The open sea rolled slow and steel-gray beneath a sky of drifting cloud. Near the mainmast, a group of sailors worked a pulley line, hoisting a long brass telescope toward the crow’s nest—larger than a common spyglass, yet still light enough for a careful man to manage.

  “Easy now,” Alaric called from the quarterdeck, his voice cutting clean through wind and rigging. “We only have a few of those. If you drop it, it comes out of your wages.”

  A few nervous chuckles followed, and the rope steadied.

  Then boots clicked behind him. “Reporting, sir.”

  He turned slightly. “Ah, Selene. Have you plotted their estimated route?”

  A moment later Selene Marlowe stepped beside him, her long coat neat but worn at the edges, marked by the soft frays and scuffs of a life spent chasing winds and horizons. Her auburn hair and the crimson plume of her cavalier hat swayed proudly in the breeze—like twin banners catching the morning wind.

  “I have, sir.” The ginger-haired navigator held a folded chart against the breeze. “Judging from their hulls and the weather over the past few days, we should reach our hunting ground by dusk.”

  “Dusk?” Alaric murmured, eyes narrowing toward the horizon. “And the weather for today?”

  “Seven in ten chance of cloud, sir. But no rain.”

  “Not ideal for spotting,” he said, “but at least it won’t drown our powder.”

  Selene nodded once. “What colors are we looking for, sir?”

  “Espanorian. But I doubt they’ll fly them while in transit.”

  “Understood. I’ll tell Mr. Darian to post a lookout round the clock.”

  “Good. Triple the water ration and lime punch, but cut the rum. We don’t want a drunk spotter, do we?”

  A faint smile touched her lips. “Of course not, sir.”

  “Carry on, then.”

  Selene dipped her head and strode off, coat settling neatly with the ship’s gentle roll.

  Alaric lingered a moment at the rail, watching the telescope settle into place, then began a slow stroll along the upper deck—half inspection, half leisure.

  The sea wind tugged at the tails of his coat. Below, crewmen polished cannon brass until it gleamed like gold in the morning light. Others tightened rigging, checked bearings, or passed crates of powder with practiced care.

  He paused now and then to offer a word or a nod—never loud, never hurried. A simple glance from him was enough to set backs straighter, hands firmer, resolve sharper.

  The day was calm, the air cool and spotless. Clouds drifted like worn silk across the pale sky, the sea below smooth and dark as old glass.

  Alaric breathed it in—the salt, the discipline, the quiet order of men who trusted his hand.

  When he reached the forecastle, he drew out his pipe, struck his lighter, and took a slow puff.

  “Enjoying this beautiful day, Mr. Van Aerden?” A voice came behind him.

  Alaric turned. Behind him stood Thorin Bronzebeard—a stout dwarf in a brass-trimmed waistcoat, a top hat tucked neatly under his arm, brushing the curls of his copper beard. His brass monocle gleamed, and the faint ticking of his pocket watch matched the sly glint of his grin.

  “Ah, Master Bronzebeard,” Alaric said lightly. “Taking a break from your beloved boiler room, I see?”

  “Aye,” Thorin chuckled. “The boiler’s off for now. Nothing to fix, nothing to polish—so I thought I’d enjoy the sunshine for once. May I borrow your lighter, Mr. Van Aerden?”

  Alaric handed it over. “By all means.”

  Thorin lit his pipe, drew deeply, and released a satisfied exhale. “So… how much loot are we expecting from our prize, sir?”

  “Twenty thousand silvers,” Alaric said, eyes drifting back to sea. “Not much for the cargo alone. But if we take her whole and sell her to the Sultan—thirty to forty thousand.”

  “Ah, enough for a happy crew and a few upgrades for the Nocturne, eh?”

  “Oh, not now, Thorin. We’ll speak of improvements when we actually have the silver.”

  Thorin laughed under his breath. “Aye, aye… of course, sir. Speaking of improvements—how’s Miss Weiss these days?”

  “Oh yes, she’s improving,” Alaric admitted. “For the first time, she talked back to my antics. Can you believe that?”

  Thorin grinned. “Good to hear, sir. Poor lass is lucky to have found you.”

  “No, Master Bronzebeard,” Alaric said quietly. “We’re lucky to have found each other.”

  They stood together at the forecastle rail, pipes cooling in their hands, the Nocturne carving a steady path beneath them.

  Below, the ship lived. Hammer taps, shouted orders, and the clang of tools carried faintly through the beams—the steady pulse of preparation.

  Time eased forward, measured only by the hourly ring of the bell and the slow drag of the sun across the sky.

  Far below decks, Mila Weiss walked toward the fabricator’s room. The air grew warmer, touched by oil and brass. A racket of clattering metal and an excitable voice echoed ahead.

