The docks had gone silent.

  The pale Ruskan sun hung high behind the haze, turning the frost to a dull sheen that clung to ropes and barrels. The air smelled of salt, iron, and coal smoke. Soldiers stood in formation along the pier, their breath misting faintly in the cold light.

  Between them, Pavlov faced Alaric.

  His shoulders trembled—not from chill, but from rage barely chained. Each breath came rough through his nose, a low growl building at the back of his throat.

  Alaric, by contrast, looked utterly unarmed. His coat hung open, gloves immaculate, not a blade in sight. He stood with hands clasped behind his back, posture relaxed as though this were a polite conversation rather than a heartbeat before violence.

  Katerina felt the shift before anyone else—the pressure in the air, the cold turning heavy, almost metallic. She knew Pavlov’s kind; men built from habit and obedience, who could weather cruelty but not mockery.

  “Pavlov,” she started, her voice a quiet plea.

  But Pavlov spoke first. “You talk bold — why don’t we settle this one on one. Man to man.”

  Alaric chuckled, slow and amused. “You will lose. You will be humiliated in front of your men.”

  “Watch your tongue, outsider!” Pavlov barked.

  “I will give you this one opportunity to go down on your knees and apologize to Lady Katerina; then you and your boys may leave.”

  “That’s it!” Pavlov roared. “Boys, let’s teach these foreigners some manners!”

  His crew rallied behind him, a hard ripple of faces and fists and breath steaming in the cold.

  “You might want to step back, madame. Things are going to get ugly,” Alaric said calmly.

  “Alaric—”

  “Madame, please.” The word was almost tender. “I will never forgive myself if you were to get hurt.”

  Katerina froze. The way he said it wasn’t arrogance. It was certainty—like he’d already seen the blood in the frozen mud and simply didn’t want her near it. Nevertheless, she remained behind the marines, a pale figure framed by frost and daylight.

  “Swords of Nocturne!” Alaric called. “No pistol, no sword… just fists. Show them how sons and daughters of the Crow fight.”

  “Yes, sir!” the Nocturne marines bellowed in a raw, single-throated answer.

  Then the dock erupted into a brawl.

  A bottle flew first—shattering across the planks, spraying wine and glass. Then came the shouting, a wave of curses that rolled into fists and boots. Pavlov’s crew lunged like street brawlers, wide swings and drunken rage; the Nocturne marines met them with tight formation and brutal precision.

  Men crashed into barrels, ropes snapped under the struggle, and the sound of knuckles striking flesh filled the harbor like a drumbeat. A gust of wind swept through, scattering frost into the light, the air thick with noise and movement.

  One of Pavlov’s men tried to tackle a marine; the man sidestepped and drove his knee into the attacker’s gut, folding him. Another dockhand climbed a crate to swing down, only to be caught mid-air by a fist that sent him sprawling into the slush.

  Katerina flinched as two men rolled past her, trading punches until they hit the frozen ground. The smell of salt, sweat, and blood hung thick. Around her, the fight had no order—just chaos made human.

  But the marines fought as if this were a mere exercise. They moved like a pack of wolves, backs to one another, every strike measured. It wasn’t just strength—it was discipline. Even barehanded, even against a mob, they held.

  Pavlov himself waded through his crew, shouting orders no one obeyed. He threw a punch that flattened a smaller man trying to flee, then glared across the melee at Alaric—who still hadn’t moved.

  Alaric stood apart, coat unruffled, hands behind his back, watching as if it were all a drill. His eyes followed every motion, every stumble. To Katerina, he looked almost serene—like the chaos itself moved according to his will.

  A dockhand tried to rush him. One of the Nocturne marines caught the man mid-charge and slammed him face-first into a piling. The man dropped, unconscious, sliding into the frost.

  Still, Alaric didn’t move. He was waiting.

  And across the storm of fists, Pavlov’s gaze finally locked on him.

  Pavlov charged.

