Ámmon stood alone on a high stone balcony overlooking the churning sea. The sky was bruising into a deep, purple. The cold wind whipped his heavy cloak around him, but in his mind, he was far away. A profound, nostalgia washed over him. The atmosphere felt exactly like the day before the draft, back in his village in the Badlands. He remembered the suffocating heat of the afternoon sun, the smell of roasted cactus, and the sight of Kaséti sitting on the edge of the well, meticulously polishing his spear. They had been terrified, but they had been together, ignorant of the true horrors of the world. Now, Kaséti was rotting in the dirt, Ámenor was lost, and Ámmon was standing at the edge of the world, dressed in the stolen silks of his enemies.
He touched the pommel of the emerald sword at his hip. He hated the weapon. He missed his spear. He missed the sand. Not even a full turn of the seasons, he thought again, and the world has swallowed me whole.
"It is time," Dory's harsh voice broke his reverie. She stood in the doorway, her satchel strapped tightly across her chest, a heavy iron mace resting against her shoulder. "The Chieftain is calling the vanguard."
Ámmon nodded. He reached into his pocket, gently stroking Khepri's head to calm the trembling creature. He turned his back on the ocean and walked into the darkness of the stronghold.
The harbor of Hestia had undergone a drastic, terrifying transformation. The sprawling commercial docks, usually choked with merchant cogs, hanging fishing nets, and haggling traders, had been entirely stripped of their mundane purpose. In their place, a brutal, highly efficient military machine had taken over. The labyrinth of wooden piers now groaned under the weight of an army, illuminated by the frantic, shifting orange glow of thousands of torches. Hestian longboats bobbed violently in the freezing surf, their terrifying sea-serpent prows cutting through the thick coastal fog. Out of the shadowed alleys and steep cliff paths marched the combined might of Hestia. The three rival tribes, the Hamsdte, the Kjedt, and the Embodte, arrived in disciplined warbands, their heavy boots thundering against the wet wood. Above their ranks, heavy war banners snapped viciously in the freezing wind. The Hamsdte flew the sigil of a fierce, roaring brown bear; the Kjedt carried the emblem of a striking mongoose; and the Embodte raised a massive canvas depicting a venomous cobra with its hood flared. Dozens of other banners representing minor tribes and lesser vassals fluttered in the chaotic darkness, a sea of violent heraldry that Ámmon did not bother to dissect.
The boarding was a spectacle of grim, ruthless efficiency. Weapons clattered softly against heavy wooden shields, and the crisp sea air was suddenly thick with the smell of oiled leather, wet iron, and raw bloodlust. There were no cheers, no boastful war chants. The time for roaring was over. This was the silent, lethal focus of a raiding culture about to strike.
Ámmon stepped onto the flagship alongside Hafhross, Runa, and his royal guard. Jory was already curled into a miserable, shivering ball near the stern, while Salim stood near the bow, his face painted with a single line of black ash, looking entirely in his element.
"Push off!" the giant commanded in a harsh, gravelly whisper.
The heavy wooden oars struck the black water in perfect, terrifying unison. The armada slipped out of the harbor like a school of giant, predatory leviathans, disappearing completely into the dense fog bank that blanketed the western sea.
The crossing was an agonizing, nerve-shredding ordeal of silence. For the first hour, the only sound was the rhythmic, relentless crack-splash of the oars and the sharp whistling of the bitter wind.
Near the rear of the flagship, huddled behind a stack of heavy wooden shields, Jory was violently losing his battle against the ocean.
"I am going to die," Jory groaned, clutching his stomach as the longboat crested another invisible, brutal wave. "The Grasslanders couldn't kill, the Savanna beasts couldn't eat me. But this... this floating wooden bucket of misery will be my tomb."
Salim, crouching beside him in the pitch-black darkness with one hand resting casually on the hilt of his stolen curved blade, rolled his eyes. "Breathe through your mouth, Jory. And maintain some dignity. We are the Prince's vanguard. We do not weep over slightly agitated water."
"Slightly agitated?" Jory hissed. "We are floating blind in a black void, surrounded by tattooed giants who drink fermented fish blood!"
"Quiet," Salim snapped suddenly, his confident demeanor vanishing in an instant. His posture went completely rigid. "Do you hear that?"
Jory froze. "Hear what?"
Salim slowly, silently drew his dark-steel dagger from his belt. "Something... wet. Breathing. Right behind us."
Jory stopped breathing entirely. In the absolute pitch-black fog, where not even the waning gibbous moon could penetrate, the senses played terrifying tricks. But Salim was right. There was a distinct, heavy sound on the cramped deck. Slap... slap... sssshhhhh. It sounded like a massive slab of raw meat being dragged across the wet wood, accompanied by a low, guttural, vibrating wheeze. The wet, heavy sliding drew closer. The rancid, suffocating stench of rotting kelp and half-digested fish washed over them, so potent it made Jory gag violently.
Suddenly, a massive, unseen weight bumped directly into Salim's leg in the dark. With a sharp intake of breath, Salim spun, thrusting the dagger downward with lethal precision, only to have his wrist caught mid-air by a hand the size of a boulder. The grip was like an iron vise, cold and calloused.
