CHAPTER 3
The heavy velvet coat of Commander Vance brushed against my face, his white head bowed completely to the splintered, wine-soaked floorboards at my feet. Around him, the great naval hall remained in a state of absolute, petrified silence. Hardened pirates, men who had spent their entire lives cutting throats for a handful of silver coins, stayed pinned to their knees, their breathing shallow and terrified. The only sound in the entire flagship was the violent, rhythmic groaning of the massive timber hull as it slammed against the black, freezing waves of the northern sea.
I stood frozen, my legs trembling so violently I thought my knees would buckle. In my left hand, I still clutched the green, rotted piece of sea biscuit that had almost cost me my life. In my right hand, the heavy silver medallion of the High King felt incredibly cold, its sharp, carved edges of the twin-headed sea eagle cutting into my dirty, calloused palm.
“Commander…” Borrok’s voice broke the silence, but it wasn’t the booming, arrogant roar that had terrorized the lower decks for years. It was a pathetic, high-pitched whimper. He was still on his knees, his massive body shaking so hard that his iron-studded leather armor clattered against the wood. “Commander Vance, please… look at him. He is a bilge rat. He has slept in the ballast dirt for years. He is a thief. There must be some mistake. The royal bloodline was destroyed at the Great Fire of the Sovereign Flagship. You saw it burn with your own eyes!”
Vance slowly raised his head from the floor, but he did not stand. He remained on one knee, his slate-gray eyes fixing on Borrok with a cold, predatory intensity that made the First Mate flinch.
“I saw the ship burn, Borrok,” Vance said, his voice dangerously low, vibrating through the quiet hall. “But I also saw the High King place this very medallion around his infant son’s neck before the powder barrels detonated. I have spent fourteen years staring at the empty sea, carrying the guilt of losing that child to the waves. And for two of those years, you have used the true heir of the Sea Throne to scrub your boots and eat the maggot-filled scraps of this fleet.”
Vance slowly rose to his feet, his towering frame casting a long, dark shadow over Borrok. He reached down and took the heavy leather crop from the First Mate’s trembling hand—the very weapon that had just sliced the skin across my back.
“You told the crew that the law of the sea throne is absolute, Borrok,” Vance whispered, gently running his gloved fingers down the length of the leather whip. “You said that anyone who wrongs a member of the high fleet must face the ultimate judgment before the men. What is the punishment for striking the bloodline of the High King?”
Borrok choked on his own breath, his eyes darting frantically around the room, looking for support from the other officers. But every single man at the tables kept their eyes glued to the floorboards. In the warlord society of the outer reaches, loyalty shifted with the wind, and right now, the wind was blowing with the force of a hurricane toward the ragged boy standing at the base of the throne.
“The punishment,” Vance answered his own question, his voice suddenly booming like a cannon shot, “is to be stripped of your rank, bound to the mainmast, and flayed until your ribs show the color of salt. And then, you are cast into the black water to let the sharks finish what the whip started.”
“No! Please! Mercy, Lord Vance! Mercy!” Borrok screamed, throwing his massive body forward to grab at Vance’s boots.
But Vance stepped back, completely disgusted, and raised his iron-gloved hand. “Guards. Take the traitor.”
Four massive ship guards, men who had previously obeyed Borrok’s every whim, rushed forward without a second thought. They slammed their heavy iron-toed boots into Borrok’s ribs, pinning the massive man to the floor before dragging him backward out of the hall. Borrok screamed and cursed, his heavy leather boots dragging against the splintered oak, leaving a trail of sweat and dirt behind him until the heavy oak doors slammed shut, cutting off his cries.
The hall fell perfectly silent again. Vance turned back toward me, his hardened, weathered face softening into an expression of profound sorrow and reverence. He looked at my torn rags, my skeletal arms, and the blood still dripping from my split lip onto my collar.
“My Prince,” Vance said, his voice thick with unspilt tears. “You have suffered in the dark for too long. For fourteen years, the enemies of your father have ruled the capital city of Oakhaven. They believe the royal bloodline is dead. They believe they have secured their stolen power. But the sea does not hide the truth forever.”
He stepped closer, gently placing a heavy, fur-trimmed wool cloak around my shivering shoulders. The warmth of the thick fabric hit my skin, and for the first time in my life, the deep, biting chill of the northern winter began to fade.
“We must sail for the capital immediately,” Vance announced, turning back to the kneeling crowd of pirates and warriors. “Assemble the captains of the seven vanguard warships. Signal the fleet. The true King of the Sea Throne has returned, and we will wash the streets of Oakhaven with the blood of those who betrayed his father.”
