The morning air hung thick with moisture and the scent of old fire. The pirate fleet moved like a restless beast across the open sea—a mosaic of warships, brigs, corvettes, and schooners painted in every shade of rebellion. Mara stood at the prow of the Duskwind, her hand resting on the figurehead as if to still her own heart. The wind was behind them, the sun at their backs, and the future ahead promised nothing but flame.
Ironhook lay beyond the horizon—a fortress carved into basalt cliffs, Mallik's forward bastion. A place once free, now chained beneath black banners. Its name carried weight. Stories told in whispers over rum barrels. Torture chambers cut from salt rock. A harbor deep enough to swallow entire fleets. The very air near it was said to taste of iron and bone.
Darion joined her at the prow, gaze heavy with thought.
"They're not ready," he said, voice low. "Some of these crews haven't seen true battle in years."
Mara nodded, her eyes never leaving the shifting veil of sea spray. "That doesn't matter now. They follow the flag. They'll find their edge soon enough. Everyone does when blood calls."
Abyr approached next, blade strapped across his back and boots caked with dried pitch. "The scouts say the harbor defenses are active. If we strike at high tide, we might breach the outer wall before their gunners wake."
Mara glanced skyward, calculating the wind and sun. "And if they do wake?"
Abyr cracked his knuckles. "Then the sea drinks well today."
The Wound Beneath the Sea
By midday, Ironhook came into view—a jagged silhouette hunched over roiling waves, its spires twisted like the bones of a giant. Black sails fluttered along its walls, and the glint of cannon barrels shimmered in the harsh light. Even from a distance, the fortress radiated menace.
Elsha clutched the railing beside Mara, her fingers wrapped around a relic. Her eyes glowed faintly, and her lips moved as if translating something ancient.
"The chains... they're singing. They've never done that before."
Mara closed her eyes and listened. Beneath the wind and waves, a subtle vibration pulsed through the hull. Not a warning. A call. A summoning to something deep, forgotten.
"They know this place," Mara murmured. "Something was buried here. Something old. Something older than even the Driftborn legends."
Abyr grunted. "Do we turn back?"
Mara shook her head. Her fingers brushed the salt pouch at her hip. "No. We strike before they raise the gate."
She turned to the signal mast, her voice sharp. "Send the flare."
Assault on Ironhook
The sky turned red as the first cannon boomed. The flare had gone up like a scream against the blue. Smoke trailed behind as dozens of ships surged forward.
The Duskwind led the charge, its prow reinforced with driftsteel carved from leviathan bones. Behind it surged the allied fleet, a fury of sails and fire. Cannonballs tore through the air, splashing into the surf or striking stone. Flames leapt from hull to hull, a chorus of war erupting over the roar of the tide.
Grappling hooks landed on Ironhook's outer wall, and the first wave climbed with bloodied fingers and frenzied cries. Fire arrows rained from above. Tar pits ignited, sending plumes of flame skyward.
Mara was the first over the wall.
She landed in the chaos of screams and clashing steel, blades singing through air thick with smoke. Her sword met a Blackguard's halberd. Sparks flew. She ducked low and carved an arc across his thigh. Blood painted the stones.
Another enemy charged from behind. She rolled, stabbed, rose in a single motion. Her crew followed close. Abyr slammed into a knot of defenders like a boulder crashing through reeds, his greatsword cleaving flesh and steel alike. Darion parried three blows before knocking his attacker from the battlements.
Above them all, Talgir's flagship, The Severance, hammered the gatehouse with explosive shot. The defenders began to falter. But Mallik's soldiers fought with grim determination. Some bore glyphs carved into their skin, others moved with unnatural speed.
Elsha shouted over the din, "They're enhanced! Marked by old blood rituals!"
Mara grimaced and charged forward, cutting through a line of defenders. Her blade moved with practiced fury, each strike precise and merciless. The tide of bodies pressing forward behind her gave her no room to falter.
One defender lunged with dual blades, striking fast. Mara dodged, barely deflecting a blow, and countered with a vicious upward slash that severed his wrist. As he screamed, she kicked him off the rampart.
Every step into the fortress felt heavier, like the air itself resisted their presence. It wasn't just a stronghold. It was a tomb, and they were disturbing something ancient.
The Iron Throne
Hours passed. Ironhook burned.
Smoke rose in plumes that could be seen for leagues. The outer walls had fallen, the inner yard soaked in blood. Fires raged unchecked, illuminating the charred bones of a once-great fortress.
Mara stumbled into the inner sanctum, a vaulted chamber choked with smoke and lit by dying torches. Black tapestries hung in tatters. The smell of scorched oil and old blood lingered.
On a rusted dais sat the Iron Throne—Mallik's command seat, now empty.
"He's not here," Abyr growled, eyes sweeping the room.
Darion picked up a scorched parchment from the floor. "No... he left in a hurry. But not without taking something."
Elsha entered, her eyes wide with dread. Her breath caught as she reached out. "The fifth relic. It's gone."
Mara's fingers curled into fists. The chains on her belt trembled.
She stared at the throne, then beyond it, noticing something odd—a draft where there should have been stone.
She kicked aside a fallen slab. A narrow stairway revealed itself, carved into volcanic rock.
The Heart of Chains
The tunnel led deep into the cliff. Ancient stone. Old symbols. Words that writhed when stared at too long. The air grew colder, the silence oppressive. The deeper they went, the more the relics pulsed with faint heat.
They descended in silence. Their boots echoed like whispers in a tomb. The relics grew heavier at their sides, as though the air thickened with every step.
They found a vault—not empty, but desecrated. Walls scorched. Pillars cracked. A great seal shattered. The very floor trembled beneath their feet.
Carvings lined the walls, each showing a different age. Sea serpents bowing to crowned queens. Tidal waves swallowing empires. And in the center of it all, a woman wielding five relics. Her face was obscured, but her stance mirrored Mara's.
"This was a temple," Elsha whispered. "Before it became a fortress. A place of power. A shrine to the relics."
On the floor, written in blood and soot:
"When five awaken, the sea shall bleed."
Mara stepped back, her heart pounding.
"He's not gathering relics to rule," she said. "He's gathering them to break the world."
Behind them, a horn blew.
A sound not of war, but of reckoning.
Mallik had declared his next move.
And this time, there would be no retreat.