"Careful, boy," a deep, heavily accented voice rumbled from the pitch-black void above them. It was one of the colossal Hestian oarsmen. "You stab Barnacles and damage the ship's hull, I snap your neck and feed you to the tide."
"Barnacles?" Salim choked out, struggling uselessly to free his wrist.
The giant pirate chuckled, releasing Salim's wrist. "Aye. The ship's hound."
As Salim's eyes strained against the suffocating mist, the hulking silhouette of the 'beast' became barely visible in the gloom. It wasn't a hound. It was a massive, blubber-heavy walrus-like creature with thick whiskers, waddling across the war-deck like a reigning monarch.
"Not a single word of this to Ámmon," Salim hissed, aggressively wiping the sea-spray from his forehead, his face burning hot despite the freezing wind. "Or I swear to the Sands, I will throw you overboard myself."
"Oh, you won't have to," Jory muttered miserably, leaning back over the railing and gesturing vaguely into the pitch-black void beside Salim. "He has been sitting right next to you for the past ten minutes."
Ámmon could practically feel Salim freeze in the dark.
Sitting mere inches from his guard's left shoulder, Ámmon couldn't hold it in any longer. A soft, highly amused snort escaped his lips, breaking the thick tension.
"I must admit, Salim," Ámmon said, his voice trembling slightly as he tried to suppress a fit of laughter. "The formidable 'desert's wrath' nearly losing his life in a duel against a blubbering sea-hound was not exactly the glorious vanguard action King Namer promised me."
Salim let out a strangled gasp. Even in the blinding fog, Ámmon could sense the young assassin's pride shattering into a thousand pieces as Salim blindly turned toward his voice. "My Prince?! I... it is too dark! I could not see you! How long have you been sitting there?"
"Long enough to know that Barnacles has terrible breath," Ámmon wheezed, finally letting out a genuine, much-needed laugh that briefly cut through the heavy dread of the impending war. "He stepped on my foot right before he licked Jory's. Now please, sheathe your dagger before you accidentally declare war on a seagull."
Hearing this, the colossal, tattooed Hestian oarsman above them let out a booming, rumbling laugh that echoed over the crashing waves. For a brief, fleeting second in that pitch-black mist, the suffocating terror of the sea and the impending slaughter simply vanished, leaving the boys from the desert smiling in the dark. What Salim had complained about earlier was no exaggeration. Ámmon held his own hand a mere inch from his face near the bow and saw nothing but a pitch-black void.
The moment of levity was short-lived. As the longboat crested a wave, the thick coastal fog parted just enough for the pale, dying light of the waning moon to wash over the deck. Ámmon's gaze drifted across the ship and stopped dead. There, casually adjusting the leather straps of her armor in the silvery gloom, was the tall, Hestian woman Salim had been passionately entangled with in the shadowed corridor just hours before.
Frowning, Ámmon leaned toward the old, one-eyed merchant who served as their translator, who had been huddled silently beside them this entire time. He mustered all the broken Grasslander vocabulary he could remember. "Who... is she?" Ámmon whispered, assuming she must be a noblewoman of high standing to be allowed on the Chieftain's personal flagship alongside the royal house.
"Her?" the old man wheezed, following Ámmon's gaze through the parting mist.
Ámmon just nodded, keeping his voice low.
"That is Lady Frida," the merchant replied matter-of-factly. "The High Chieftain's wife."
A block of solid ice dropped directly into Ámmon's stomach. He swallowed hard, his throat suddenly bone-dry. As if sensing his sheer panic, Frida glanced over her shoulder. Catching Ámmon staring in absolute horror, a wicked, knowing smirk touched her lips. She looked straight at the Prince of the Sands and offered him a slow, deliberate wink.
Before Ámmon could even process the impending disaster, the freezing mist rolled back in, thicker and heavier than before, swallowing the moon entirely,, as the agonizing minutes turned into hours, Ámmon realized something impossible. Despite sailing in an impenetrable, blinding darkness without a single torch to guide them, the massive armada of two hundred longboats was moving at a terrifying, breakneck speed. There were no shouted commands, no signal drums, no lanterns. The ships weaved effortlessly through treacherous, unseen sea stacks and maintained tight, perfect formations without so much as grazing one another's hulls.
Unable to stand the tense mystery, Ámmon carefully released his grip on the bench. Navigating entirely by touch, he stumbled his way toward the bow, guided only by the hulking silhouette of Hafhross, who stood completely still, blocking the biting wind.
"How do they see?" Ámmon whispered over the rushing water, squinting blindly into the suffocating mist. "We are sailing blind."
Hafhross didn't look back, his massive hands resting easily on the ship's wooden railing. A low, rumbling chuckle vibrated in his chest. "You are sailing blind, desert boy."
Ámmon frowned in the dark. "What do you mean?"
The giant Chieftain finally turned his head. In the pitch-black night, Ámmon could swear Hafhross's icy eyes caught a nonexistent glimmer of starlight, reflecting it like a deep-sea predator.
