Dusk had settled across the harbor like a velvet shroud. The Royale Nocturne loomed over the pier, her hull dark against the dying glow of the sky. The air smelled of firewood and oil, the cries of gulls giving way to the thud of crates and the rasp of rope through pulleys. Lanterns flickered along the masts, throwing long shadows that swayed with the ship’s gentle roll.

  Men moved briskly under shouted orders. Barrels of powder were hoisted into the hold, bundles of rope and sailcloth lashed tight, and the faint hiss of steam beneath the decks gave the impression that the ship herself was breathing—impatient to be unmoored.

  From the quarterdeck, Alaric watched the organized chaos below. The golden light of dusk played across the sharp lines of his coat, catching on the brass trim. Darian stood beside him, arms folded, gaze fixed on the docks where the last of the supplies were being tallied.

  “Is the cargo complete?” Alaric asked without looking.

  “Everything accounted for,” Darian replied. “We’ll be ready to cast off within the hour.”

  “Good. And the quartermaster?”

  “Just arrived, sir. Brought him aboard myself.”

  Alaric nodded once, his tone even. “Then let’s meet the man you’ve chosen. The Nocturne deserves competence.”

  The officers’ quarter was a world apart from the deck above—quieter, warmer, lined with polished oak and brass fixtures that gleamed beneath the electric lamps. A single long table dominated the room, strewn with ledgers, compasses, and the scent of parchment and ink.

  Alaric sat at the head of the table, gloves off, fingers steepled. Darian stood to his left, relaxed but alert, while Mila Weiss lingered near the doorway, expression unreadable.

  The door opened, and a young man stepped inside. Brown hair neatly parted, nervous eyes, uniform still bearing the crisp stiffness of a recruit. He stopped two paces from the table, heels together.

  Darian gestured toward him. “Introduce yourself, Mr. Farrow.”

  “Uhm—yes… sir.” The young man straightened his back. “I am Lucien Farrow, sir. I was hired by Mr. Van Aerden—Darian Van Aerden—to be your new quartermaster, sir.”

  “I see…” Alaric’s gaze lingered briefly on the boy, assessing, before flicking to his brother with a faint smirk. “So, Mr. Farrow, tell me about your experience.”

  “Previously I served two years as quartermaster on a clipper named Ocean Jewel, sir.”

  “Two years?” Alaric tilted his head slightly. “I was under the impression contracts on merchant clippers lasted four.”

  “Yes, sir, but… we struck a reef three months ago. Managed to patch her enough to limp back to port, but she’s docked for a year, and the crew dismissed.”

  “I see. Any other experience?”

  “That was my first sailing contract, sir.”

  “Ah.” Alaric’s smile was polite but distant. “Splendid.”

  Darian chuckled. “Don’t worry, lads. Captain Van Aerden here doesn’t give in to superstition or bad omens. Am I right, Cap’n?”

  Alaric’s lips curved faintly. “No, I don’t believe in superstition…” His gaze slid to Darian, amused. “But I do believe in causality.”

  Lucien exhaled, relieved. “Thank you, sir. I’ve been turned down so many times because of that.”

  “I can see why.” Alaric rolled his eyes lightly before reaching under the table. He placed a sheathed blade upon it—a bayonet, its handle made of plain wood but fitted with a small spring and latch.

  “Very well then,” he said. “All crew are issued one of these. You’ll keep it until the end of your contract. Do so, and if you reenlist in the future, you’ll retain your full wage—with the rise you have accumulated.”

  Lucien’s eyes lit up. “Thank you, sir.” He took the weapon and unsheathed it, revealing a curving blade that reminded him of a serpent or a wave. Turning it curiously, he asked, “What is this, sir?”

  “Well, it’s a bayonet,” Alaric said dryly. “You can mount it to our model of musket or use it to cut rope—or open a can, if you must.”

  “I mean the blade, sir. It’s wavy… rather peculiar.”

