Grand Duke Valerius had made a fatal, arrogant miscalculation.
He believed that because the Crown Prince of Arindale was hailed as a "Saint," he would fight like one. He believed Aeron would wait for honorable terms, respect naval traditions, and rely on a slow, civilized war of attrition. He believed the Paragon would never resort to the dirty, chaotic tactics of a pirate.
But Valerius didn't know that the man standing on the cliffs of Blackwood wasn't a Saint. He was a Sinner who had just been sent a piece of torn lilac silk by a wife who told him her bed was empty.
Aeron stood at the edge of the precipice, the fierce coastal wind whipping his golden hair. Below him, the dark waters of the bay were choked with the Southern Fleet—thirty massive galleons anchored close together, a wooden wall blockading the coast.