  He came like a bull loosed from its pen, boots hammering the dock, eyes wide and wild. The men around barely had time to pull back before he crashed forward, all brute strength and blind fury.

  Alaric didn’t brace. He waited—just long enough for Pavlov’s momentum to peak—then stepped aside, coat flaring with the movement. Pavlov barreled past, missing by inches, the air splitting with the sound of his passing. He stumbled, skidding on the frost, wood splintering under his boots.

  Alaric turned smoothly, calm as ever. “You lack form,” he said, his voice carrying across the pier. “But I must admit, your hit is quite heavy.”

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  Pavlov spun, face red with rage. “Shut up and fight, you mongrel!” he barked, swinging again.

  The blows came wild and heavy, born of strength, not skill. Pavlov fought like a man trying to bury an insult with his fists. Alaric ducked one strike, weaved past another, and caught a third on his forearm before slipping inside Pavlov’s guard.

  Their bodies collided—raw strength against precise control. Pavlov’s punches were hammers; Alaric’s movements were scalpels. He parried with a jab and redirected with a throw, letting every impact roll through him instead of meeting it head-on.

  Katerina could hardly breathe. Around them, the brawl still raged, but the noise felt distant now—all sound drowned beneath the rhythm of Pavlov’s grunts and Alaric’s quiet, measured breathing.

  Each time Pavlov swung, Alaric gave ground by a hair’s breadth. Not retreating—measuring. Studying. Waiting for the flaw.

  Then Pavlov roared and threw a hook—a brutal, sweeping arc that could’ve shattered a jaw clean off.

  Alaric slipped under it by a breath. The fist cut through empty air, grazing the edge of his coat.

  Before Pavlov could recover, Alaric stepped in. His knee drove upward, precise and unhurried, striking hard against Pavlov’s kidney.

  The sound was dull and heavy—a thud followed by a strangled gasp. Pavlov’s breath exploded from him. His body folded in half, knees hitting the frozen planks. He gagged, hands clutching his side, the fight gone in an instant.

  For a moment, there was only the wind.

  Then the last of Pavlov’s crew dropped. Groans replaced shouting. The frost-streaked dock was littered with bodies and broken pride. The Nocturne marines stood amid the wreckage, bruised but steady.

  Mila approached from the other side of the harbor.

  Alaric met her gaze with a faint, disarming grin. “I know, I know, but I swear nothing happened to me,” he said lightly.

  She reined in and slid from the saddle smoothly. The mare stamped, snorting steam into the cold daylight.

  “You and your loud mouth, sir,” she said flatly as she dismounted.

  Alaric’s smile lingered. “It seems to be so. Did you bring it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” He turned toward the marines. His voice cut across the dock like a command bell. “Somebody find a rope and tie this man to a lamppost.”

  A pair of marines moved instantly, hauling Pavlov upright. Rope rasped over iron as they bound him tight against the lamppost, head drooping, breath shallow.

  Alaric stepped forward.

  “Listen—I will be blunt with you. Apologize to the lady, or I will lash you.”

  “You think that would break me?” Pavlov spat.

  “Very well, then.” Alaric exhaled. He gestured to Mila.

  Mila, pulled a whip from her satchel and handed it to Alaric.

  Alaric walked to the front of Pavlov, the whip tailing behind him.

  As soon as Pavlov saw it his eyes widened: the whip was abnormally decorated, longer and thicker than most, dyed in green and red with an oriental dragon carved on its hilt.

  “I call this Big Rowan. In my homeland we call it a pecut—it literally means a whip. But as you can see, this is nothing but ‘just a whip,’” Alaric said.

  “I’m feeling merciful, Mr. Pavlov. I suggest you apologize now. This whip could break even the stubbornness of a man.”

  When silence answered, Alaric exhaled. He gave a nod, and the marines stepped back. The whip sliced through the cold air.

  CRACK!

  The sound tore across the docks like thunder. Men flinched, hands to their ears; the frost scattered beneath the shock.

  "AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!" Pavlov let out a spine-tingling cry that echoed around the pier. Everyone squirmed but before

  Then came the second.