  “Ah.” Alaric smiled. “That’s called a keris, or kris, depending on how you wish to say it. It’s common where I come from—ceremonial, mostly, but very good for stabbing. I modernized the design.”

  Lucien nodded, eyes wide. “I see. Thank you for hiring me, sir.”

  “Usually I’d give you a tour,” Alaric said, glancing at the chronometer on the wall, “but as you can see, we’re pressed for time. Find your quarter in the berthing hall. Mila will take you there.”

  “This way, Mr. Farrow,” Mila said as she opened the door.

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Lucien bowed and exited, the door clicking softly behind him.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  For a moment, silence lingered in the room. Alaric leaned back in his chair, eyes still fixed on the door through which Lucien had just departed. The lamplight played across his face, half in shadow, half in gold.

  “Darian,” he said softly.

  “Yeeeess?” Darian drawled, already wary of what was coming.

  “This Mr. Farrow is a bit… green for the Nocturne’s standard, don’t you think?”

  “Oh, don’t worry,” Darian said with confidence that sounded just a bit too forced. “He’s the best quartermaster in the Twin City.”

  Alaric turned his head slowly, giving him a long, unconvinced stare.

  Darian sighed. “Alright, alright—he’s the only one left who fits our criteria. Unless you want some riff-raff on board.”

  “The only one left?” Alaric arched a brow. “The docks are literally filled with our associates. How come he’s the only one left?”

  “Well, I don’t know,” Darian said with a touch of sarcasm. “Maybe because someone posted a priority trade order for grains and green produce. I wonder who that someone is.”

  “Ah,” Alaric murmured in realization. “Still, I didn’t expect you to bring someone that green.”

  “And yet you accepted him anyway, didn’t you?”

  “What do you expect? I have a soft spot for unlucky fellows.”

  Darian grinned. “Then the Nocturne suits him perfectly.”

  Alaric exhaled, eyes narrowing in mild amusement. “Very well. But you keep that boy close to you then.”

  “What? I won’t babysit him. He’s not my responsibility.”

  “Show him some rope, at least. He’s too green. Most of the Nocturne’s crew—if not all—are veterans.”

  “More the reason to let him learn naturally,” Darian countered.

  Thus the captain and his first mate bickered—half professional, half brotherly. Their tones sharpened and softened in turns, a habit born of long familiarity rather than any real discord. But their half-heated debate was interrupted by a knock at the door.

  “You see that? Someone still remembers to knock when I’m present in a room.”

  Darian rolled his eyes and exhaled, a short puff that said more than words.

  “Come in!”

  The door opened. Mila stepped through, followed by the Nocturne’s senior officers—silent, composed, and carrying the gravity of the moment. Selene with her charts tucked neatly under one arm, Borghar immaculate in his pressed uniform, Thorin straight-backed and polished, Pipwick fidgeting at the hem of his coat, Falco compact and watchful. The air tightened with expectation as they took their places.

  Alaric rose and spread his hands in a small, courteous gesture. “Ah—everyone has gathered. Then let’s begin our planning. Ladies and gentlemen, please take a seat.”

  He waited until all were seated before speaking again, voice calm but edged with authority. “So, have all of you heard about our current situation?”

  “Aye,” Thorin answered before anyone else could. “Miss Weiss told us briefly of what happened. That treacherous rat must be punished—but most importantly, we cannot allow the Guild to have the Nocturne’s blueprints.”

  “Indeed,” Alaric replied evenly, folding his hands behind his back. “But as of now, we do not know their exact location. I believe, however, they’re still deep inside Ruska.”

  “So… are we going to hunt them down?” Borghar asked, hands resting neatly on the table.

  “Oh no.” Alaric’s smile was slow and cold as the sea at midnight. “Hunting them would be too simple—too impersonal. That cockroach insulted my generosity; therefore his punishment should be more personal, more elaborate.”

  A ripple of uneasy amusement moved through the officers.

  “Oh no, not again. What are you planning this time?” Darian said, half exasperated, half curious—already bracing for whatever Alaric’s imagination might devise.

