The ship’s hull creaks under crushing waves. A storm ravages the ocean’s surface, threatening any vessel that dares trespass. Lightning shatters the sky like glass, exposing our hulking silhouette as it drifts and sways between walls of water. Thunder rattles the iron plates, announcing our intrusion. ‘If this were a simple sailboat, we’d already be sunk.’ , but this iron beast—driven by raw mana—plows on, shrugging off nature’s rage.

  It’s been a week—a week of wind and violence—and we still have five months, plus a handful of weeks, left of this slog.

  The storm finally blows itself out, revealing a sky gilded by the sun’s light. Clouds vanish; the blue is flawless. The sea lies still, disturbed only by the hushed roar of our hull. It’s a false calm: far on the horizon, another band of mana-charged storms is already rolling toward us.

  I linger on deck, relieved that we can at least patch the damage, but the clock is ticking before the next calamity hits. I don’t notice the aloof mage until he’s suddenly beside me, acknowledging my presence for the first time.

  His hood casts more shadow than face; only his mouth is visible.

  “Why are you here instead of being trained?” he asks.

  Thrown by the question, I frown. “What do you mean? I’m a soldier.”

  “No. You possess the qualities of a powerful mage—I can feel it.”

  His stare sharpens, as if he’s dissecting me.

  “I don’t understand. Is it because of the mana-circulation drills I practice?”

  “No. Most people can circulate mana their entire lives, but how they wield it depends on its nature. Yours is the purest I’ve ever sensed.”

  “So you’re saying I have what it takes to become an attack-mage?”

  “Better than that.” He pauses, amused. “Maybe the Marshal was right.”

  He smiles, turns, and walks away, leaving me with the gentle hush of calm seas—and the distant promise of another storm.

  ‘Does it have to do with the envelope?’ I wonder.

  ***

  About a week ago—right after we left port and the crew turned in—I, in my not-so-fancy cabin—fitted with a wall-mounted bunk, a stub of shelf doing its best to be a desk, and a rattling metal stool, exactly the same layout Brono and Hein had in their own tiny cabins down the corridor—decided to open the envelope Field Marshal Krieg had given me.

  I eased back the midnight-blue wax, careful not to scar the crest. The instant the flap lifted, white fire burst out—the sheet inside vanished into light, searing itself into my mind the way Swart’s book once did. But this wasn’t just knowledge. It was power. And memories.

  Visions Flashing: a man passing the same blue-sun envelope to his brother; a newborn swaddled beneath that crest while an unseen thing—a mere tremor in the air—tore its soul in half; a promise spoken in a voice I almost knew. Fragments, but vivid.

  When the blaze faded, my thoughts felt… tuned. Faster. Sharper. Mana coursed through pathways I’d never sensed, and I grasped—instinctively—what this body could do. It isn’t just trained reflexes; the blood itself is bred for war, for the sheer thrill of combat.

  For a long moment after I simply sat there, hands empty, staring at the spot where the letter had vanished. ’Someone chose to give me that power,’ I realized. ’Not a weapon tossed to a grunt, but a legacy placed in open palms.’ A strange mix of gratitude and responsibility settled over me—like the heat of a forge cooling into purpose. Whatever lay ahead, that single gift had already nudged the world’s balance in my favor.

  I also found a trinket: a bejeweled necklace bearing the same crest, with a strange pull to it. Since it was a gift, I slipped it on—figuring it might do something interesting. I tried feeding it mana, but it pushed back, so its secret remains locked for now.

  ***

  I’ve been turning those vision-fragments over and over—without slacking on training—but they’re still scattered puzzle pieces. ‘Maybe I’ve cracked one corner, though.’ In one vision, a man hands the same blue-sun envelope to his brother. I just know they’re brothers; the memory came with the feelings baked in. The taller figure is probably Field Marshal Krieg, and if my father gave him that letter, then the Marshal is my uncle. Other clues linger, but the picture’s still too foggy to trust.

