loyalty I had never seen in all my years below deck. “I fought beside the Grand Admiral at the battle of the Black Reef! I recognized your mark the day they threw you onto the bench next to me, but I kept my mouth shut to keep you alive! Now, take this blade and let’s finish these bastards!”
He tossed me a short sword he had taken from a dead guard. The weight of the steel felt strange in my hands—cold, heavy, and real. For seven years, I had held nothing but a rotted wooden oar. Now, I held the instrument of my survival.
Across the deck, the Fleet Commander was rallying his remaining men. He was a veteran of a thousand fights, and he wasn’t going to lose his flagship to a rabid crowd of starving slaves. His heavy broadsword moved like a flash of silver in the rain, cutting down three rowers in a matter of seconds.
“Form a line!” the Commander bellowed to his crew, his voice steady and cold despite the madness around him. “They have no armor! Drive them back into the hold or push them into the sea! Do not let them reach the steering oars!”
The pirates, re-enforcing their lines, began to push the slaves back. They had steel, shields, and coordination, while my fellow rowers had only their anger and broken chains. The momentum of the rebellion was starting to slow, the wet deck turning red as more and more slaves fell under the synchronized strikes of the crew.
“We have to kill the Commander!” I shouted to Logan, my heart hammering against my ribs. “If he falls, the crew will break!”
“Then we move now!” Logan yelled, charging forward like a maddened bull.
I followed right behind him, using my small size and agility to dodge through the chaotic clusters of fighting men. The rain was getting heavier, blinding everyone, the ship tossing and turning violently on the massive waves. Every step was a battle against the wet, slippery wood.
Logan cleared a path through the pirate line, his massive iron bar breaking shields and shattering bones. But the Commander saw him coming. With a cruel, confident laugh, the Commander stepped forward, dodging a heavy swing from Logan, and drove his broadsword deep into the old warrior’s side.
Logan gasped, his massive frame freezing. He dropped to his knees, his hands clutching the gaping wound in his stomach, blood spilling through his fingers.
“An old dog from a dead kingdom,” the Commander sneered, pulling his blade free, preparing to take Logan’s head.
“Hey!” I screamed, lunging out of the shadows of the main mast.
The Commander turned just in time, his blade blocking my desperate strike. The impact jarred my arms all the way to my shoulders, nearly sending my sword flying from my grip. He was incredibly strong, far stronger than any man I had ever faced.
“Ah, the little prince,” the Commander mocked, pressing his blade down against mine, forcing me down toward the wet deck. “You think because you have royal blood, it makes you a warrior? Your father died begging for his life on his knees, just like you’re about to.”
“My father died defending his people!” I snarled, using every ounce of strength in my starved body to keep his blade from cutting my throat. “You are nothing but a thief who fights in the dark!”
“History is written by the survivors, boy,” the Commander whispered, his face inches from mine, his breath smelling of sour wine and stale meat.
He kicked me hard in the chest, sending me flying backward across the deck. I rolled over the wet wood, losing my grip on my sword. It slid across the deck, disappearing over the side of the ship into the dark, swirling ocean.
I tried to stand, but my legs felt like lead. The hunger, the exhaustion, and the brutal beating from earlier were finally catching up to me. I looked around. The rebellion was failing. Most of the slave rowers were dead or surrounded, their bodies littering the deck. Craig, now conscious and holding a fresh blade, was walking toward me from the left, a twisted smile on his bloody face.
The Commander stepped closer from the front, his heavy broadsword raised high. I was trapped against the ship’s wooden railing, with nothing but the raging ocean behind me.
“Any last words, Your Highness?” the Commander sneered, his men gathering around to watch the final execution.
I looked at the Commander, then at Craig, and then down at the heavy iron ring bolted into the deck next to my feet—the main release lever for the ship’s secondary anchor, used only in extreme emergencies to stop a vessel from drifting into rocks. The anchor was a massive, four-ton piece of solid iron hanging from the bow.
I gave them a bloody smile.
“Yeah,” I whispered, my voice cold and calm. “Welcome to the deep.”
Before either of them could move, I slammed my heel down onto the release lever.
The heavy iron gears beneath the deck shrieked with a deafening metallic roar as the massive anchor dropped into the ocean. The sudden, violent release of four tons of iron at the bow, combined with the massive wave hitting the side of the hull, caused the Iron Vulture to pitch forward with terrifying force.