  “Wahoo! Come on—fit in there, you little—bah!”

  Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

  Mila pushed the door open.

  Inside, chaos thrived. Sparks danced, hammers sang, and in the middle of it stood Pipwick Emberimp—a red-skinned imp with goggles askew, soot-smudged apron, and a brass-rimmed backpack that hissed and chattered behind him, sprouting twitchy mechanical arms.

  “Mr. Emberimp,” Mila said evenly. “What are you working on?”

  “Just a minute—just a minute!” Pipwick replied, fingers flitting like frantic birds.

  Around them, the workers straightened immediately. “Miss Weiss,” they said in unison, saluting before returning to their tasks.

  A final clang echoed. “There! Good boy.” Pipwick turned with a wide, triumphant grin. “Ah—Mila, Mila! Come, come! Look what I’ve made!”

  On the worktable lay a musket with eight short barrels clustered around a single stock, each engraved and inlaid with ornate silver scrollwork—beautiful, excessive, and hopelessly impractical.

  “What do you think? Do you think our friend Ricky would like it?”

  Mila straightened, and in Alaric’s exact cadence replied:

  “Mr. Emberimp, I appreciate your effort, but I prefer something with more… finesse. Something practical but not without elegance.”

  Then, in her own tone:

  “That is what Mr. Van Aerden would say.”

  Pipwick blinked. “Ah, Ricky can’t have any fun! But you, Mila—you could. What do you think of my invention?”

  “How does it work?”

  “When you pull the trigger, it lights one barrel, then the fire jumps to the next, and the next—until all eight are fired! I call it a volley gun!”

  “It’s unique,” Mila said, tone cool. “Might be useful for boarding.”

  “Then I’ll make ten—ten volley guns in ten days!”

  “Why not just use a blunderbuss?” Mila asked.

  Pipwick opened his mouth, stalled, then wilted. “Ah… well, when you say it like that, people will think I’m unoriginal, won’t they? Bah. Never mind then—I’ll scrap it.”

  “You could keep one,” Mila said quietly as she turned toward the door.

  Pipwick blinked. “Why?”

  “Because it brings you joy.”

  “Oh, Mila, I know you could have fun.” He moved for a hug—she sidestepped neatly and pointed to his greasy apron.

  “Oh. Fair point,” he muttered. “So anyway, what can I do for you?”

  “I’m here to pick up Mr. Van Aerden’s swords, and… can you design a pistol for me?”

  “Oh—a pistol, you say? What happened to the air pistol Ricky made for you?”

  “Nothing happened. I just need another one.”

  “So what kind? A double-barrel? A blunderbuss? Or maybe… a double-barrel blunderbuss?”

  “Just a simple, small one.”

  “Oh.” Pipwick sagged—until she added, “But concealable. Small enough to tuck in a purse.”

  “Oh now that’s interesting!” His grin returned at full strength. “So, what caliber?”

  “.20 caliber, maybe.”

  “No, no, no—too small. Unless you plan on infiltrating a nest of birds, it won’t do much.”

  “I’m a good shot. As long as I hit the target in the head, it’s not a problem.”

  “But what if,” he said with manic seriousness, “the target wears a helmet without any openings? Or has more than one head? Or none at all?”

  Mila frowned at the absurdity—but somehow the logic settled. “So what caliber are you suggesting?”

  Pipwick tapped his chin, then glanced at the volley gun. “Maybe .25 to .30 caliber. Compact, but mean.”

  “Very well. If you think that’s sufficient.”

  “One pistol coming right up!” he chirped like a tavern barkeep taking an order.

  “What pistol, Master Emberimp?”

  The voice from the doorway was calm, composed, unmistakable.

  Pipwick froze. “Oh… oh… Ricky!” he squeaked, and with a flash of mechanical arms, yanked a sheet over the volley gun. Steam hissed nervously. “Nothing! Just a simple pistol, sir. Ordinary. Boring!”

  Alaric raised a brow. “What’s that under the sheet?”

  “Oh, uh, nothing! Just my… new toys, Ricky—uh, Mr. Van Aerden.”

  “How many times must I tell you, you pointy-nosed gremlin—be polite to Mr. Van Aerden!” Thorin bellowed as he stepped inside.

  “Oh looky here,” Pipwick muttered, “our hairy-faced friend decided to visit.”

  “Oh, that’s it!” Thorin growled. “Sir, with your permission—”

  “Enough, you two!” Alaric’s voice cracked like a whip.

  Both froze instantly.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Thorin rumbled.

  “Sorry, Ricky—old pal,” Pipwick mumbled.