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  Better get moving—all hands on deck. Bolts screech tight, plates hiss as fresh welds cool, caulkers work knee-deep in runoff while gunners lash their cannons in case they’re needed topside. Only the hooded mage keeps clear. By the time the first slate-gray cloud eclipses the moon, the last rivet is hammered home. Another bruiser of a storm is rolling in.

  ***

  Halfway through the storm’s third night the whole ship judders—too sharp, too sudden for any wave. A heartbeat later the alarm keens through every corridor, red lamps strobing like open wounds along the bulkheads.

  ‘Enemy attack? Out here?’

  I tear for the bridge. Hein falls in beside me, boots thudding in unison. With every level we climb, the hull booms as if some leviathan is drumming on it, metal ringing like a cracked bell. The mage glides ahead, cloak snapping in the gale that rushes through the open hatches.

  Inside the bridge, Captain Brono is hunched over the mana console, voice barking through the local channels. Through the slurry of words I pick out one: kraken.

  A kraken—legend made flesh on a world that isn’t even Earth. Through the windshield I glimpse a coil of night-black flesh slapping against the armor belt, suckers the size of shields studding its underside. Each strike makes the plates beneath my feet flex.

  Brono spins, eyes wild but steady. “Majors, mage—oversized squid has us in a bear hug. I’m rerouting core mana to the ward grid, but the transfer takes thirty minutes. You three hold the beast off till then. If you can scorch it sooner, feel free—calamari’s on the menu. Clear?”

  “Works for me,” I say, thumbing the safety off my rifle. Then I jerk a thumb at the mage. “But I’m not yelling ‘Sir Mage’ across the deck while tentacles are flying. We’re about to fight shoulder-to-shoulder—I need a name for my orders.”

  A pause, like he’s weighing whether names even matter. Then, in that smoky voice of his, “Rainer.”

  “Good. Rainer, you’re with me on the bow. Hein, rally the squad and bring the heavy repeaters.”

  Hein nods once, boots already pivoting. Brono turns back to his dials, coaxing power along glowing copper runs that spider over the console.

  I chamber a fresh round and sprint after Rainer, the deck beneath us tilting as the kraken tightens its grip. Above, lightning forks through bruised clouds, illuminating the monster’s silhouette—an ink-black mountain of flesh wrapped around our iron hull.

  Time to see how calamari tastes.

  Rainer heaves the bulkhead open, and we’re met by a forest of tentacles—some as wide as cannons, others whip-thin and fast. He simply drifts forward, feet leaving the deck as mana lifts him skyward. ‘Jealous,’ I admit; one day I’ll manage that trick.

  A cable-thick limb snaps at my chest. I sling my rifle behind me and draw the longsword I packed for boarding drills—too close. Mana floods my arms; muscle and memory fuse into a stance that feels born, not taught. Steel kisses flesh with a wet crack, diverting the strike upward. I roll my wrists and bring the blade down, cleaving the tentacle clean.

  ‘Shit.’ The kraken convulses, and a dozen new limbs surge over the rail, slapping the iron and spraying brine. I throw myself into a slide, vault a slick coil, and come up inside its reach, boots skidding on seawater.

  Aft, muffled explosions boom—Rainer’s making fireworks back there. ‘Just me up here, then.’ I either hold the line until reinforcements arrive or find an opening big enough to bury this monster.

  Snap—one of the slimmer tentacles flicks across my forearm, burning a shallow line of blood. Before I can curse, a trunk-thick limb slams down to pulp me. I twist aside, knock it off course with the flat of my sword, and hack halfway through the rubbery flesh. Mana floods my legs; I spring clear as another feeler scythes past.

  Snap! Another whip-cord strike. I catch it bare-handed, and the beast flings me skyward. Two massive arms rise to swat me out of the air.

  ‘Not today.’

  I pour mana into my eyes; weak spots shimmer like heat ripples along the limbs. The first blow clips my shoulder, spinning me. I ride the momentum, and with strength wound tight in my arms I scythe clean through the second tentacle.