"You mainlanders build grand lighthouses and cower behind massive fires, terrified of what hides in the shadows," Hafhross muttered, his voice dropping into a proud, gravelly tone. "But when the sun drowns, the sea opens its eyes, and so do we. My men see through this black fog as clearly as you see your endless dunes at high noon."
Á gliding toward them. Overlooking the entire bay stood a towering lighthouse of white stone, its massive fire-beacon still burning like a defiant, arrogant star against the fading night.
As the armada drifted to the harbor's mouth, Hafhross raised a single, massive hand. Instantly, the relentless, driving rhythm of the oars ceased. The Hestian warriors let their heavy wooden blades drag in the freezing water, deliberately bleeding the speed from their vessels. The longboats glided silently on the morning tide, hovering like ghosts just outside the range of the city's view. The trap was set, but the jaws could not snap shut just yet. They were waiting. Every raider on the black water held their breath, their predatory eyes fixed on the sleeping city, waiting for the signal that the exiled King had begun his assault on the landward walls.
The sun broke the eastern horizon, casting a blinding, golden light over the churning sea. Hafhross stood at the bow of the flagship, his massive frame silhouetted against the dawn. He turned back, locking his icy eyes with the Prince of the Sands.
And it was in that precise moment that they heard it.
The morning wind shifted, carrying the faint, haunting wail of a desert warhorn over the limestone peaks. A heartbeat later, high above the pristine white spires of Pyles-Thalassa, cresting the distant landward ridge, a colossal pillar of thick, pitch-black smoke violently pierced the dawn sky, staining the golden clouds. It was the signal. Namer's vanguard had reached the perimeter and set the outer watchtowers ablaze. The landward siege had officially begun.
With a sharp, deliberate nod, the Chieftain signaled for his war banner to be hoisted. A moment later, a heavy, salt-stained canvas unfurled violently in the wind, displaying the sigil of his bloodline: a black, running boar with a single, jagged tusk.
With his colors finally flying over the black water, Hafhross raised a heavy, hollow horn carved from a tusk to his lips.
The agonizing wait was over. The trap was sprung. Hafhross blew the horn, and a deep, mournful wail shattered the morning silence, signaling the beginning of the slaughter.mmon was momentarily stunned. Phusis. It had to be. Just as the scorching heat of the Badlands gifted his people with an unnatural, relentless endurance, and the Grasslanders could commune with the beasts. The sea tribes maybe possessed an elemental connection to the darkness?
"This is how we rule the water," Hafhross continued, turning his gaze back to the unseen horizon. "The night is our armor. We use the darkness to swallow our enemies, striking when the world is blind."
Ámmon backed away slowly, returning to his bench with a new, terrifying respect for the raiders. The pitch-black sky began to bleed into shades of pale gray. The suffocating sea mist slowly began to part, torn away by the morning breeze. And there it was.
Rising from the coastal cliffs like a mountain of pristine, arrogantly carved limestone, the fortress city of Pyles-Thalassa loomed in the early light. The city's port was a breathtaking marvel of Imperial engineering. Impregnable sea walls of white stone rose directly from the churning water, crowned with defensive towers and lined with heavy iron ballistae pointing blindly out into the sea. A colossal iron chain, its rusted links as thick as a man's torso, spanned the narrow mouth of the harbor, designed to shatter the hulls of any invading fleet. Yet, perhaps due to the early hour, as the first merchant cogs and fishing skiffs began to leave the port, the massive chain had been lowered, resting harmlessly beneath the morning waves. Within the sheltered, deep-water basin, a labyrinth of grand marble piers and towering wooden cranes stretched along the waterfront. Anchored securely at the docks rested three Grasslander war galleons and dozens of opulent merchant vessels. Their green banners snapped lazily in the wind, completely oblivious to the doom. gliding toward them.
Overlooking the entire bay stood a towering lighthouse of white stone, its massive fire-beacon still burning like a defiant, arrogant star against the fading night. As the armada drifted to the harbor's mouth, Hafhross raised a single, massive hand. Instantly, the relentless, driving rhythm of the oars ceased. The Hestian warriors let their heavy wooden blades drag in the freezing water, deliberately bleeding the speed from their vessels. The longboats glided silently on the morning tide, hovering like ghosts just outside the range of the city's view. The trap was set, but the jaws could not snap shut just yet. They were waiting. Every raider on the black water held their breath, their predatory eyes fixed on the sleeping city, waiting for the signal that the exiled King had begun his assault on the landward walls.
Hafhross stood at the bow of the flagship, his massive frame silhouetted against the dawn. He turned back, locking his icy eyes with the Prince of the Sands.
Where is him? Ámmon thought, a suffocating dread pressing against his ribs like the crushing weight of a collapsing dune. The Hestian armada was already in position, drifting dangerously close to the city's impregnable walls. In the east, the sun finally broke the horizon, aggressively tearing away the last of the protective fog and spilling a blinding, golden light across the churning water. Ámmon gripped the hilt of his stolen sword, his mind racing. Just a few more minutes. If the Namer delayed any longer, the Thalassan garrison would spot the massive fleet in the morning glare, and their entire strategy of a silent, rear-guard offensive would sink straight to the bottom of the sea.
Where is Namer?