The air on Agashima didn't just smell of industry; it tasted of it. A gritty, metallic film coated the tongue, a mixture of fine iron dust from the forges and the ever-present damp of the sunken lowlands. The Black Revenge, a stark silhouette of black hull and blood-red sails, was a toy boat against the monolithic stone of the Agashima docks, which were hewn not from wood, but from the same rust-veined mountain rock that comprised the island itself.
On the deck, shackles chafed against wrists. Atlas Acuta stood like a compressed spring, his rust-red fur dull under the heavy grey sky. Beside him, Jannali Bandler suddenly staggered, a sharp gasp tearing from her lips. She clutched at her chest, her knuckles white against the dark fabric of her shirt, her stylish headscarf the only defiant spot of color.
"Jannali?" Atlas's voice was a low rumble, his ear tufts twitching. He shifted, the chains between his manacles clinking, and placed a heavy, furred hand on her shoulder. "Are you okay?"
She glanced at him, her large brown eyes wide not with fear, but with a kind of internal drowning. She shook her head, breathing in shallow pants. "This place," she whispered, the words strained. "It's… loud. It's all screaming."
Before he could demand explanation, a massive shove between his shoulder blades sent him stumbling forward. "Keep the line moving, Spot-Cat," growled William Fitz-Alyn, his towering Long-Leg frame looming over the prisoners. A wild red beard framed a face split by a challenging grin. "The Captain's waitin' ain't a suggestion."
Atlas's head snapped around, a snarl ripping from his throat, baring sharp canines. His sapphire eyes, usually aloof, burned with a feral light. William merely glared back, one hand resting on the grotesque, jaw-shaped hilt of his sword, Lion-Trap. "Try it," the giant mused, his voice like grinding gravel. "Give me a reason."
At the head of their miserable procession, Vesta Lavana reached the top of the gangplank and froze. A soft "whoa…" escaped her, all her performative bravado stripped away. Her rainbow hair dimming as her violet eyes tried to take in the impossible scale. Agashima unfurled before her—a landscape of terrifying, heavy beauty. Gargantuan windmills with sails of patched canvas turned with slow, groaning authority against the misty ridges. The city of Metz-Oni rose in the distance, a cathedral of industry where Gothic arches were made of riveted iron beams and flying buttresses strained under the weight of colossal piping.
And the people. The Ogres.
They moved through the docks and streets in a dizzying array of sizes. Some were no larger than a big human, though broad and thick-horned. Others… others made the giants of Elbaph look like children. One lumbered past the dock, its shoulders level with the Black Revenge's crow's nest, carrying a forged steel beam like a walking stick. The ground trembled softly with each footfall. The air vibrated with a deep, constant hum—the song of the Grand Forge, the grind of massive gears, the shouted, rumbling commerce of a race born from stone and metal.
"Eyes forward!" The command was cold, precise. Vitus Quinctilius Varo gripped Vesta's upper arm, his elongated fingers—with their double elbow joints—encompassing it entirely. He was a statue of obsidian and crimson, his Roman-style armor etched and severe, his eyes like chips of flint looking through her, not at her. He jerked her forward.
Vesta squeaked, stumbling down the gangplank. "Hey! I'm walking, I'm—oh." Her protest died as her heeled sandals hit the dock proper. The stone was warm, unnervingly so, as if heated from below. She missed the familiar, comforting weight of Mikasi on her back desperately, feeling naked without her guitar's silent counsel.
Atlas descended next, compelled by William's looming presence. His defiant snarl faded into stunned silence as the full view hit him. This wasn't a battlefield he could dominate with speed or Electro. This was a realm of sheer, immutable mass. His predator's instincts, usually so sharp, were drowned out by the visceral sense of being small.
"Told you," William chuckled behind him, giving another, softer shove. "Now march. Captain's waitin'."
Eliane Anđel held Jannali's hand tightly, her small fingers trembling. The young Lunarian's eyes were huge, taking in the horns, the size, the sheer otherness. "What do you think is going to happen?" she whispered, her voice barely audible over the distant clang-clang-clang of a titanic hammer.
Jannali, forcing her breathing to steady, shook her head. She wasn't looking at the Ogres, but at the sky, at the strange, iron-colored haze that clung to the mountain peaks. "I don't know," she murmured back, the Voice of All Things a chaotic chorus in her skull—the anguish of mined metal, the weary resolve of the stone, the deep, sorrowful pulse of something ancient sleeping far below. ""Yeah, but I can feel a storm brewin' – gonna be a bit of a barney
Eliane swallowed hard. "Will it be a scary one?"
A faint, weary smirk touched Jannali's lips. "I reckon."
At the end of the long dock, two figures awaited them, silhouetted by the glow of forge-fires reflecting off low clouds. Jeanne "La Lionne" de Clisson stood with the coiled readiness of a predator, her silver battle-braid hanging over a crimson shoulder, her amber eyes missing nothing. Beside her, Archibald Winn Lima-Sabin was a burst of chaotic color—a vibrant vest over a dust-stained tunic, his blue-grey Ogre face a canvas of animated curiosity.
The prisoners were halted before them. The scent of salt, iron, and something like hot limestone washed over the group.
"This is them?" Archibald asked, his voice a theatrical baritone. He leaned in, studying each captive with a performer's scrutiny, his expressive eyes lingering on Vesta's hair, Jannali's concealed forehead, Atlas's defiant stance, Eliane's fearful grip.
Jeanne gave a single, slow nod. "This is."
Archibald clapped his hands together, a puff of fine white chalk dust exploding from them. "Splendid! Then no time for dilly-dallying." His grin was broad, but it didn't reach the calculating sharpness in his gaze. "This way, little guests. The Sovereign, Grutte Pier Dorian, and Queen Ayana El Mahrusa are waiting. And trust me," he added, his tone dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that somehow carried more threat than a shout, "you don't want to keep them waiting."
He turned, his crimson Carthaginian cloak sweeping the dust of the dock, and began leading the way into the heart of the Iron-Bloom Isle. Jeanne fell in step beside him, not looking back. The message was clear: follow, or be dragged.
Varo and William closed in from behind, their forms blocking any view of escape, any view of the sea. The path led away from the Black Revenge, away from the scent of freedom, and into the warm, groaning, metallic embrace of Agashima. The dread that settled over the four prisoners was not the sharp fear of a fight, but the cold, sinking weight of the inevitable—a sense of being small pieces placed on a board whose size they could not yet comprehend, in a game whose rules were written in stone and time.
If you enjoyed this chapter, please consider giving Dracule Marya Zaleska a Power Stone! It helps the novel climb the rankings and get more eyes on our story!
Thank you for sailing with us! 🏴☠️ Your support means so much!
Want to see the Dreadnought Thalassa blueprints? Or unlock the true power of Goddess Achlys?
Join the Dracule Marya Zaleska crew on Patreon to get exclusive concept art, deep-dive lore notes, and access to our private Discord community! You make the New World adventure possible.
Become a Crewmate and Unlock the Lore:
https://patreon.com/An1m3N3rd?utm_medium=unknown&utm_source=join_link&utm_campaign=creatorshare_creator&utm_content=copyLink
Thanks so much for your support and loving this story as much as I do!