  I hit the deck hard, roll, and come up slashing. Thin feelers hiss at me like jungle vines, endless and fast. Every breath tastes of salt and iron. Aft, Rainer’s explosions boom—bright fractures in the storm.

  ‘This is fun,’ I tell myself, carving a path through the living maze while the kraken tightens its grip around the hull.

  I feel the hull groan beneath my boots—steel plates beginning to warp under the kraken’s crushing coils. ‘Those grippers have to go.’

  I duck under a tentacle meant to take my head off, vault another, and land atop one of the main arms cinched around the ship. I swing with every ounce of mana-fueled strength, but my blade only scratches the hide. More limbs surge at me.

  I pivot, slice one clean, leap upward, catch a thinner feeler for balance, slash another—always moving, always thinking. ‘If only my blade were stronger—wait.’ Can’t mana flow into steel the same way it floods muscle?

  I channel power into the sword. The blade glows cobalt, lines of light racing along the fuller. ‘Now we’re talking.’ I dodge a pair of snapping tendrils, then drive the charged edge through the massive arm beneath me. Flesh parts; brine hisses out. The pressure on the hull eases.

  But the cost is immediate. The sword shivers, spider-web cracks skitter across the glowing steel, and it shatters in my hands—just shards and a molten tang of ruined metal.

  ‘Well… that worked once.’ I fling the broken hilt aside, flex my fingers, and reach for my knife. The kraken bellows, the deck buckles, and I brace for the next round—weapons or no, this beast is losing its grip tonight.

  While I’m still carving a path through the flailing limbs, the forward hatch bangs open and the rest of our squad pours onto the deck, repeaters spitting fire, knives and swords slashing. Their boots skid across the brine-slick plates as they fight their way toward me through a jungle of flesh.

  I reach Hein just as a knotted tentacle snaps for his spine. One stroke takes it off at the joint, buying us a heartbeat of air.

  “Hein—we’ve got to break the main grippers first. The little ones are just smoke and mirrors!”

  He turns to the nearest trooper. “You heard him—focus fire on the anchor limbs! Anything smaller, shove it aside.”

  Then he meets my eyes. No questions, just trust.

  “Hein—your blade.”

  Without hesitation he reverses his grip and presses the hilt into my hand—a straight infantry sabre, edge nicked from drills but still honest steel. I give a curt nod, tighten my fingers around the leather wrap, and feel mana prickle along the fuller, hungry for a new conduit.

  ‘Second sword, second chance,’ I think as the kraken’s shadow looms larger. Time to free this ship—or sink with it.

  I spearhead the melee line, crashing forward with six close-quarters troopers at my flanks. With Hein’s squad laying suppressive fire from behind, gaps open just long enough for us to slip through. We hack and shove, carving a path the way a reaper scythes wheat; any feeler that dodges our steel gets punched full of holes by Hein’s marksmen.

  At last we reach the nearest anchor limb—a black pillar thicker than a gun turret, cinched tight around the bow. I let mana pool in the sabre; the fuller flares cobalt, heat trembling up the guard. One two-handed arc and the blade shears clean through. Salted gore fountains skyward, the severed arm sliding away with a hiss. The sword survives, though hairline fractures spider along its edge—one, maybe two more powered cuts before it joins my first blade in pieces.

  ‘Good enough.’

  A quick head-count: three troopers sport cracked ribs or torn muscles. I send them back toward the medics—no sense feeding the beast fresh targets. Two of the five bow-side grippers are down; three remain, thrashing harder now that the kraken feels the loss.

  Storm light flickers, timing out ten minutes gone—twenty left before Brono’s ward grid snaps on. I can’t see Rainer’s section through the curtain of spray and tentacle, but explosions still echo from the stern. ‘He’s alive, at least.’

  “Shift left!” I bark. “Next anchor—same plan. Hein, keep the avenues clear!”

  Repeater fire rips overhead in confirmation. We charge the second target, sabre humming like a live wire in my grip and the deck groaning beneath a monster that’s beginning to realize it might just lose this meal.