  CRACK!

  And the third.

  CRACK!

  And the fourth.

  Each stroke sounded like a storm breaking over the harbor, and with each one, the whip removed a trickle of blood and a chunk of flesh from Pavlov's back. When the echoes receded, stillness fell – heavy and absolute.

  Alaric raised his arm once more — then froze. A voice broke through the stillness.

  “No! No—please!”

  The whip stilled. Alaric lowered it slowly and stepped forward. “So,” he said softly, “are you sorry for what you did?”

  “Yes—please, sir… I’m sorry.”

  “Not to me.”

  “Lady Katerina… I’m sorry. I was rude.”

  Alaric nodded once. “Is that enough, Lady Katerina?”

  Katerina hesitated, then nodded.

  “Alright. Good.”

  He leaned close, voice low. “Good job, man. I don’t know what orders Morozov gave you, but I believe you won’t follow through with that plan, yes?”

  “Yes, sir… please, just let me go.”

  “Hush, hush, it’s alright. My physicians will treat you.”

  “Please, sir… I’ll leave, I won’t bother you anymore.”

  “No,” Alaric said evenly. “Your punishment was lashing, not death. There are few doctors who can treat wounds like that…” He glanced at the man’s back. “And luckily, I have the best money can afford. She’ll see to you first — then you may go.”

  Pavlov said nothing more. He only nodded, trembling, the last of his defiance gone with the midday wind.

  Alaric turned to his men. “Take him to see Miss Veyr immediately,” he ordered. “And any of his crew who are heavily injured — bring them as well.”

  “Yes, sir!” came the answer.

  The marines moved without hesitation. Two of them unfastened the ropes and lifted him carefully onto his feet, while others began gathering the wounded from the ground.

  Within minutes, a small cart was rolled forward, its wheels creaking over the frost. The injured were laid inside with quiet efficiency.

  Sunlight glinted off the brass fittings of the Royale Nocturne moored in the distance. The cart began to move, guided toward her dark hull, the marines walking alongside in steady rhythm.

  The midday wind carried the low hum of the ship’s engines as they stirred to life — a sound that drowned the echoes of what had just transpired.

  Katerina approached Alaric, boots leaving wet prints on the frost-stiff planks. She drew close enough that her voice dropped to something private despite the emptied dock.

  “Mr. Van Aerden,” she said, controlled but stiff, “I appreciate the gesture, but this is a bit excessive, no?”

  Alaric met her eyes without flinching. “It is excessive. I personally don’t like punishing a man this way,” he answered, honest in a way that made the cold between them colder.

  “So why do it?” she pressed.

  “Believe it or not—” he paused, thin smile vanishing—“it’s for you.”

  Katerina’s hand tightened at her cloak. “Mr. Van Aerden, if you’re trying to impress me, trust me when I say this is counterproductive.”

  “No.” His tone cut her off, flat and definite. “Not to impress. To show you what you’re in for.” He stepped nearer, the light catching the bone of his jaw. “There are plenty of men like Pavlov in the West Meridian Sea. They cannot be reasoned with, cannot be bought; they only understand a show of force. If you truly plan to run the sugar estate there, mark my words — make note of what happened today.”

  Katerina looked at the bundled form on the cart as it creaked toward the Nocturne, then back to Alaric. The midday glare made everything too clear: the lines in his face, the steady set of his shoulders, the small, inexorable machinery of command he wore like a coat. For a moment something like understanding — or calculation — passed across her features.

  She nodded once, slow and careful. “I see,” she said.

  Alaric gave her a short, almost imperceptible bow. “Then we shall continue,” he said, voice restored to its casual edge. “There is work to be done.”

  They watched the cart until it vanished beneath the Nocturne’s shadow. Around them the pier began to hum again — men whispering, ropes creaking, the ship’s engines low and steady. The day moved on, but the shape of the morning had changed: a lesson given, a debt added, and a dock full of men who now understood the currency of force.