A deafening roar erupted from the throat of every man in the hall. They slammed their iron cups against the tables, their previous mockery completely replaced by a wild, bloodthirsty loyalty. They didn’t see a starving deckhand anymore. They saw their ticket to wealth, power, and the ultimate conquest of the naval kingdom.
But as I looked down at the silver eagle medallion in my hand, my heart didn’t fill with the desire for gold or crowns. It filled with a cold, hollow dread. I didn’t know how to rule a kingdom. I didn’t know how to lead an army. I only knew how to survive the whip, how to hide in the darkness, and how to endure the hunger that had gnawed at my stomach for as long as I could remember.
Three days passed in a blur of motion and wind. The flagship, The Leviathan, cut through the churning, icy waves of the northern reaches, surrounded by a massive armada of black-sailed warships. I was no longer forced to sleep in the flooded, rat-infested ballast hold. Vance had given me his own private quarters—a massive room filled with carved cedar wood, velvet blankets, and polished silver lanterns that didn’t flicker in the storm.
I was given fresh meat, hot broth, and clean clothes made of fine wool and dark leather. But every time a ship guard entered the room to bring a tray of food, they would drop to one knee and keep their eyes fixed on the floor. It felt entirely wrong. I still felt like the boy who had been locked in the dark cargo cage, waiting for the crack of Borrok’s whip.
On the fourth morning, the heavy brass horn of the flagship sounded through the fog. The deep, mourning tone signaled that we had reached our destination.
I walked out onto the high quarterdeck alongside Commander Vance. The cold sea air caught my cloak, spraying my face with freezing salt water. Through the thick, grey mist of the morning, the massive stone walls of Oakhaven rose from the sea cliffs like the teeth of a giant beast.
Oakhaven was the heart of the naval empire. It was a massive fortress city built over the water, guarded by three separate rings of iron-reinforced sea gates and hundreds of heavy shore cannons. High above the stone walls, flying from the highest towers of the Grand Citadel, were the red and gold flags of High Jarl Kaelen—the man who had led the bloody betrayal fourteen years ago, the man who had murdered my father and taken the Sea Throne for himself.
“The tide is rising, my Prince,” Vance said, his hand resting tightly on the pommel of his heavy cutlass as he stared at the distant fortress. “Kaelen thinks he is safe behind his walls. He thinks his armada of royal guards can protect him. He does not know that the entire outer fleet has turned against him today.”
“Are we going to war, Commander?” I asked, my voice still small and uncertain against the roaring of the wind.
Vance looked down at me, his gray eyes flashing with a dark, ruthless satisfaction. “No, my Prince. We are not going to war. We are going to a trial. Kaelen has called a Great Council of the seven naval provinces today to celebrate the anniversary of his ascension. Every noble, every captain, and every wealthy merchant in the kingdom is gathered in the High Hall right now. They think they are celebrating the permanent death of your bloodline.”
He reached out, gently straightening the heavy silver eagle medallion that now hung openly over my chest.
“We will enter the harbor under a flag of parley,” Vance whispered, his face hardening into steel. “We will walk into his hall as guests. And then, we will let the kingdom see exactly what happens when the sea returns what was stolen.”
The massive black-sailed warships of our fleet slowed their pace, dropping their iron anchors outside the harbor mouth, while The Leviathan alone glided through the massive stone sea gates of Oakhaven. The royal harbor guards, dressed in polished steel armor and carrying heavy halberds, watched us with deep suspicion from the high walls, their weapons raised. But because Vance was a legendary commander who technically held an alliance with the city, the heavy iron portcullis was slowly raised, allowing our flagship to dock against the main stone pier.
Vance selected forty of his most brutal, heavily armored warriors to accompany us. They walked in a tight, double-column formation, their heavy iron shields locking together around me to keep my form hidden from the curious eyes of the citizens who lined the cobblestone streets.
We climbed the massive, winding stone steps that led from the harbor up to the Grand Citadel. The air here didn’t smell of salt and rotting fish like the lower docks; it smelled of expensive roasting meats, sweet wine, and the rich perfumes of the high nobility.
As we reached the massive, twin-leafed oak doors of the High King’s Hall, the sound of music, laughter, and the clinking of gold cups leaked out into the cold morning air. High Jarl Kaelen was celebrating his stolen power, completely unaware that the ghost of the man he murdered was standing right outside his door.
The two royal elite guards at the entrance lowered their massive halberds, blocking our path. “Commander Vance. You are late for the High Jarl’s council. Your warriors must remain outside the holy threshold.”
