Dawn broke soft and pale over the quiet sea. The horizon blushed faint gold, the sky clear and sharp in the chill of early autumn. A steady wind swept across the deck, cool enough to bite yet clean enough to taste of victory.

  The Royale Nocturne and the captured El Tiburón drifted side by side, their hulls still smoking faintly from the night’s fury. The scent of powder and brine mingled in the air, and every creak of timber seemed to sigh with exhaustion. On the Nocturne’s deck, the crew moved like an army of ants—hauling crates, stacking muskets, and piling the spoils of battle into the cargo hold. Brass glinted under the morning sun; broken cutlasses and bent pikes clattered as they were thrown into heaps.

  Sprawled along the quarterdeck of the El Tiburón, the surviving Espanorians sat in silence—hands bound, faces gray with fatigue. Some stared toward the horizon where their fleet had vanished; others fixed their eyes on the planks beneath them as if the world itself had shrunk to that narrow span of wood. The waves lapped gently against the hulls, almost mockingly tender after the carnage of the night.

  From the ship’s poopdeck, Darian raised a signal horn. He drew in a breath that filled his chest, planting his boots wide as if bracing himself against more than just the wind, and bellowed, his voice rolling over the calm like cannon thunder.

  “Attention, all hands! We have cleared all resistance from the El Tiburón!”

  Every head turned. Work slowed, then stopped altogether. A fragile silence hung for a heartbeat—long enough for doubt to creep in—

  “And we have secured the silvers!”

  The response erupted like powder. Cheers roared across both decks, sailors throwing their berets skyward, voices breaking into laughter and song. Some men embraced; others simply leaned on railings, grinning like fools, letting the sound wash over them. The echoes carried far across the water, until even the gulls wheeled up from the masts as if startled by the sudden life.

  “Oy! Watch there!” Darian barked with mock fury, though the corner of his mouth betrayed him. “That’ll come out of your wages if you lose your berets!”

  The laughter only grew louder. Amid the noise, the Nocturne felt alive again—not the grim, grinding machine of war it had been hours before, but something warm and joyous.

  Borghar approached Alaric as he watched his men celebrate their hard-earned victory, his heavy hooves thudding against the deck. Soot still clung stubbornly to the seams of his brass pauldrons, dulled where blood had been hastily wiped away. Sailors unconsciously gave him space as he passed—not from fear, but from respect, and perhaps the quiet unease that followed violence witnessed too closely.

  “Congratulations on your victory, sir,” he rumbled, stopping a few paces away.

  “Thank you, Mr. Ironhorn. You have satisfied your rage yet?” Alaric asked, his tone mild, almost teasing, as if testing the edge of something sharp.

  Borghar’s nostrils flared. For a moment, it seemed he might bristle—but then his shoulders settled, and he inclined his head. “…Yes, sir. Pardon my unsightly behavior, sir.”

  “You’re forgiven. Some scars run deeper than skin, Mr. Ironhorn.”

  The minotaur exhaled slowly, the sound heavy and controlled. “Thank you, sir… shall I deliver the after-action report, sir?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Forty-six wounded, sir.” Borghar spoke the number evenly, but one thick finger flexed against the leather of his gauntlet. “They’re already under Miss Veyr’s care. Thirteen dead—including Mr. Gibbs.”

  The name lingered in the air, heavier than the others. Borghar lowered his head a fraction, horns angling forward—not quite a bow, not quite a prayer.

  Alaric’s gaze drifted to the horizon for a moment, his expression unreadable. “Ah, shame. He was a subpar quartermaster, but I liked the man.”

  The sea wind carried a faint metallic tang from the smoldering wreckage nearby, a reminder that victory never came without its taste of iron.

  Alaric turned sharply. “Falco! Bring Capitán del Mar here… and his sword.”

  Falco snapped a brief salute and nodded toward the prisoners. He stepped forward and gestured for Diego to move. The captured captain rose with careful dignity, straightening his coat out of habit more than necessity, and followed Falco toward the poopdeck.

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  Alaric watched him approach with the same easy amusement he wore like a coat, though his eyes missed nothing. When they stood before him, he inclined his head slightly. “Alright. Cut his rope.”

  “Sir?” Falco blinked, surprise flickering across his face.

  “We’re going to have a formal talk,” Alaric said calmly, “and I wish there to be some semblance of formality.”

  Falco hesitated only a breath before drawing his blade and severing the bindings. Diego rubbed his wrists once, flexing fingers lined with old scars. He lifted his chin, meeting Alaric’s gaze head-on.

  “Capitán Van Aerden,” Diego said with careful courtesy, “how may I help you, se?or?”

  Alaric folded his hands behind his back, posture relaxed yet deliberate. “I wish to take El Tiburón as my prize and bring her to the Twin City. Presently, I’m short of hands to patch and crew her. Can you help me convince your men to assist in that task?”