  “Again? What happened before?” Borghar whispered to Darian.

  “Oh, you hadn’t joined us at that time,” Darian replied under his breath. “Count yourself lucky.”

  Alaric clasped his hands behind his back and began to pace slowly along the table’s edge. “As I was saying—our dear cockroach didn’t only plot against me these past few months. I received word from the Guild that he’s been plotting against his own wife, Katerina. The plan was to steal her inheritance and deliver it straight into Kuznetsov’s hands.”

  “Great.” Darian exhaled, unimpressed.

  Selene frowned, tapping the map with a gloved finger. “Wait… so Kuznetsov is trying to steal her own sister’s inheritance—with the help of Morozov, who is the sister’s husband?”

  “Correct, Miss Marlowe,” Alaric said with a wry smile. “Very ungentlemanly. Very cruel. Which is why I’ve sent a telegraph to our poor Madame Katerina—offering an alliance.”

  Darian’s brow arched. “Just a temporary alliance, right, sir?”

  Alaric paused, glancing over his shoulder with a grin that gleamed like polished steel. “Who knows? Perhaps it might become permanent—depends on her answer.”

  Darian let out a weary sigh, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Huh. More the merrier, I guess.”

  The officers exchanged looks—some curious, others quietly amused. Only Alaric seemed genuinely pleased, as if weaving subtle webs was simply another craft he practiced with ease.

  “So… how’s making an alliance with her going to help us out?” Thorin asked, brow furrowed.

  “If we help her secure her inheritance,” Alaric said, his tone steady but gleaming with calculation, “then Kuznetsov will be forced to take action. In other words, they’ll flush themselves out of hiding.”

  “I see…” Thorin leaned back slightly, arms crossed. “So what’s the plan, Mr. Van Aerden?”

  “Miss Marlowe,” Alaric said, turning toward the navigator, “have you charted a course for Zhemchug?”

  “I have, sir,” Selene replied with quiet confidence. “Plotted and ready.”

  “Good.” Alaric nodded once, then shifted his gaze toward Mila and Falco. “I expect Dumas has already alerted them of our movements. They’ll make their move against me sooner or later. From now on, I want the marines on high alert and a security detail formed around me and the Nocturne when we are in port—any port.”

  “Falco,” Mila said, her voice cool and even, “I’m short on men after the last boarding action. Can you transfer some of yours to me?”

  “Don’t worry, ma’am,” Falco replied with a curt nod. “I’ll send you the best of my lot.”

  Mila gave a small approving nod, then turned back to Alaric. “Then we’re ready, sir.”

  “Good,” Alaric said. “Lastly—Master Emberimp.”

  At the far end of the table, Pipwick sat hunched over, absently fiddling with a pen, his tail twitching in thought.

  “Master Emberimp,” Alaric repeated, a touch sharper.

  Pipwick jolted upright. “Oh—yes! Present! I mean—yes, what’s my mission, sir?”

  Alaric exhaled softly through his nose, half amused. “As for you, I’ve purchased some ammunition for our muskets, but they’re not up to our standard. I want you to recast all of it to our specifications.”

  “Just recast it?” Pipwick asked, blinking rapidly.

  “Yes,” Alaric said, then leaned slightly forward. “But if you have something in mind, I’m open to innovation.”

  The imp’s grin widened, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Right-o, sir! Leave it to me.” He gave an exaggerated salute, nearly knocking over his inkwell in the process.

  “Alright,” Alaric said, straightening to his full height. “We depart as soon as we’re ready. The sooner, the better.”

  “Yes, sir,” the officers replied in unison.

  “Then I say this meeting is concluded,” Alaric declared, his tone returning to calm authority. “You may all return to your duties.”

  Chairs pushed back, boots thudded softly against the deck. One by one, the senior officers filed out of the cabin, leaving Alaric standing by the map table as the lanterns flickered low, his reflection glimmering faintly on the polished brass fittings—already a man half-lost in thought, planning the next move long before the sea took him there.