  Alaric sighed. “What’s this about anyway?”

  Thorin scratched his beard. “We played poker earlier, and Mr. Emberimp here cheated.”

  “Cheated? It’s not my fault you can’t count cards!”

  “Enough,” Alaric snapped. “What happens at the table stays at the table. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir,” they both said.

  “And it’s Master Emberimp to you, Mr. Bronzebeard.”

  Thorin blinked. “Pardon, sir?”

  “He’s our chief craftsman,” Alaric said coolly. “As you are my chief engineer.”

  Thorin straightened. “Yes, sir.”

  Alaric turned to Pipwick. “And as for you, Master Emberimp—while we are close friends, you will show formality in front of the crew. I won’t have them thinking I play favorites. You may call me Ricky when we’re in private.”

  Pipwick’s ears twitched. “But sir, you always call Mila my darling, my sweetheart, and such. Why can’t I call you Ricky?”

  Mila’s lips tugged faintly.

  “Ah… well,” Alaric cleared his throat. “Mila is a special case. The crew understands. And I—well—I am the captain. I can call anyone whatever I wish.”

  “Hmmm.” Pipwick crossed his arms. “Maybe I should be the second captain of this ship then.”

  Alaric’s stare sharpened. “Is that understood, Master Emberimp?”

  “Aye, Ricky—uh, Mr. Van Aerden!”

  The fabricators—who had been pretending not to listen—snapped their heads down and returned to work with sudden, frantic focus. The room carried the hush of children who had just witnessed adults argue and wished dearly to vanish into the floorboards.

  “So Ric—Mr. Van Aerden, what brings you to my—our—workshop?” Pipwick asked, trying to sound casual.

  “Have you made the projectiles I asked for?”

  “Ah yes, come, come.” Pipwick lifted a length of chain with his mechanical arms, bits of spiked metal and hooked plates dangling. “This will slice and dice the enemy crew real good, sir.”

  Alaric turned the chain in his hands, letting the light catch the hooks. “This is not an anti-crew projectile. It’s for their rigging.”

  “Nonsense. Anything can be anti-crew, sir.”

  “There is some logic in that,” Alaric conceded, “but some things are better at some tasks than others.”

  “So what will you call it, sir?”

  “Hmm. Octopus? No—too quirky. How about… Starshot.”

  “Starshot it is.” Pipwick scribbled the name delightedly.

  “How many have you made?”

  “About fifty, sir.”

  “Good. Find Mr. Ironhorn and ask him to help you haul them topside.”

  “Aye, aye, captain.”

  Pipwick scampered off with renewed vigor. The workshop resumed its usual rhythm of hammers and hissing steam. But then—

  “Captain, sir!”

  A sailor barreled down the corridor. “Captain, sir—urgent news!”

  Alaric’s expression hardened. “What is it, man? Speak.”

  “We found them, sir. We see a plume of smoke on the horizon.”

  Alaric didn’t hesitate.

  He was already moving.

  The moment he cleared the workshop door, Without another word, he bolted toward the top deck. His boots hammered the wooden floorboards as he tore through the corridor. Behind him came Thorin’s heavy thunder, Mila’s controlled stride, and Pipwick’s frantic scramble of limbs and steam. The Nocturne seemed to tighten around them, every lantern and beam flashing past as urgency rippled through her spine.

  Dusk had begun to settle: the sky a bruised mixture of low cloud and waning gold, the sea holding the last light like a dark mirror.

  The moment Alaric stepped out onto the deck, Darian and Borghar were already at the rail, spyglass raised, scanning the horizon.

  “There, sir—one plume of smoke,” Darian said, handing him the glass as Borghar adjusted his stance beside him.

  Alaric peered through it.

  The distance and the failing light robbed the view of detail.

  “I can’t see much with this,” he muttered. “Watchmen! What do you see?”

  “Three ships, sir! One appears to be large!”

  “Is that our convoy, sir?” Darian asked.

  “It appears to be so.”

  Selene arrived next, breath controlled, coat settling behind her.

  “Shall we make the approach, sir?”

  “No. We wait until nightfall.”

  Thorin emerged shortly after, still catching his breath but resolute.

  “Master Bronzebeard—do not light the boiler until night comes. Let the engine run passive.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Mr. Ironhorn, help Master Emberimp haul the new munitions topside. He has the specifications for you.”

  “Understood, captain.”

  “And Darian—enforce silence. All deck lights remain off, including cabin lamps. We go for surprise.”

  “Aye-aye, sir.”

  Alaric let the order settle over the deck, calm, final.

  “All right, ladies and gentlemen,” he said, eyes cold and bright.

  “Our hunt begins.”