Mereque assessed the soldiers who had trained their guns on him. Veterans, he could tell—scarred hands, steady eyes, the kind forged in endless skirmishes against things far worse than him. They wouldn’t hesitate to pull the trigger if commanded. Nor, he suspected, would they wait for the command if they decided he was threat enough.

  Twenty rifles. Steady hands. Fingers hovering near triggers, itching for excuse.

  He kept his own hands visible. Empty. Palms open, non-threatening.

  For now.

  The salt-thick air hung heavy, laced with gun oil and harbor rot. The Gull creaked beneath them, ropes groaning as the ship swayed gently in the swell. Overhead, the dull WHOMP WHOMP of heavy rotors from the circling gunships thrummed like a heartbeat—four shadows blotting the sky, weapons pods glinting.

  His HUD overlay flashed (subtle amber text in his peripheral vision):

  THREAT ASSESSMENT: 20 HOSTILES

  WEAPONRY: BALLISTIC RIFLES (EST. 7.62MM), PRIMITIVE SIDEARMS

  POSTURE: HIGH READINESS – 85% LIKELIHOOD OF ENGAGEMENT ON PERCEIVED THREAT

  ESCAPE ROUTES: 3 VIABLE (OVER RAIL, INTO WATER, THROUGH CROWD)

  COUNTER OPTIONS: NON-LETHAL NEUTRALIZATION POSSIBLE (17 TARGETS IN 4.2 SEC)

  RECOMMENDATIONS: DE-ESCALATE. MAINTAIN COMPLIANCE. MONITOR ALLY (JENKER) FOR LOYALTY SHIFT

  Jenker stiffened beside him, face pale beneath his weathered hat, sweat beading despite the cool breeze.

  “Admiral Seclock—with respect, sir—he saved my life. Saved the Gull. He’s no threat.”

  Seclock’s gaze didn’t waver from Mereque, cold as harbor steel. “Saved you. So you say. Yet here he stands—eight feet of muscle and metal, speaking our tongue like a ghost from old tales. No chains. No restraints. You brought an unknown into the heart of the Harbour, Captain.”

  The words cut sharp—accusation wrapped in iron protocol, laced with the paranoia of a fleet that had survived too many betrayals.

  The dull WHOMP WHOMP intensified as one gunship banked closer, searchlight sweeping the deck, pinning Mereque in harsh white.

  HUD Update (flashing red edge):

  AIRBORNE THREAT DETECTED: 4 GUNSHIPS

  ARMAMENT: MISSILES, CHAIN GUNS

  LOCK-ON PROBABILITY: 92%

  EVASIVE MANEUVER TIME: 1.8 SEC

  ADRENALINE SPIKE DETECTED – SUPPRESSING

  The Abbess—Rensa—stepped forward, her long braid swaying like a pendulum, tone lighter but eyes hard as flint. “We’re grateful, truly. But gratitude doesn’t blind us. Too many times we’ve welcomed the strange… and paid in blood. Fay tricks. Shapeshifters. Worse things wearing friendly faces.”

  Lassovo grunted agreement, hobbling up behind her on his crutch, bushy brows furrowed deep. “Seen it meself. Lock him up before he turns.”

  But as if truly seeing Mereque for the first time, the old Admiral’s eyes suddenly bugged out. “Bloody rust boils, he’s even bigger than the reports! What is he, some kind of troll bred for war?”

  “No, sir! He’s a man, like the rest of us,” Jenker shot back, voice rising.

  “He’s not like any man in Havenlocke, Captain,” Seclock sneered, lip curling in disdain.

  Mereque met the admiral's stare evenly, voice calm and deep, rumbling like distant surf. “I am no trick. I am human. Born on a distant land. I traveled far to find others like us. Humans. People. I found the captain and his crew adrift—and we fought together.”

  Seclock’s lip curled further. “Human. That’s what they all say before the knives come out.”

  Jenker stepped half in front of him—not blocking the rifles entirely, but shielding all the same, a defiant wall of loyalty. “He fought the Blanched with me, sir. Side by side. Took wounds for it. No Fay would bleed for us like that.”

  Rensa tilted her head, smile thin and venomous. “Or perhaps a clever one would. To earn trust. Infiltrate.”

  The rifles didn’t lower an inch. Fingers tightened imperceptibly.

  WHOMP WHOMP.

  Another HUD alert (steady red):

  WARNING: ESCALATION IMMINENT

  ALLY LOYALTY: 94% (JENKER)

  PRIMARY OBJECTIVE: SURVIVAL

  SECONDARY: PRESERVE ALLIANCE

  Mereque felt the weight of every stare—suspicion thick as the salt air, pressing in from all sides. The deck crowd murmured, faces a mix of awe and fear. He could end this in seconds: augments humming, disarming the guards, leaping the rail, bringing down a gunship with precise fire from his Pelter. Easy. Lethal if needed.