The entire front of the ship slammed down into the water, and a massive wave of black ocean swept over the deck, washing away everything that wasn’t bolted down—including the men standing over me.
CHAPTER 3
The freezing water swallowed me whole, dragging me down into the darkness. For a few terrifying seconds, I didn’t know which way was up or down. The pressure was intense, the salt water burning my eyes and filling my lungs. But I had spent seven years learning how to survive the sea. I fought against the current, kicking my legs until my head broke through the surface of the water.
The Iron Vulture was in absolute chaos. The massive wave had cleared the deck, washing dozens of pirates and slaves into the sea. The ship was listing heavily to the starboard side, its main sail torn in half by the fierce wind.
I grabbed a loose piece of rope hanging over the side, hauling my exhausted body back onto the deck. The fighting had stopped. The remaining pirates were desperately trying to secure the rigging and keep the ship from capsizing. The slave rebellion was over, but the ship itself was dying.
I crawled across the wet wood, looking for Logan. I found him slumped against the base of the main mast, his face pale, his eyes barely open. The wound in his side was deep, and the sea water had only made it worse.
“Logan,” I whispered, lifting his heavy head. “Stay with me. We broke the ship. We’re going to make it.”
The old warrior let out a wet, rattling laugh, coughing up blood. “No, my boy… my race is run. But yours… yours is just beginning. Look…”
He pointed a trembling, blood-stained hand toward the horizon.
Through the thick curtain of rain and ocean fog, a massive shape was emerging. It wasn’t a pirate ship. It was a giant, three-decked war galleon, its pristine white sails bearing the crest of the High King—a golden lion holding a trident. It was the Leviathan, the flagship of the Royal Naval Fleet. They had been patrolling the northern borders and had likely been drawn by the chaos and the distress signals of our dying ship.
“The King’s fleet…” I whispered, my heart leaping into my throat.
“They will save you…” Logan gasped, his grip on my hand tightening one last time. “Show them… show them who you are. Do not let… our blood… be forgotten.”
His hand went limp. His eyes stared blankly into the stormy sky, his brave heart finally finding the peace that had been stolen from him years ago. I closed his eyes, a hot tear slipping down my cheek, washing away the salt water.
Before I could even mourn him, a heavy hand grabbed my shoulder, throwing me onto my back.
It was the Commander. His armor was gone, his face covered in cuts and black smoke, but his eyes were filled with a murderous insanity. He had lost his ship, his crew, and his empire, and he knew the Royal Fleet was closing in to hang him from the highest gallows.
“You brought them here!” the Commander screamed, pinning me down with his heavy knee, his hands wrapping around my throat, squeezing the remaining air from my lungs. “You brought this curse onto my head! I will kill you before they take me! I will see you burn!”
I thrashed beneath him, my fingers scratching at his face, but I was too weak. The world began to spin, dark spots dancing across my vision. I could hear the distant sound of shouting voices, the clanking of metal hooks, and the thud of royal soldiers boarding the dying Iron Vulture, but it all felt so far away.
“Freeze! By order of the High King, drop your weapons!” a booming voice commanded from the deck railing.
The Commander didn’t stop. He kept his hands locked around my neck, his face twisted in a mask of pure hatred. “He dies with me!” he roared.
CRACK.
The sound of a heavy wooden crossbow echoed through the rain, and a solid iron bolt buried itself deep into the Commander’s shoulder. He cried out in agony, his grip loosening as he stumbled backward off my chest.
I rolled onto my side, coughing violently, drawing deep, desperate gasps of air back into my burning lungs.
A dozen heavily armored royal soldiers flooded the deck, their polished steel breastplates gleaming even in the dark storm. At their head stood a tall, older man with a long white beard and an immaculate blue captain’s coat trimmed with gold. It was Grand Admiral Vance, the leader of the King’s Naval Council, and the man who had served my father for two decades.
The remaining pirates immediately threw down their weapons, falling to their knees in surrender. The Commander lay on the deck, groaning, clutching his bleeding shoulder as two soldiers pinned him down with their halberds.
Admiral Vance walked slowly across the deck, his eyes sweeping over the carnage, the dead bodies of slaves and pirates alike. His gaze finally landed on me—a starving, shivering boy in rags, covered in blood and filth, kneeling next to the dead body of an old slave rower.
