The hour was just before dawn. The sea lay black as spilled oil, and the sky above it a low vault of cloud that smothered even the stars. Only one light moved across that vast darkness — an anxious steamer, her funnels belching smoke like twin chimneys from hell.

  Her boilers screamed past the redline, gears shrieking and grinding as the engines drove her beyond all safe limits. The heat from her engine rooms turned the decks into furnaces, where men worked half-blind in the glare of open fire. Every inch of sail was unfurled to catch the tailwind, every man driven past sense by the captain’s hoarse commands.

  They had been running for an hour. Now two. The crew’s eyes stung from coal dust and salt. They had jettisoned cargo, torn loose plating, even rolled two guns overboard to make her lighter. Nothing helped.

  Because behind them, always behind them, the darkness moved. A silhouette glided in and out of the fog — five masts in perfect line, sails drawn pale as bone blown by the wind. Then, one by one, along the length of her hull, lights flared to life — cold, white, and haunting.

  The Royale Nocturne illuminated herself, her brass fittings gleaming under her electric light. Steam curled from her paddle housings like incense from a shrine. She looked less a ship than a floating cathedral of war, serene and dreadful in equal measure.

  “She’s turned her lights on!” someone on the steamer cried, voice cracking with panic. “She’s showing herself!”

  But there was no comfort in that sight. The Nocturne’s brilliance only made her more terrible, like a god revealing itself before the condemned. Each cresting wave shimmered silver beneath her lights — every one marking the shrinking distance between hunter and prey.

  “How far are they, you reckon, Mr. Ironhorn?”

  Alaric’s voice carried clearly over the wind. He stood on the forecastle, both hands raising his brass spyglass toward the fleeing plume of smoke.

  “Probably sixteen hundred yards, sir,” Borghar rumbled beside him, breath fogging in the cold air.

  “Alright,” Alaric said, lowering the glass. “Fire the blank. Signal her to surrender.”

  Borghar gave a short nod and pulled the lanyard of the bow chaser. Flint struck steel — spark, fire, thunder.

  The cannon roared, its echo rolling miles across the sea. Smoke billowed white, curling under the Nocturne’s lights like a banner of warning.

  There was a long, taut silence. Then, from the steamer’s stern, two roundshot screamed back. Both missed — but the message was clear: We fight until the end.

  “Well,” Alaric murmured, “in that case, return fire, Mr. Ironhorn.”

  “Aye, sir!” Borghar barked, voice booming. “Lads! Load the chaser!”

  Men sprang into motion — powder, wad, roundshot, wad — a practiced coordination. Borghar checked the elevation, gave a nod, and they pulled the lanyard. The gun thundered. The shot vanished into the dark, followed by a distant splash and a shower of water.

  “Mila,” Alaric called, “you and your detachment stay here. Tell your sharpshooters to fire immediately once they’re in range.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Falco — quarterdeck. Station your men on the fighting tops.”

  “Aye, Captain!” Falco replied. “Alright men — move, move!”

  The crew dispersed, boots drumming against the deck, the Nocturne alive with ordered energy. Ahead, the steamer’s lights wavered — defiant, but faltering.

  “Mr. Ironhorn. I will return to the poop deck — you handle everything from here.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Third gun — fire!”

  The third of the Nocturne’s four bow chasers thundered. Smoke burst white over the deck, drifting aft in the wind.

  Miss. A tall plume of water rose short of the steamer.

  “Adjust up two turns!” Borghar barked. The next gun fired — splash, closer.

  “Adjust up one more turn! First gun — fire!”

  This one struck home, punching through the aft quarter. A burst of sparks and wood flared behind her cabin windows.

  Borghar grinned. “Range found!” he rumbled. “Guns Three and Four, reload and maintain fire! One and Two, stagger your shots — keep her rattled!”

  The four guns spoke in steady rhythm — boom... boom... boom... boom... — the slow heartbeat of something immense and patient.

  Out ahead, the steamer’s wake grew wild, her men scrambling as the Nocturne’s iron found her again and again.

  Then one more shot fired — sharp, perfect. It struck just beneath the cabin, shattering timber and iron.

  “Alright, next gun — fire!” Borghar roared.

  But the gunner sergeant didn’t move. He was staring through his spyglass.

  “Have you gone daft, man? I said fire!” Borghar snapped.