Vance didn’t speak. He simply stepped forward, his massive hand clamping around the shaft of the guard’s halberd with enough force to bend the wood. He stared into the guard’s eyes until the man’s confidence completely shattered, and his weapon slowly lowered.
“I do not leave my men behind when I come to pay my respects to the King,” Vance snarled.
With a powerful kick of his heavy boot, Vance slammed the massive oak doors open. The heavy wood hit the stone walls with a deafening crash that echoed through the vast, vaulted expanse of the High Hall, instantly cutting off the music and the laughter of hundreds of nobles.
The entire assembly turned their heads in shock toward the entrance.
The High Hall of Oakhaven was a magnificent, terrifying sight. The ceiling was held up by massive pillars carved to look like ancient sea serpents, and long tables lined the room, filled with wealthy merchants, powerful provincial governors, and beautiful noblewomen dressed in fine silks. At the far end of the hall, elevated on a high platform of white marble, sat the Sea Throne.
And sitting upon that throne was High Jarl Kaelen.
He was a man in his late fifties, his dark hair streaked with silver, his face sharp and cruel like a hawk. He wore a massive crown made of polished whalebone and gold, and his chest was covered in heavy steel armor etched with the symbols of his illegitimate rule. Sitting to his right was his son, Prince Eric—a young man about my age, dressed in pristine blue velvet, his face filled with the same arrogant, mocking sneer that I had seen on Borrok a thousand times before.
“Vance!” Kaelen’s voice boomed across the marble floor, his tone a mix of irritation and false warmth. “You interrupt our festival with the clatter of iron and shields. I thought you were still patrolling the frozen northern borders, hunting for the remnants of the old loyalist scum.”
Vance walked slowly down the center of the hall, his boots clicking rhythmically against the polished marble. His forty warriors followed him in perfect, silent unison, keeping their shields locked, hiding my small frame completely from Kaelen’s view.
“I was patrolling the northern borders, High Jarl,” Vance said, his voice echoing clearly off the high stone ceiling. “And while I was out in the black waters, I found something that belonged to the true crown. Something that was lost fourteen years ago during the fire on the Ocean’s Fury.”
Kaelen’s eyes narrowed, his grip tightening around the arms of the whalebone throne. The false warmth vanished from his face in an instant, replaced by a tense, heavy suspicion. “The Ocean’s Fury was reduced to ash and cinder, Vance. Nothing survived that night except the traitors who refused to submit to my rule. If you have brought me old relics or rusted swords from the wreckage, present them to my treasury and take your seat.”
“It is not a sword, Kaelen,” Vance said, stopping exactly in the center of the hall, directly before the marble platform.
With a single, sharp motion of his hand, Vance signaled his warriors. The forty heavily armored men stepped aside in perfect unison, breaking their shield wall and exposing me to the entire assembly of the kingdom.
I stood there, a thin, pale boy dressed in dark leather, the massive silver eagle medallion hanging openly over my chest, gleaming brightly under the hundreds of candles that lit the grand hall.
A collective gasp sucked the air out of the room.
Several old captains at the front tables stood up so fast they knocked their heavy wooden benches over, their eyes wide with a sudden, paralyzing shock. They recognized the silver medallion immediately. They recognized the ancient crest of the twin-headed sea eagle—a symbol that had been banned on pain of death for fourteen years.
“What is the meaning of this mockery?” Prince Eric shouted, standing up from his seat beside his father, his hand dropping to the pommel of his small, ornamental sword. “You bring a dirty beggar boy dressed in stolen relics into the High King’s presence? Is this a joke, Commander?”
“Look closely, boy,” Vance said, his voice dripping with an ancient, icy contempt as he stared at Prince Eric. “And tell your father to look closely as well.”
High Jarl Kaelen didn’t speak. He had risen from his throne, his face completely drained of color, his hands shaking as he stared down at me. His eyes weren’t fixed on the silver medallion. They were fixed on the left side of my neck, where the jagged, silver-white burn mark of the imperial crest was clearly visible above the collar of my leather vest.
“No…” Kaelen whispered, his voice failing him, barely carrying over the marble steps. “No, it’s a trick. The boy died in the harbor fire. I saw the beam fall. I saw him slip into the deep.”
“The sea does not keep what belongs to the throne, Kaelen,” Vance shouted, his voice ringing like a judgment bell through the silent hall. “The boy survived. He was carried away by the tides, raised in the shadows of the outer ports, hidden from your assassins by the very filth of the earth. He carries the true blood of the High King. He carries the mark of the sea fire on his flesh.”