“What is this madness?” Vance demanded, his voice stern and cold. “A pirate flagship destroyed from the inside? Who is the leader of this rebellion?”
Craig, who had been hiding behind a broken barrel, suddenly threw himself forward, landing on his hands and knees at the Admiral’s feet.
“Mercy, Lord Admiral!” Craig cried out, his voice filled with desperate lies. “We were attacked by these rabid slaves! They tried to take the ship during the storm! And that boy… that boy is a thief and a murderer! He killed our men! He is a dangerous criminal who deserves to hang!”
The Admiral looked down at Craig, then turned his cold, calculating eyes back toward me. “Is this true, boy? Speak for yourself before I let my men throw you into the sea.”
I didn’t tremble. I didn’t beg. I slowly stood up, my bare feet firm against the wet wood. I walked forward, ignoring the weapons pointed at my chest, until I stood directly in front of the Grand Admiral.
“My name is not thief,” I said, my voice clear and steady, echoing across the silent deck.
I reached out with a trembling hand, grabbing the collar of my torn rags, and violently ripped the fabric away from my neck, exposing the deep, ancient burn mark of the Sea Throne directly into the light of the Admiral’s lantern.
Admiral Vance froze. His eyes dilated, his mouth opening slightly as he stared at the crest of the anchor and the broken waves. The heavy gold-trimmed cane he held slipped from his hand, clattering against the deck planks.
He didn’t speak for a long, agonizing moment. The rain poured down on us, the only sound in the entire world.
“It cannot be…” Vance whispered, his voice trembling with an emotion that shocked his own soldiers. He stepped closer, his hands shaking as he reached out to touch the scar on my neck. “The three-pronged anchor… the crest of Eldergard. You… you are the son of the Sovereign.”
“I am Arthur,” I said, looking him dead in the eye. “And these men have kept me in chains for seven years.”
The Admiral’s face transformed from shock to an absolute, terrifying fury. He turned around, his eyes locking onto Craig and the Commander, who were now staring at me with a horror that transcended death itself.
“Soldiers,” Admiral Vance bellowed, his voice shaking the very timbers of the ship. “Chain these monsters. We return to the Royal Citadel tonight. There will be a trial, and the whole world will see the price of treason.”
CHAPTER 4
The Great Hall of the Royal Citadel was filled with over a thousand nobles, warriors, and high-ranking naval officers from every corner of the kingdom. The air was thick with the scent of roasted meats and expensive wine, but the atmosphere inside the massive stone walls was tense, suffocatingly quiet.
At the far end of the hall, sitting on a high stone dais, was the High King himself, his golden crown gleaming under the light of a hundred massive iron chandeliers.
I stood in the center of the room. I was no longer wearing the filthy rags of a slave rower. They had bathed me, dressed me in a fine tunic of deep blue wool, and wrapped a heavy velvet cloak around my shoulders. But they hadn’t washed away the scars on my hands, nor the deep, burning memories of the seven years I spent in the dark cargo hold.
Behind me, forced down onto their knees in heavy iron chains, were the Fleet Commander and First Mate Craig. They looked hollow, their arrogant faces covered in sweat and dirt, surrounded by twenty fully armed royal guards.
“People of the Northern Reach,” Grand Admiral Vance announced, his voice booming through the massive hall. “Seven years ago, our greatest naval fortress at Eldergard was burned to ash. We believed the entire royal bloodline of the Sea Throne had perished in the flames. We believed the line was broken forever.”
A loud murmur rippled through the crowd of nobles, many of them shaking their heads in remembrance of that dark day.
“But the sea does not hide the truth forever,” Vance continued, stepping aside and pointing his hand directly at me. “Before you stands Arthur of Eldergard, the rightful heir to the Sea Throne, who was found alive, surviving as a chained slave rower on the very ship that destroyed his home!”
The hall erupted into a deafening roar of disbelief. Nobles stood up from their tables, pointing and whispering, their eyes wide with shock. Some looked at me with pity, others with awe, unable to comprehend how a boy could survive seven years of such brutality.
The High King raised his hand, and the room instantly fell silent once more. He looked down at me, his eyes searching my face, looking for the resemblance of the great man who had once ruled beside him.
“Arthur,” the King spoke, his voice heavy with age and wisdom. “The Admiral tells me you bear the mark of your ancestors. Step forward.”