  “Sir — she’s swaying hard... and slowing down, fast!”

  Borghar blinked, yanked his own glass to his eye. The steamer ahead was staggering — her wheel spun uncontrollably, thick white smoke venting through her chimney as the paddlewheel was slowing down and her crew furling her sails.

  “By Asterion...” he muttered. “We hit her steering.”

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  He bolted to the speaking tube. “Selene! Slow down the ship!”

  A pause, then: “What? Why?”

  “No time to explain — just do it!”

  Then he turned and jabbed a thick finger at one of his men. “You — tell the Captain we struck her rudder!”

  Moments later, the deck trembled as the Nocturne’s paddlewheel disengaged from its power. The sudden brake sent a shudder through her hull.

  Alaric steadied himself on the quarterdeck as the ship slowed. “Captain! Captain!” a sailor called, breathless as he streaked the quarterdeck.

  “What is it, man? What happened?”

  “We struck her rudder, sir — she’s rapidly slowing down!”

  As soon as he heard the news he didn’t bother to reply and rushed to the poopdeck where Selene and Darian waited, both wide-eyed.

  “What happened, Captain?” Darian asked.

  “We struck her rudder,” Alaric said, eyes gleaming. “She’s dead in the water.”

  For a heartbeat, silence — then both officers exchanged a look of shock and growing excitement.

  “Should we announce it, sir?” Darian asked.

  Alaric gave a thin smile. “Of course. Let everyone hear it.”

  Darian climbed the poop deck railing, bullhorn in hand. “Crew of the Royale Nocturne!” his voice rang out. “We struck her rudder — she’s dead in the water!”

  Cheers erupted across the ship.

  “We’ll get you!”

  “Hey, Diegos! Can you swim back to Espanor?!”

  “Don’t worry, Diegos — we’ll come to get you!”

  Laughter and jeers echoed into the wind, and then Borghar raised his great horn. The sound he blew was deep, vibrating through the hull and across the sea — a bellow that felt as if the Nocturne herself roared.

  The crew’s spirits surged like a wave in a storm.

  But aboard the steamer, the effect was opposite.

  The captain’s voice cracked as he tried to rally his men. “Ready for boarding action! Load your muskets, draw your cutlasses, fix bayonets!”

  The command scattered into panic. Men stumbled as more and more poured to the deck, hands shaking as they rammed powder, dropped cartridges, fumbled with their weapons. Others simply collapsed, sobbing into their palms.

  “No, no, I don’t want to die!”

  “Please, gods, I’ll be a good man!”

  “Mama... please... I’m sorry...”

  The steamer groaned and listed, her engines coughing their last. Across the dark sea, the Nocturne’s lights burned cold and steady — the gaze of a hunter watching its prey go still.

  “Should we load grapeshot, sir?” Darian asked, voice taut.

  “Only the swivel guns. We want to capture her as intact as possible,” Alaric replied, peering through his spyglass. “If we batter her to pieces, there’s nothing to seize.”

  “What if they fire their broadside, sir?” Selene asked.

  “They won’t — or rather they can’t. They’ve pulled their men topside; that means they don’t have enough hands to man the gundeck and fight at the same time.”

  “So what’s your order, Captain?”

  “Position us along their portside and ready the harpoon gun,” Alaric said. “Let’s reel them in.”

  “Aye aye, Captain.”

  The Nocturne eased closer, her hull gliding beside the steamer’s wounded flank until the two ships ran parallel. The air between them churned with smoke and wind, the distance no more than a musket shot.

  Then the steamer made her stand.

  Her swivel guns barked first — one from the bow, another from the stern — both firing grapeshot. The blasts tore through the gap in a storm of leads. It wasn’t precise; it didn’t have to be. Shot whirled across the Nocturne’s deck, punching holes through canvas and railing. A sailor on the forecastle went down instantly; another screamed as shrapnel tore through his leg.

  “They’re firing grapeshot!” someone shouted.

  Borghar didn’t wait for orders. “Swivel guns — open fire!” he roared.

  A heartbeat later, the Nocturne’s revolving swivel guns came alive. The brass cylinder spun, spitting streams of musket balls that shredded the air. The noise like a forge hamme — a steady tempo that pummeled against the steamer’s hull.