  But Jenker...

  The captain had trusted him first—offered food, alliance, brotherhood in the face of monsters. Betraying that now, even for freedom, would shatter something irreparable. And it would risk Jenker's life in the crossfire.

  He couldn't. Wouldn't.

  Seclock took a deliberate step closer, voice low and cold as deep water. “You’ll come with us. Quietly. For questioning. Restrained.”

  Jenker’s jaw tightened, fists clenching. “Sir—he’s my guest—”

  “Your guest,” Seclock cut in sharply, “is now our concern. Fleet security overrides personal sentiment.”

  The guards advanced—boots thudding in unison on the deck planks, rifles unwavering, heavy iron cuffs glinting in the lantern light.

  Mereque tensed, muscles coiling like springs, augments humming beneath his skin.

  Mereque’s HUD flashed:

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

  PHYSICAL RESTRAINT IMMINENT

  TARGETS: 20 INFANTRY + 4 AIRBORNE

  LETHAL FORCE RISK: 67%

  JENKER LOYALTY: 89% (STEADY)

  RECOMMENDATION: COMPLY.

  PRESERVE DIPLOMACY

  Jenker shoved forward desperately, shoulder-to-shoulder with Mereque (as close as height allowed). “Stand down! He’s under my protection. Fleet law—guest right!”

  The soldiers hesitated, rifles dipping fractionally—uncertain.

  Seclock barked a short, joyless laugh. “Guest right? For an eight-foot abomination? You vouch for him, Jenker? Risk your command—your life—on this... thing?”

  Rensa’s voice cut smooth, laced with sweet venom. “Captain, your loyalty blinds you. We’ve lost too many to ‘guests’ who weren’t what they seemed. Chains ensure truth. For all our sakes.”

  Lassovo spat on the deck, thick and wet. “Troll-flesh. Lock him before he eats the lot of us.”

  Mereque exhaled slow, deliberate. Hands open still, even bound.

  “I comply.”

  Guards closed the final steps—cuffs cold and biting as they snapped around Mereque's massive wrists, chains clinking heavy.

  Jenker’s face twisted—fury warring with helpless relief, eyes pleading.

  Seclock sneered triumphantly. “Wise choice.”

  Rensa’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction.

  Lassovo grunted approval.

  Jenker stubbornly stepped between them again. “Sir, this is wrong—”

  Seclock fumed, face reddening. “This is on my orders! Stand down, Captain, or join him in irons!”

  Then—

  A boom shattered the air.

  Distant. Massive. The deck shuddered beneath their feet.

  Smoke bloomed thick from the outer ring, black plumes rising fast.

  Alarms wailed—shrill, piercing across the harbor.

  A series of loud explosions followed in rapid succession, shaking ships violently, ropes snapping, lanterns swinging wild.

  Faces whipped about in confusion and rising panic.

  None seemed sure of the cause—eyes darting to skies, to sea, to each other.

  As the explosions continued relentlessly, more smoke wafted skyward in thick, choking streamers, carrying the acrid bite of burning wood and flesh.

  Everyone stood stunned. Uncertain. Rifles wavered.

  Until a voice boomed through loudspeakers across the fleet, raw with urgency:

  “This is Fleet Admiral Nobitar! We are under attack by Blanched forces! Havenlocke has been hit! This is not a drill! All hands to stations—prepare for war!”

  Mereque tensed, chains clinking.

  The cuffs loosened—guards distracted, rifles swinging outward toward the smoke.

  Seclock shouted frantic orders, face drained of color.

  Chaos erupted—crew scrambling, alarms blaring, gunships roaring overhead toward the breach.

  The standoff shattered in fire and screams.

  ? ? ?

  Hexabulous soared high above the clouds, a crimson colossus cutting through the vast indigo sky like a living ember against the night.

  RX414 trailed at a respectful distance, its sleek form humming steadily, passenger compartment shielded from the biting winds. Inside, the leprechaun’s daughter, Grace, slept fitfully—a second time now, exhaustion claiming her despite the urgency of their hunt.

  They had slowed to a deliberate cruise, far from the blistering speeds that had scorched the air for hours. Hexabulous reduced momentum with every languid, powerful beat of his massive leathery wings—gliding more than thrusting forward, conserving the furnace within for what lay ahead.

  Untold hours blurred into one endless vigil. No sign of Mereque. No trace of the off-world human's unique scent—sterile metal and alien sweat—amid the endless ocean and scattered islands below. The great sentinels pressed on without pause or complaint, tireless guardians bound by oath and instinct.