I walked up the stone steps, my boots making a loud, steady sound against the polished floor. When I reached the base of the throne, I pulled aside the collar of my fine blue tunic, exposing the burned anchor scar for the entire court to see.
The King stared at it for a long moment, a sad smile touching his lips. “It is true. The blood of the wolf cannot be erased by chains. You have returned to us, my boy.”
The King then turned his gaze toward the prisoners behind me, his eyes turning into ice. “And now, we deal with the monsters who did this. Commander, step forward.”
The guards dragged the Commander to his knees at the front of the dais. He tried to hold his head high, a final, desperate remnant of his old arrogance clinging to his scarred face.
“Your Majesty,” the Commander spoken, his voice raspy but firm. “I am a warlord of the sea. I fought a war, and in war, children are taken. I did not know his true identity until the night we were captured. I am a prisoner of war, and I demand the rights of a high-ranking officer.”
“You demand rights?” I spoke out, my voice cutting through his lies like a hot blade through ice. I stepped down from the dais, standing directly in front of the man who had kept me in darkness. “You didn’t give rights to the men who died on your benches. You didn’t give rights to Logan when you drove your sword through his stomach while he begged for nothing but freedom!”
I turned to face the entire hall, looking at the wealthy nobles who had never known a day of hunger or pain in their lives.
“For seven years, I watched this man and his mate treat human beings like cattle,” I said loudly, my voice filled with an emotional power that made the older lords in the front row look down in shame. “They whipped us until our skin peeled. They starved us until we ate rotted fish from the floorboards. They laughed as they tossed our brothers into the sea to be eaten by sharks. This is not war. This is butcher’s work!”
The crowd began to shout in anger, their sympathy for me turning into a collective fury against the prisoners. Craig began to weep openly, his heavy body shaking as he pressed his forehead against the stone floor, begging for mercy.
“Mercy, Prince Arthur!” Craig sobbed, his voice echoing pathetically. “I was only following orders! The Commander forced us to do it! I didn’t know who you were! If I had known, I would have treated you like royalty! Please, spare my life!”
I looked down at Craig, the man who had given me the scar on my face, the man who had whipped me until I couldn’t stand. I felt no hatred for him anymore. I only felt a deep, profound disgust.
“You would have treated me like royalty?” I whispered, loud enough for the first few rows to hear. “That is your true crime, Craig. A man should be treated with dignity because he is a human being, not because he wears a crown. You only respect the whip and the gold.”
I looked up at the High King, kneeling before him. “Your Majesty, I ask for justice. Not just for myself, but for Logan, and for the hundreds of nameless men whose bones are currently resting at the bottom of the ocean because of these monsters.”
The High King stood up from his throne, his long ceremonial sword drawn, its steel reflecting the torchlight.
“The judgment of the Sea Throne is clear,” the King declared, his voice booming like a final sentence. “For the crimes of treason, piracy, and the unlawful enslavement of the royal bloodline, your titles are stripped. Your wealth is confiscated and given to the survivors of Eldergard. And for your punishment…”
The King looked at me, giving me the final authority.
“They will not hang,” I said, looking back at the Commander and Craig. “Death is too quick for them. Strip them of their armor. Chain them to the lowest benches of the heaviest naval galleys. Let them pull the oars in the dark. Let them feel the weight of the wood they forced us to carry for seven long years.”
The Commander’s face completely broke. He let out a strangled cry of pure horror, realizing that he was being sent to the very hell he had created. Craig fainted on the spot, his limp body rolling onto the cold stone.
The guards immediately lunged forward, dragging the screaming Commander and the unconscious First Mate out of the Great Hall, their heavy chains clanking loudly against the floorboards—the exact same sound I had lived with for a lifetime.
The entire hall erupted into a deafening roar of cheers and applause. Warriors slammed their shields, and nobles raised their silver cups, shouting my name into the rafters.
Admiral Vance stepped forward, placing a heavy, warm hand on my shoulder. He held a beautiful silver ring carved with the crest of my father’s old fleet, sliding it gently onto my finger.
I looked out across the massive room, my eyes clear, my head held high. The scars on my hands were still there, and the memories of the dark cargo hold would never truly leave me, but the chains were gone forever.
The hall that once mocked me stood silent as I walked past.