“Guards!” Kaelen screamed, his voice turning into a panicked, desperate shriek as he pointed his trembling finger at me. “Kill them! Kill the boy! Kill Vance! Cut them down where they stand! It is a treasonous lie!”
The royal elite guards stationed around the hall hesitated. They looked at Kaelen, then looked at the silver eagle medallion hanging around my neck, and then looked at the forty battle-hardened vanguard warriors who had already drawn their massive steel axes, their shields locked in an unbreakable wall of iron.
The tension in the room rose to a suffocating peak. The nobles began to scream and scatter, pushing back from the tables as the first drops of sweat broke out on Kaelen’s forehead, the realization of his ultimate doom finally settling into his treacherous heart.
CHAPTER 4
The royal elite guards stood frozen in the grand corridors of the hall, their heavy halberds trembling in their hands. They looked at High Jarl Kaelen, whose face was twisted into a mask of pure, frantic terror, and then they looked at me. I was just a boy, small and thin compared to the giant warriors around me, but the silver eagle medallion resting against my chest seemed to carry the weight of an entire empire.
“What are you waiting for?!” Prince Eric screamed, his voice cracking with panic as he drew his silver-hilted sword, his hand shaking violently. “He is an impostor! A street rat dressed in dead men’s clothes! Cut his throat! Anyone who strikes him down will be made a governor of the outer reaches!”
But not a single guard moved forward.
Instead, an old, weathered man at the front table slowly stepped out into the center isle. He was covered in battle scars, his left arm missing from the elbow down—a veteran captain named Harlon, who had served my father for twenty years before being forced into retirement by Kaelen’s purge. He walked with a heavy limp, his eyes never leaving my face.
“Captain Harlon,” Kaelen hissed, his fingers digging into the arms of the whalebone throne until the old wood creaked. “Sit down. Do not lose your head for a ghost story.”
Harlon ignored the usurper completely. He stopped exactly three paces away from me, dropping to his knees on the hard marble floor. His one remaining hand reached out, his trembling fingers hovering just inches away from the silver-white burn mark on my neck.
“I was there,” Harlon whispered, his voice thick with tears that ran down his deeply lined cheeks. “I was on the deck of the Ocean’s Fury when the mainmast caught fire. I saw the young prince in his father’s arms. I saw the white-hot iron beam break away from the rigging. I saw it strike the child’s neck before he fell into the black water. I would know that scar anywhere in the world.”
The old captain leaned forward, pressing his forehead directly against my boots. “The sea has kept its promise. The true King has come home.”
The moment Harlon knelt, a wave of motion rippled through the grand hall. Two more old captains stood up from the tables, casting their red and gold provincial cloaks to the floor in disgust. They drew their swords, but they didn’t raise them against us—they turned their backs to me, forming a protective ring around my body, their blades pointing directly at the marble platform where Kaelen stood.
“Treason!” Kaelen roared, his voice echoing off the carved sea-serpent pillars. “This is a coup! I am your Jarl! I am the ruler of the Sea Throne!”
“You are a thief, Kaelen,” Commander Vance shouted, stepping forward, his heavy boots crushing a gold goblet that had been dropped in the panic. “You built your throne on the ashes of a burning flagship. You paid the assassins who poisoned the Queen. You thought you could erase the bloodline, but you forgot that the people of this kingdom do not loyalize to a crown of whalebone—they loyalize to the blood of the Sea Eagle.”
Vance turned his gaze to the forty vanguard warriors behind him. “Seal the doors. Nobody leaves this hall until the true judgment is finished.”
With a heavy, thunderous slam, the massive oak doors of the citadel were closed from the inside, the heavy iron bars dropping into place with a definitive, bone-chilling thud. The wealthy merchants and noblewomen shrieked, huddling together against the stone walls, completely terrified as the illusion of Kaelen’s absolute security shattered into a million pieces.
Prince Eric, realizing that the guards were not going to fight for them, rushed forward down the marble steps, his sword raised in a desperate, foolish attempt to strike me down himself. “I will kill you myself, you rat!”
But before his blade could even come close, Commander Vance stepped into his path. With a motion so fast it looked like a flash of lightning, Vance caught Eric’s wrist with his iron-gloved hand. The bone-crushing grip made the young prince scream in agony, dropping his silver sword to the marble floor.
Vance didn’t draw his cutlass. He simply turned Eric around, pinning his arms behind his back, and forced him to his knees at the base of the white marble steps, directly below where his father stood.
