The coast of Kymarion vanished under a veil of gray mist. The Phantomis triremes cut through the water without sound. On deck, the Blacktide Spear Cohort stood ready. There were no war chants rising into the air, no speeches to stir the blood. Just the measured sound of breathing, the grip of steel in hand, and the quiet certainty of command.
Fang-Captain Nyzekh crouched by the map scribed into the deck. He tapped a sealed obsidian scroll case, broke the wax, and unrolled the contents. The runes glowed faintly. It was the final briefing from the Blacktide Intel Cohort.
The island was designated Hollow Beacon. Defenders numbered close to one thousand. Four hundred active Dazhum marines manned the walls and towers. Another hundred twenty were held in reserve. The stronghold itself was a two-tier fortress flanked by arc beacon towers and a central magick relay keep. Reinforcements from the nearest Dazhum garrison would take three days to arrive by sail. The Intel Cohort recommended disabling the relay to prevent warning. Eighteen warmages were confirmed: five fire-class, seven kinetic, six barrier. There were likely others hidden among the civilian staff. Terrain advantage was limited. The western ridge was scalable but narrow. The eastern slope offered an opening during low tide. The southern gate was heavily reinforced.
A civilian town of eight hundred lay below the western slope. Mostly fishers and crafters. No active combatants reported.
Nyzekh finished reading, let the scroll roll itself. His voice was flat.
"Landing pattern locked. All centuries move on signal. Kill command. No mercy."
Tide Lieutenants Bruga, Wen Tu, and Ryoku nodded.
The war mages lined the hulls. Fingers traced glyphs on the planks. The sails shimmered, then vanished. Mist swallowed the ships whole.
Phantomis I and III peeled west. II and IV veered east. V and VI hung back, watching the cliffs.
From the coast, the Dazhum stronghold rose between carved rock and sea caves. It stood behind two tiers of walls, crowned with watchtowers and arc beacons. The fortress had a long history of defiance. It had never fallen.
It would tonight.
The first to land were the Qorjin-Ke scouts. They moved with practiced silence, trained for moments like this. Ropes dropped without a sound, their ends coiling neatly on the stone. Steel claws bit into the cliffside, anchoring the descent. The soft rasp of boots on wet stone blended with the steady rhythm of breath held tight in their throats. The sea behind them was still. The fortress ahead remained unaware.
On the eastern flank, Bruga's Maul breached first. Stormguard charged up the wet slope, shields raised. Shock bolts arced from their gauntlets and smashed the gate hinge. Wood splintered.
The Dazhum guards barely had time to shout. Bruga slammed into the first one with a maul swing that caved the man's ribs. Behind him, his beastkin surged, clearing the breach. Bruga fought like a controlled eruption. Every strike from Pyrebite hit like molten thunder, his Emberplate Mantle glowing with internal heat. When his ember hatchets flew, they carved smoking gaps in the enemy line.
On the western ridge, Nyzekh's Fang moved silently through the narrow crevices, their advance tight and wordless. Blades were drawn for quiet execution, each step measured and deliberate. Their black armor was light, built for silence and speed, etched with dark runes and sigils that offered both protection and defense without betraying their presence. Each warrior carried a curved weapon in one hand and a crescent-shaped shield in the other, its surface forged in the likeness of a darkened moon. Only Nyzekh fought without one.
He led them without hesitation, his twin sabers bending light at the edge of vision. The Eclipsed Fang did not simply cut flesh; they severed thought before it could become action. His cloak, the Nullmantle, drowned sound and veiled form. He moved like absence given shape, and in his wake, nothing stirred, nothing remained aware of what had passed through.
A Dazhum relay mage stepped out of a tower. He spotted movement. Began casting.
Nyzekh's shortblade opened his throat before he finished.
"Clear it," Nyzekh ordered. His century climbed. Fast. Precise.
In the center, Ryoku's Line climbed under cover of mist and glyphs. Wen Tu's war mages bent the terrain, forming footholds, muting the wind.
"Hold center. Cut the lines," Ryoku said. He moved with discipline born of the Iron Refrain. His strokes echoed, each a precise rhythm layered upon the last. Kensho, his longsword, shaped the flow of battle through cadence. When pressed, he shifted to the Resolve Blade, speed overtaking weight, breaking the opponent's pattern.
They reached the second tier of the fortress. Towers flared with arc-light. Horns blared. The alarm was up.
Too late.
The fortress shook. Flameburst bolts from Phantomis II struck the lower wall, igniting timber support beams. Smoke poured. Screams followed.
Dazhum marines rushed from barracks, some half-armored. They formed squads, shouted for ranks. Their officers barked commands, trying to form defense lines.
Wen Tu raised his hand. Earth twisted. A ramp surged from the slope, carrying Stormguard up to the second level. His Verdance staff spun, bronze rings chiming once before silence fell again. Roots cracked the stone and water glyphs flowed around his allies. His armor, the Livingroot Lamellar, flexed and hardened with each motion, drawing power from the soil and anchoring his stance.
The clash began.
Steel met steel. Arc-blades hissed against magick wards. Stormguard fought tight. Controlled bursts. Throat, chest, groin. No wasted motion.
A Dazhum war mage raised a barrier glyph. A kinetic bolt slammed into him from Phantomis VI. His ward shattered. The second bolt caught his shoulder and dropped him.
Bruga's Maul broke into the center plaza. War drums thundered behind the enemy lines.
"Too late," Bruga growled.
He and his front line crashed into a Dazhum phalanx. Shields locked. Spears jabbed. Stormguard answered with heavy fists and shock pulses. Flesh tore. Bones cracked.
