"Princess, that's the Valyrian ruins ahead. Do we still wish to proceed?"
At this moment, the waves of the Sunset Sea, churned by fierce winds, rose and fell like rampaging mountains. The inky black clouds hung low, as if they could plummet at any moment and crush the entire ocean.
Lydia Evans, the runaway princess of Eastmoor, stood on the deck at the ship's bow, her hands gripping the slippery railing so tightly her fingernails almost dug into the wood grain.
"Princess, we truly cannot go any further!" Captain Ironhand Richard anxiously advised Lydia.
"No one has ever returned alive from the Valyrian ruins!"
Lydia did not reply; her gaze was fixed on the pursuing fleet behind them. Fifteen warships, each with a majestic banner fluttering from its mast—a black background with a golden serpent—the emblem of her uncle, Lord James.
"Do we have a choice?" she spoke loudly, her voice as cold as ice.
The maid, Grace, knelt beside her, her trembling fingers clutching the princess's hem. "Your Highness, the Smoke Sea will swallow us... Legend says there are countless monsters there, boiling water and poisonous smoke, and also..."
"Is there anything more terrifying than Lord James's butcher's knife?" Lydia interrupted sharply, a cold sneer involuntarily appearing at the corner of her mouth. Just then, a bolt of lightning split the sky, momentarily illuminating her face, pale as snow, with only her amber eyes burning with an unyielding flame.
Her black hair danced wildly in the wind, its tips soaked with salty seawater, coiling around her neck like tiny snakes.
"Give the order," she chose to gamble, refusing to believe that fate was so unfair to her. Lydia's voice was low and firm, "Full speed ahead, into the Smoke Sea."
Ironhand Richard's face turned ashen, but he did not argue. He spat fiercely and turned to roar at the helmsmen, "Hard to port! Half sail! Everyone tie down! Enter the Smoke Sea!"
Suddenly, the ship lurched violently, and Lydia was almost thrown overboard. Grace screamed and lunged, hugging her waist, pulling her back onto the deck.
Scorching waves crashed against the hull, emitting a dull roar, as if a giant beast was gnawing at the ship's bottom wood.
"They actually followed us in!" The lookout on the crow's nest was startled as the pursuers also entered the Smoke Sea.
Lydia looked back and saw the Eastmoor fleet closing in. On the foremost warship, tall and heavy archers were already preparing their great bows to shoot.
Soon, a rain of flaming arrows swept towards them, but they landed several feet off the phoenix's port side. It wasn't that their aim was bad, but rather that a giant wave had just knocked the phoenix off course.
"Full speed ahead!" Facing a life-or-death crisis, the phoenix's crew fought with all their might. The phoenix once again increased its speed, quickly rushing into the depths of the Smoke Sea.
Suddenly, Lydia felt as if the surrounding world was twisted by some invisible force. The seawater transformed from deep blue to a bizarre grayish-green, like a large pot of boiling poison. The air was filled with a pungent smell of sulfur, mixed with a decaying scent, like the deathly aura that gushed out the moment a thousand-year-old tomb was suddenly pried open.
"Gods..." Grace quickly covered her mouth and nose, yet she was still choked, tears streaming down her face. Even so, she handed her only handkerchief to Lydia so she could cover her mouth and nose.
Lydia's skin began to sting; fine ashes fell from the sky, landing on her arms, immediately burning tiny red spots. She looked up; the sky was no longer stormy black, but a sickly dark red, the clouds slowly churning like rust scorched by flames.
Further away, the Valyrian ruins were faintly visible—twisted black spires piercing the horizon, like the broken bones of giants.
The doomsday catastrophe two hundred years ago had submerged the entire Valyrian peninsula, leaving only these fragmented, majestic structures, standing like tombstones on the edge of the Smoke Sea.
"The seawater is boiling! It's so hot!" A sailor's scream came from the hold.
Lydia rushed to the ship's side, leaned over, and saw countless bubbles floating on the sea surface, gurgling and churning, as if countless mouths were breathing underwater. More terrifyingly, the wooden planks around the hull had already begun to heat up, steam hissing from the seams.
"Whirlpool to port!" The lookout shouted a warning.
Lydia turned her head, and her pupils constricted. To the left of the phoenix, a huge whirlpool was rapidly forming, at least half a kilometer in diameter, the seawater madly spinning downwards, revealing the bottomless darkness below.
"Drop sails! Everyone hold on tight!" Lydia ordered sharply.
But it was too late. The phoenix's hull lurched violently, the mainmast groaned and snapped, crashing onto the deck. Three sailors, unable to dodge, were instantly crushed into pulp by the heavy mast. Blood snaked across the wooden planks, quickly evaporated by the scorching deck, leaving only dark red stains.
Just as Lydia felt despair, a blood-red light suddenly lit up in the sky.
Lydia looked up and saw a burning comet streaking through the clouds, dragging a long tail of flame, like a fiery spear hurled by a god, rushing towards them.
Even more miraculously, its trajectory was completely opposite to the whirlpool's rotation, as if guiding them to a path of survival.
"Follow the comet!" she instinctively shouted.
Ironhand Richard's eyes widened in disbelief, "But that's towards the eye of the storm..."
"Do it!" Lydia's voice was unyielding.
The comet's light suddenly intensified, illuminating the entire Smoke Sea like a pool of blood. Under this eerie red glow, Lydia was shocked to discover countless huge shadows swimming beneath the surface. The creatures were at least three times the length of the phoenix, and though their outlines were blurry, she could vaguely discern winding bodies and enormous fin-like limbs.
"Fire Dragons..." Ironhand Richard's voice trembled, "Beneath the Smoke Sea... there are still living Fire Dragons..."
The fleet desperately followed the comet's trajectory and miraculously managed to avoid the largest whirlpool.
But the cost was heavy. Two accompanying ships, while crossing a boiling sea, suddenly emitted white smoke from their bottoms and were instantly corroded with huge holes. The sailors struggled desperately in the scalding seawater, their skin rapidly festering. They barely made a sound before sinking to the bottom of the sea.
The phoenix was also heavily damaged. The hold had three feet of water, the rudder was almost useless, and Mary, the oldest maid, was struck in the shoulder by flying splinters while protecting the princess's treasure chest, her robes soaked with blood.
In such an environment, survival was uncertain. Dozens of guards were lost, and the servants suffered even heavier casualties.
For three days and three nights, they struggled to survive in this cursed sea. The red comet consistently led the way, while the Eastmoor fleet had long vanished, presumably swallowed by the Smoke Sea.
When the phoenix finally emerged from the terrifying storm, only fifteen guards, two maids, and twenty-odd sailors remained on board.
"We... survived?" The maid, Sarah, said in disbelief.
Lydia looked at the Valyrian ruins gradually receding behind them. In the morning light, those twisted spires looked like mocking fingers. And the red comet, as if its mission was complete, had dimmed.
"No," she said softly, "We have only temporarily escaped death."
"Where are we now?" Ironhand Richard checked the damaged astrolabe, then looked at the faint outlines of islands in the distance, showing an incredible expression, "The Stepstones... The storm blew us near the Stepstones!"
A cold sneer involuntarily curved Lydia's lips.
The Stepstones—a paradise for pirates, exiles, and ambitious individuals. A perfect hiding place, and perhaps the starting point for her to rebuild her strength.
"Adjust course," she commanded, "Prepare to land."
The sea breeze carried the scent of distant islands, mixed with gunpowder and freedom. Lydia untied her seawater-soaked outer robe, revealing the phoenix emblem embroidered on her inner lining, a symbol of the Eastmoor royal family that should have sunk with her, but now shone brightly again in the morning sun.