  Diego’s jaw tightened. He straightened reflexively, command asserting itself despite circumstance. “As a prisoner of war, my men and I have the right to refuse.”

  “Aye, true,” Alaric agreed, unhurried. “But you see—I am a privateer first, and a merchant above all. I am not the Ataman navy; I’ve neither the incentive nor the compulsion to treat you as prisoners of war.”

  Diego’s tone dropped, stripped of formality. “You promised our lives, se?or.”

  “I did. And I shall keep that promise.” Alaric’s eyes never wavered. “What I propose is this: you and your men will not be treated as prisoners. Convince them to help crew El Tiburón back to the Twin City, and when we reach port you and your men may take your leave—train, coach, whatever coin buys you passage—back to Espanor. I doubt any man would pass such an offer.”

  “What of the Sultan?” Diego asked. “What will he say to this?”

  “Worry about the Sultan to me,” Alaric said, extending Diego’s sword hilt-first. “Are you in or are you not?”

  Diego did not take it at once. He hesitated. His gaze flicked, not to Alaric, but toward the quarterdeck where his men sat watching him now, waiting. “What if my men revolt during transit?”

  Alaric barked a short laugh. “I doubt a tired, unarmed Espanorian crew will fancy revolt with a minotaur on board.” He jerked his chin toward Borghar.

  Diego glanced to Borghar—a long, involuntary look for a man whose fate was being weighed. The minotaur met his eyes and answered with a sharp, rumbling bellow that left no room for misunderstanding.

  Diego’s shoulders dropped a fraction. “Very well, then.” He reached for his sword.

  As Diego’s fingers closed on the leather, Alaric tugged the blade back an inch—half a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “And send my regards to Grandmaster Rodriguez when you are home.”

  Diego’s hand froze. “Who?”

  Alaric’s look sharpened, thin as a drawn blade. “I know an agent of the Order when I see one.”

  Diego’s face went pale, confusion and alarm flaring together. Nevertheless, he gave his answer. “Then he will hear about you, se?or Van Aerden.”

  “I do hope he does,” Alaric replied, voice smooth as silk and twice as cutting.

  “If I may ask… why provoke him further?”

  “I wish to sober him up,” Alaric said, eyes narrowing slightly against the bright horizon. “Not just him, but the entire Eternal Order and their ilk. The world is changing, Capitán. The old order is dying—and to drag it back would be to invite calamity.”

  Diego studied him in silence. “But why make us your enemy?”

  “I call it shock therapy,” Alaric said lightly. “In my experience, when a man is too far gone, even the finest advice served on silver won’t reach him.”

  Diego tilted his head. “So you raise the gate of Hel and offer to shut it once they agree to cooperate, is that it?”

  “Extreme measures,” Alaric replied evenly, “for extreme circumstances.”

  For a moment, Diego’s expression softened, reluctant agreement flickering behind exhaustion.

  “Are you an agent of the Guild?” he asked quietly.

  “Oh, no.” Alaric smiled faintly. “My methods may be similar, my views perhaps identical—but I have no intention of ushering in the new world order. I dare say I’m actually trying to avoid it.”

  “…I see.” Diego bowed his head slightly. “That would be all, then.”

  “That would be all,” Alaric said, offering a quick salute.

  As Diego descended to the quarterdeck, Alaric called after him, “Capitán del Mar, you and your men may want to throw your Espanorian tunics overboard—you don’t plan to stroll into Ataman port wearing them, do you?”

  Diego chuckled over his shoulder. “Of course not, Capitán.”

  Alaric’s gaze shifted toward Mila. “Now… how many naval engagements have we had this year, my dear?”

  “If we separate last night’s engagement from this, it would be thirteen, sir,” she answered, her voice as precise as ever, as though she had not fought a bloody battle at all.

  “Well, I hope that’s more than Commodore Lindsay managed this year.”

  He turned back to her and found her watching him intently. “Is something wrong?”

  “Please, hold still, sir,” Mila said softly, stepping closer. She drew a handkerchief and gently wiped soot and blood from Alaric’s face, her movements careful, almost reverent.

  “Ah, yes. Thank you… Now, may I borrow that for a moment?” Alaric took the handkerchief from her hand and, with deliberate care, wiped a streak of grime from her cheek in return.

  “There. Though it seems we both need a proper bath. How about you join me in my cabin—we’ll have ourselves a proper wash?”

  “That would be nice, sir.” Mila smiled, small but genuine. “But I need to count the coins from the plunder first, sir.”

  “Oh, just leave it to your men,” Alaric said lightly. “Let them have some chores once in a while. I’ll up their bonus.”

  “Very well. I’ll relay that to my men, sir.”

  “Good. And tell them—the less they bother us, the more bonus I’ll give them.”

  “As you wish, sir.” Mila nodded with a smile. “After we arrive at the Twin City, what then, sir?”

  “Well… it’s already autumn, and the Nocturne needs a refit. So I say we return home.”

  “I think that’s an excellent idea, sir.”