On the ridge, Nyzekh's Fang found the relay tower.
"Disable it," Nyzekh ordered.
Scouts surged in. Two relay operators tried to activate a beacon. They were dead before they touched the stones. One scout placed a magick rune. It pulsed, absorbing signal lines.
"Tower dark."
Nyzekh nodded. "Advance. Meet Ryoku at mid-tier."
The stronghold lit up now. Fires burned across the lower barracks. Smoke cut visibility. Dazhum defenders fought hard. They knew what was at stake.
But they were not ready.
Veilguard scouts on the outer cliffs launched flares. More Dazhum troops surged out of side barracks. Stormguard centuries countered with rune explosives and stormcord traps. Explosions tore gaps through shield lines.
Ryoku's Line held the mid-tier. Phalanx tight. When enemy ranks pushed up, they met a wall of steel.
"Hold," Ryoku said. "Rotate. Push left."
His men followed without question. Two files stepped back, four advanced. Swords slashed low. Blood sprayed.
Wen Tu's war mages reinforced the ridge. Water glyphs burst from the ground, throwing defenders off balance. Roots cracked stone, pinning feet. Another glyph sent a tremor through the foundation. A tower collapsed.
Dazhum mages countered. Fireballs screamed overhead. One tore through a support wall, killing four Stormguard. A second mage raised a barrier to cover retreat.
Wen Tu moved fast. A twist of fingers. A spike of stone burst from the ground, impaled the mage clean through. His spell died in his throat.
"Suppress upper tier," Wen Tu said.
War mages fanned out. Elemental blasts rained on the final line.
In the command hall, the Dazhum captain gave the final orders.
"Kill the glyph banks. Destroy everything. Do not let them take records."
A mage nodded, ran toward the archive chamber.
Too slow.
Nyzekh entered from the rear passage. Blade drawn. Silent.
The first man turned. Died.
The second tried to cast. Nyzekh threw a storm pin. The burst cracked his ribs.
He found the Dazhum captain by the sigil desk.
"You're too late," the captain said.
Nyzekh drove his blade into the captain's gut.
"I was never here for the records."
He took a crystal from the captain's pocket. Relay codes. Then vanished into the smoke.
Back at the ridge, the flare was launched. Arc light streaked into the sky.
Stormtide Marines would follow.
By then, the Blacktide Spear was already pulling back. Boats launched from the outer reef. Support triremes covered the withdrawal. Frostspike harpoons disabled two pursuit ships.
Ryoku was last to leave. He watched as Stormguard Marines stormed the now-breached main gate.
"We hold line here next time," he said.
Bruga grunted. "They'll be ready."
"Then we hit harder."
From the Phantomis decks, wounded were treated. Hospitaliers worked in silence. No screams. No panic. Just hands, binding, sealing, brine.
Yezari moved between them. She stopped at a fallen scout. Lifted his head. Tied a black ribbon to his wrist.
"Marked. Memory held."
Yezari Val'Kyren wore frost-etched armor light as silence. Her Whiteshear blade never left its sheath unless the moment required stillness so deep it cut time itself. She had not yet drawn it tonight.
Nyzekh stood at the stern.
"Losses?"
"Thirty-two dead," Wen Tu said. "Nine beyond healing."
"Enemy?"
Ryoku answered. "Over three hundred confirmed. Still counting. Tower destroyed. Relay disabled."
"Good."
The Phantomis turned. Vanished again into fog.
In the ruins of the Dazhum fortress, Stormtide banners rose.
The Blacktide Spear was gone.
And already sailing to the next island.
By dawn, five more triremes cut through the morning haze and pulled into the bay. These were not vessels of stealth but ships of open declaration. Their hulls were broad and reinforced, their approach steady and unhidden. Each carried a towering central mast with a single storm-gray mainsail, marked at its center by a black spiral. It was the emblem of dominion forged in the crucible and tested in the chasm. A smaller forward sail bore the sigil of a crow with wings spread wide, its head lifted as if calling across the sea. It marked the long reach and watchful presence of the Stormguard.
The ships advanced in disciplined formation, a visible claim laid across the coast. Onboard were one hundred Stormguard veterans and over one thousand marines, armed and ready to hold what had been taken. Engineers, medicae, and reinforcement crews followed behind, prepared to rebuild walls, secure perimeters, and make the stronghold a permanent foothold for the campaigns yet to come.
On the upper wall of the ruined fortress, Nyzekh met the arriving Stormtide officer.
"You'll hold this position," Nyzekh said, his tone clipped but clear. "The relay is destroyed. No signals have gone out. Reinforcements from the mainland will take at least three days by sail, possibly longer if the weather shifts. That gives you time to fortify and sweep the area. Hold fast. This ground is yours now."
The officer saluted. "Understood. We'll fortify by noon."
Nyzekh nodded. "All yours. Sweep the island. Any Dazhum marines or survivors, eliminate them."
"And the civilians?"
"No harm to the local coastal town. No looting. Make it clear, this island is now part of the Stormguard Protectorate. Inform their leaders that we offer stability, not conquest. Their people will not be touched, their homes will remain, and their traditions will be respected. No soldier will enter a home uninvited. No food, water, or goods will be taken without consent or trade. If their leaders wish to speak, I will meet them before dusk. Our presence is to secure, not subjugate. They may keep their rites, their temples, their speech. What changes is the banner above the walls. Nothing more."
The Blacktide would not leave yet. Orders were not given.
They would wait. Hidden in the fog. Waiting for the next signal.