The sea was red.
Not the soft crimson of sunset or the faint shimmer of coral bloom, but a violent stain bleeding across the waves. Blood and flame churned in the wake of the shattered convoy that once belonged to the allies of the Tidebreaker Fleet. The ocean drank greedily, leaving no trace of mercy in its wake. The stench of burning pitch, wet gunpowder, and scorched canvas filled the air like a funeral dirge, choking the breath from the lungs of those who bore witness.
Mara stood at the helm of the Duskwind, teeth clenched. The smoke curled around her like a noose, heavy with the stink of burned wood and flesh. The shattered remains of three allied vessels drifted among the foam, their flags torn and their crews nowhere to be seen. Fire still smoldered in broken hulls, and gulls circled in grim anticipation. Her hand tightened around the rail, splinters biting into her callused skin.
They had come too late.
"Any survivors?" Mara asked tightly, her voice cutting through the silence.
Lirien returned, shaking her head. Her face, usually so fierce, was pale. "Nothing. Only bodies. Some Driftborn. Some... not."
Darion grunted. "Mallik's not wasting time. He's picking apart our web before we finish weaving it."
Abyr, leaning on the railing with his arm freshly splinted, squinted at the horizon. "He's leaving a message. This isn't just strategy. It's psychological warfare. A blood-soaked warning."
Mara's grip on the helm tightened until her knuckles went white. Her voice was cold steel. "Then let him know we read his message. And we'll send one back. One written in fire."
A Trail of Smoke
Tracking the Iron Tide's raiding flotilla wasn't difficult. The sea was littered with wreckage and driftwood, and the wind carried the scent of burning pitch. Scout gulls circled above trails of smoke. They found torn sails clinging to rocks like tattered ghosts. The echoes of battle hung in the air.
Scouts reported that the Iron Tide had split into smaller groups, each targeting separate clusters of allied ships and ports. The Duskwind could only chase one.
They chose the nearest: an island cove called Varrin's Hollow.
It had been a pirate safe haven once—hidden, defensible, and full of brutes who respected power. Now, it was in flames.
The Duskwind sailed hard, its patched sails catching the wind like clenched fists. By the time they reached the Hollow, only smoldering ruins greeted them. Half-buried hulls. Floating corpses. Smoke climbed into the sky like mourning banners.
A few wounded clung to shattered docks.
One of them, a scarred woman named Kelra, had once sailed under Mara's mother. She coughed blood as Mara lifted her gently.
"Too many," Kelra rasped. "Came from the caves. Knew where to hit. Hit fast."
"How many ships?" Mara asked.
"Four... no, five. One had black iron plating. Like a sea-beast."
Mara's jaw set. "The Leviathan."
Darion cursed. "That means Mallik's personal squad. They're testing our response time."
Abyr's eyes gleamed. "Then we give them an answer they won't forget."
The Hunt Begins
The crew worked through the night. They buried the dead in sea rites, offering salt and fire to keep their souls from drifting into the void. Chanting rose with the smoke. Lirien carved marks onto the Duskwind's prow—runes of protection, vengeance, and guidance. Driftborn warriors offered blessings, their songs older than the bones beneath the waves.
Driftwood was gathered to form pyres. Salt was poured into the waves. Names were shouted to the sea, and flames crackled on the surface like whispered promises of revenge. No soul was left unremembered.
Mara gathered her commanders in the war room below deck.
A map of the archipelago sprawled across the table. Red stones marked confirmed attacks. Blue ones marked allied fleets. Only a few blue stones remained.
"They're not just targeting ports," Abyr said. "They're hitting strategic morale points. Former allies. Old rebel leaders. Anyone who might join us."
"Then we stop chasing shadows," Mara said. She pointed to a cluster of sea lanes that converged at a narrow strait. "We predict. They'll strike here next. We strike first."
"Bait?" Darion asked.
"Not bait," Mara said. "A net. A storm trap."
The Strait of Broken Teeth
The Duskwind and two allied ships—The Howling Maw and Siren's Vice—waited in the shadow of the cliffs. The strait was narrow, surrounded by jagged rocks that jutted from the sea like the fangs of a drowned god. Waves slapped against them with rhythmic menace. Thunder rumbled far in the distance, a brewing storm lending its voice to the tension.
Lirien rigged traps along the cliffs—barrels of driftfire, nets laced with barbed hooks, and mirrored panels to confuse enemy scouts. Driftborn saboteurs worked underwater, planting charges in tide tunnels.
The crew spoke little. They ate in silence, checked weapons, wrote letters to those they loved. Some kissed charms or knotted tokens into their hair. The sea was quiet, but not calm—it waited.
Just after nightfall, they came.
Four Iron Tide ships, led by the Leviathan, prowled into the strait. Their sails were black, their prows shaped like monstrous serpents. They did not expect resistance.
The trap was sprung.
Explosions bloomed along the cliffs, casting orange light over the water. Driftfire rained down like molten stars. The Duskwind surged from its hiding place, cannons roaring. The Howling Maw cut across the enemy's path, driving iron into their hulls. Siren's Vice flanked from the rear, her ballista bolts tipped with Driftborn venom.
The Leviathan struck back hard, its hull shrugging off most of the assault. But it was slowed. Its rudder damaged. Its men exposed.
Mara leapt from the Duskwind onto the enemy deck, blade flashing.
Blood and Salt
The deck was chaos. Iron Tide marines met Mara's charge, but her fury was absolute. She moved like a storm, cutting through armor and bone. Around her, her crew joined the fray. Darion parried a dozen blows before slamming his blade into a war captain's chest. Lirien loosed arrows from above, each one finding a throat.
Abyr, shoulder braced, wielded a boarding axe in one hand and a broken pike in the other. He roared like a sea beast as he fought. Driftborn warriors joined them, diving from ropes and rigging, blades glinting with moonlight.
The clash of steel was deafening. Smoke stung the eyes. Fire spread across the deck as barrels ignited. The Leviathan's sailors fought like demons, but they were outmaneuvered. One by one, they fell beneath the storm.
Then the Leviathan's commander stepped forth. Tall. Cloaked in crimson and iron. His helm bore the crest of Mallik's inner circle.
"You wear her face," he snarled at Mara.
"I carry her fire," she hissed, and attacked.
They clashed like crashing waves. Steel rang. Blood sprayed. The Leviathan tilted as the rest of Mara's fleet began to overrun the enemy.
Their blades danced beneath the storm's howl. Sparks flew with every strike. The commander fought with brutal precision, but Mara was unrelenting. Driven not by rage, but by resolve.
With a final scream, Mara drove her blade through the commander's throat and watched him fall to the sea. His blood stained the tide redder still.
Victory and Warning
When dawn came, the strait was quiet.
The Leviathan burned, its black hull a beacon of rebellion. The cliffs echoed with the last cries of battle. Smoke still rose in lazy spirals, but the sea had gone eerily still.
The Duskwind's sails rose high. Survivors from the Siren's Vice cheered. The Howling Maw towed a captured Iron Tide vessel behind it. Driftborn shamans sang low prayers to honor the dead and guide the tides.
Mara stood once more at the helm, blood drying on her hands. Her eyes turned south.
"Mallik will know."
Darion came beside her. "He'll know."
Abyr chuckled darkly. "Good. Let him remember the name Mara. Let it echo in every storm."