  Espanorian sailors ducked behind what cover they could find, they tried to return fire but the Nocturne’s marksmen were relentless at keeping them down. The revolving guns swept the enemy deck again and again, cutting through crates, splintering rails, sending men tumbling in heaps.

  Smoke swallowed the world between the two ships. Each muzzle flash lit the haze like lightning behind a veil. The screams and gunfire blended into one endless roar, and still the Nocturne crept forward, steady and sure, her captain waiting for the moment to strike.

  Then the steam-powered harpoon gun fired with a hiss.

  The Nocturne’s steel tendril lashed out, cutting through smoke and wind before finding its mark. The harpoon punched into the steamer’s hull with a shriek of rending iron, and the lines snapped taut.

  “Capstan crews — heave!”

  The men bent to the bars, muscles straining as the gears groaned to life. Inch by inch, the rope drew tight, dragging the two ships together.

  The gap closed — fifty yards, then thirty.

  Now muskets cracked from both sides. The Nocturne’s marksmen fired in disciplined volleys, their breechloaders rifle muskets barking in a quick burst. The Espanorian sailors answered with slower, scattered shots, their smoothbores belching smoke and fire.

  A few of the steamer’s crew rushed forward, hatchets and cutlasses in hand, hacking at the harpoon line. But the effort was futile — each man that reached the rope fell in a blink, dropped by a single, precise shot from the Nocturne’s sharpshooters.

  Still, they tried again. And again.

  But alas the rope only grew tighter. The hunter had her prey, and the sea itself had tasted blood.

  Then finally, the hulls touched with a hollow thud, wood scraping against wood, chain creaking as the two ships locked together. For a heartbeat, the world went still — only the hiss of steam and the distant hiss of waves between them.

  Then came the true firstblood.

  Mila was the first across. Cutlass in one hand, pistol in the other, she leapt onto the steamer’s flushed forecastle as soon as the grappling planks dropped. Her boots struck wet wood, the pistol barked once, and an Espanorian sailor fell backward over the rail.

  “Forward!” she shouted, and her detachment surged behind her. They poured across the narrow planks in twos and threes, meeting scattered musket fire and the desperate clash of steel. The deck became a blur of smoke and silhouettes — blades flashing, men colliding shoulder to shoulder, the cries of the wounded rising with every heartbeat.

  Within moments, they had taken the steamer’s forecastle — a foothold, blood-slick and narrow, but theirs.

  Then the sound came — a deep, feral bellow that drowned even the gunfire.

  Borghar Ironhorn.

  He dropped to all fours on the Nocturne’s deck, his massive frame quivering with tension. Then, with a single heave, he launched himself across the gap like a charging beast. The planks beneath him splintered as his hooves struck the enemy’s quarterdeck. The impact alone sent two men sprawling; his horns swept another clear off the ship.

  “By the gods—!” someone cried, just before Borghar lowered his head and charged.

  He hit the sailor full force, sending him crashing into the mainmast with a sickening crack. Then he drew his great kopesh — a blade as long as a man’s leg, the edge gleaming red beneath the rising dawn. With a single swing, he split a man from shoulder to waist, blood fountaining across the deck.

  “Make peace with your gods!” he roared, voice shaking the air like thunder.

  The steamer’s crew broke before him, stumbling over one another to flee his blade reach.

  Falco came in moments later, his detachment close behind. The dashing officer vaulted the rail with easy grace, rapier in one hand and dagger in the other, the faint grin of a duelist who finally met a worthy stage.

  “What are you waiting for, men? Move!” he barked, and they did — spreading out, pressing forward to join Mila’s group amid the chaos.

  An Espanorian officer swung wildly at him; Falco parried with a flick of his wrist and drove his dagger into the man’s throat in one fluid motion.

  “I heard you Diegos like to fight Vitalians!” Falco shouted over the din, stepping over the fallen man. “Here I am — a Vitalian!”

  The Nocturne’s boarding party surged around him, their momentum unstoppable. Cutlasses rang against cutlasses, pistols cracked at arm’s length, and men slipped on their own blood as they fought for every inch of deck.

  The steamer’s flag, once proud, now hung half-torn over the mizzenmast — its colors dim in the flicker of gunfire.

  And above it all, the Royale Nocturne loomed beside her prey, lights blazing cold and white through the smoke, her brass fittings gleaming like a vision out of some divine nightmare.

  The hunter had sunk her teeth at last.