“Look at your son, Kaelen,” Vance said, his voice dropping to a terrifyingly quiet whisper that cut through the whimpers of the nobility. “Fourteen years ago, you forced the High King to watch his child burn. Today, the sea demands a balance.”
Kaelen fell back into his throne, his hands gripping his head, his crown of whalebone slipping sideways across his silver hair. He looked completely broken, his arrogance entirely drained away, leaving nothing but a pathetic, aging coward who had run out of lies.
“Please…” Kaelen whimpered, his eyes moving from Vance to the old captains, and finally settling on me. “Please, Liam… you are a child of the high fleet. You are a king’s son. Have mercy on my house. Take the city. Take the treasury. Take the throne. Just let us sail away into exile.”
The entire hall went perfectly silent, waiting for my response. Every eye in the kingdom was fixed on the ragged boy who had been dragged out of the ballast hold just a few days ago.
I looked at Kaelen, the man who had murdered my family. I looked at Prince Eric, who was weeping on the floor, his hand broken by Vance’s grip. And then, I looked down at my own hands. They were still covered in old scars from Borrok’s whip. They were still rough from the salt water and the manual labor of the lower decks.
I felt a deep, overwhelming surge of anger—not for the throne that had been stolen from me, but for the fourteen years of starvation, the fourteen years of freezing in the dark cargo cages, the fourteen years of believing I was a piece of garbage meant to be kicked and beaten by men who held power.
I slowly stepped forward, walking past Vance, until I stood at the edge of the marble platform, looking directly down into Kaelen’s terrified eyes.
“When I was locked in the cargo hold,” I said, my voice clear and steady, echoing through the massive stone room like the sound of the ocean itself, “the First Mate told me that the law of the sea throne is absolute. He told me that the weak must suffer what the strong command. You believed that law when you burned my father’s ship, Kaelen.”
I reached up, taking the heavy silver eagle medallion from my neck, and held it high above my head so every man in the hall could see it.
“But the law of my father was different,” I shouted, my voice rising with the power of a true King. “The law of the High King is that the throne belongs to the people who bleed for it. It belongs to the sailors, the oarsmen, and the children who are left to starve in the dark while you drink from silver cups.”
I looked down at Captain Harlon, who was still kneeling before me. “Captain Harlon. Rise.”
The old, one-armed veteran stood up, his back straightening with a newfound pride.
“Strip Kaelen of his whalebone crown,” I commanded. “Take his iron armor. Strip his son of his fine silks. Put them both in the heaviest iron chains we have in the harbor fortress.”
A collective shout of agreement erupted from the old captains and the vanguard warriors. They rushed up the marble steps, pulling Kaelen off the whalebone throne. The golden crown tumbled from his head, clattering down the white marble steps until it rolled to a stop at my feet. They ripped the heavy steel armor from his chest, exposing his shivering, elderly frame, and bound his wrists in thick, rusted iron chains alongside his weeping son.
“Where shall we take them, my Prince?” Vance asked, his eyes gleaming with a deep, emotional satisfaction.
“Take them to the lower harbor docks,” I said, my voice cold and unyielding. “Give them a single rotted sea biscuit each day. Let them scrub the slime off the stone piers under the winter wind. Let them feel the weight of the water. Let them learn the true law of the sea from the very bottom of the world.”
The guards dragged Kaelen and his son out of the hall, their heavy iron chains clanking against the marble floorboards—the same sound that had kept me awake for years in the dark holds of The Leviathan. The crowd of nobles began to cheer, their voices roaring in celebration as the old tyranny was carried away into the dark.
Commander Vance stepped up behind me, holding a long, magnificent cloak of royal blue silk, embroidered with the golden threads of the ancient sea empire. He gently placed it over my shoulders, covering the old dark leather and the scars of my childhood.
He looked at the white marble throne, and then looked at me, waiting for me to take my seat.
But I didn’t sit down. I walked past the throne, stepping out onto the grand stone balcony that overlooked the massive harbor of Oakhaven.
Down below, the seven vanguard warships of our fleet had entered the harbor, their black sails catching the bright, clear northern sunlight that was finally breaking through the heavy grey mist. Thousands of ordinary citizens, sailors, and dock workers were gathering on the stone piers, looking up at the high citadel, their voices rising in a massive, beautiful chorus as they saw the royal blue banner being hoisted to the top of the highest tower.
I leaned against the stone railing, the cold sea wind catching my new cloak, spraying my face with the familiar, wild salt water of the ocean. The hunger in my stomach was gone. The fear was gone. The shadows of the cargo hold were finally left behind in the dark.
And for the first time in many years, nobody knelt on my back again.