  But even Hexabulous felt the faint coil of impatience in his ancient chest. Where is he? That stubborn star-man should stand out like a beacon by now. Pride prickled—his senses, honed over millennia, rarely failed. Yet the world below remained stubbornly silent.

  Steam wafted continually from his crimson scales, the intense heat of his inner fire shimmering the air around him in rippling waves. From afar, he blurred into a hazy phantom—a ghost drake haunting the heavens, indistinct and untouchable.

  Then something shifted in the wind.

  RX recognized the signs instantly: the subtle banking turn, the wings cupping air to slow to a near-hover. Hexabulous inhaled deeply, nostrils flaring wide as saucers, drawing the currents across his tongue like a connoisseur sampling fine wine.

  His gigantic reptilian brain filtered the layers—briny salt from distant waves, faint musk of seabirds, the clean bite of high-altitude cold—sifting for anomalies. Eyes narrowed to crimson slits, piercing and unblinking.

  A low, rumbling growl vibrated through his massive throat, deep enough to rattle the clouds drifting below like distant thunder.

  He had it.

  “Bzzz… Scent acquired?” RX queried, gliding closer without hesitation, lights pulsing in calm, expectant rhythm.

  “RX!” Hexabulous thundered suddenly, voice booming across the empty sky.

  His companion was never far—always within reach, a steadfast shadow of steel and unbreakable code.

  “I smell a fight! Conflict! Blood—fresh, hot, spilling!”

  “Bzzz… Understood. All active combat systems on standby. Location and participants?”

  The dragon took another long, savoring inhale, head tilting into the breeze, tasting the notes. “By the reek... Blanched. That milky rot, thick as curdled milk. And Havenites—salt, sweat, fear, gunpowder. Clash of steel and flesh.”

  RX's lights flickered rapidly in processing. “Bzzz… A lead. Fortuitous alignment. Mereque was aboard a Havenite vessel. Probability of involvement: elevated. Can you isolate his scent signature?”

  “No.” Hexabulous's growl deepened, frustration edging his ancient pride. “Too far yet. Too many bodies churning below—his strange off-world tang would be drowned in the chaos. Hidden from me for now.”

  “Bzzz… Curious escalation. Blanched activity this soon after treaty breach—unanticipated.”

  “Oh? I did shatter that fat crybaby's precious little accord when I scorched his pets.” The dragon's lip curled in savage amusement, smoke curling lazily from his nostrils like victory banners. “Shouldn’t be surprising. The Worm’s lapdogs always swarm when their master moans louder.”

  “Bzzz… Reasonable conclusion. Your instincts remain unmatched.”

  “Har! Naturally.” Hexabulous preened subtly, wings flexing with millennia-old vanity. His olfactory receptors—finely tuned beyond any creature on land or sea (save perhaps another dragon, though who could challenge that claim?)—were his crown. The thought stirred old memories of rival skies and clashing flames, a flicker of wariness in his ancient eyes.

  “Bzzz… Indeed. Suggestion: immediate investigation?”

  “Let’s.” The dragon banked sharply right, one massive limb outstretched like a pointing spear. “This way—towards the blood.”

  “Bzzz… Course correction: due northwest. Projected destination aligns with Havenlocke Harbour.”

  “If you say so.” Hexabulous rumbled dismissively, amusement lacing the growl. “I’m just following my nose.”

  Truthfully, compass directions were meaningless abstractions to him. His world was mapped in scent trails, wind currents, prey markers—instincts wired deep in blood and bone since the dawn of his kind. Hunt. Track. Claim. An ancient, primal drive that needed no human explanations.

  “Bzzz… Very good. As always, I defer to you, my friend.”

  “Hmph. Damn right.” A beat, then gruff command: “Now wake that Fay girl. If battle's brewing below, she needs eyes open. No dozing through the fun.”

  “Bzzz… As you say.”

  Inside the compartment, RX's gentle hum and soft chime stirred Grace from uneasy dreams—flashes of blinding light, voices echoing in endless dark, a distant human face calling her name through storm and fire. She blinked awake, eyes fluttering—then snapping open, heart quickening as cold reality returned: soaring toward danger, toward the hope of finding Mereque amid whatever chaos awaited.

  The titans accelerated as one.

  Wings thundered like war drums, engines hummed with restrained power—speed building rapidly, clouds whipping past in blurred streaks. The air grew thick with distant salt, smoke, and the faint tang of blood on the wind.

  Toward the unfolding conflict. Toward Havenlocke Harbour.

  Fates converging—drawn inexorably by blood, fire, and an ancient sentinel's unerring nose.