In the clear rising dawn, the clamor of muskets rolled across the sea. Smoke coiled thick between the rails, swallowing the deck in a ghostly pall. The cries of men, the clash of steel, and the dull thud of boots on timber wove together into a din.

  Espanorian marines fought hard — too hard for the common Espanorian navy. Their uniforms were charred, their faces black with soot, but their volleys were disciplined and fierce. It only confirmed what Alaric’s intel had said: this was the ship they were after.

  “Darian, you stay here in case they try to launch a counterattack,” Alaric said, holstering his pistol.

  “Wait—what? Let me join the fight, Alaric!” Darian barked, his boarding axe already in hand, muscles taut like a warhound straining the leash.

  “I need you here in case they try to board the Nocturne. You shall join when we’ve cleared the deck. Is that understood?”

  “Alaric, please,” Darian growled, glancing toward the chaos ahead — where Borghar Ironhorn rampaged through the smoke like a living battering ram.

  Alaric’s eyes followed his brother’s gaze; a faint smile tugged his mouth. “Let him have his fun. This fight is personal to him.”

  “Ugh… fine.” Darian spat, slamming the axe haft to the rail in frustration.

  Ahead, Borghar’s roar shook the planks. He tore through a barricade of barrels, scattering splinters and men alike. Each swing of his giant kopesh carved a bloody arc through the smoke, severing bayonets and bone in equal measure. Behind him came Mila — graceful where he was brutal, her movements tight and precise. Every step a measured beat, every strike the answer to a heartbeat she had already counted.

  Alaric advanced behind them, eyes sharp through the powder haze. “Push them forward! Take the helm!” he called. His presence surged the morale of his men; the Espanorian line slightly buckled under the pressure.

  Mila’s voice answered — cold, clear. “Forward, men! For the Captain!”

  The Nocturne’s boarding party surged ahead, sabres flashing. The Espanorians met them with cutlass and bayonets, shouting oaths and curses in their native tongue, their courage admirable but futile. The deck became a storm of smoke and sweat, gunfire muffled by the closeness of men.

  Then a shout cut through the chaos.

  “Present!”

  Alaric’s head snapped up. Through the drifting haze he saw them — a full line of Espanorian marines on the poop deck, their muskets leveled downward toward the quarterdeck where he stood.

  He didn’t hesitate. With a single motion he drove his sword clean through a man’s back, twisted the blade, and pivoted behind him, wrenching the body around as a shield.

  “Fire!”

  The volley cracked like thunder. The man in Alaric’s grasp jolted violently as musketballs tore through him, his blood spraying warm across Alaric’s face and

  collar. The body shuddered once, then went limp — little more than a sieve of meat and cloth.

  “Reload!” barked the officer above.

  Alaric kicked the corpse aside, freeing his blade from the dead man’s ribs. His gloved hand found the pistol at his belt. He took aim, calm amid the chaos — the smoke parted just enough to reveal the officer’s face, mouth still open mid-command.

  Bang!

  The pistol barked. The officer’s head snapped back as a neat hole bored between his eyes. He fell without a sound, and the line above wavered.

  Then came Mila with her detachment.

  “Form on my left!” she commanded.

  Twenty of her marksmen fell into formation beside her, boots thudding like drumbeats. Mila raised her pistol, eyes narrowing at the Espanorian line above.

  “Present!”

  Her soldiers mirrored her movement — muskets leveled toward the poop deck, barrels gleaming faintly in the dawn haze.

  “Fire!”

  Bang—bang—bang—bang—bang!

  The volley erupted like a rolling drum. The marines above were cut down where they stood, bodies collapsing over the rail, muskets clattering uselessly to the deck below. Smoke drifted upward, carrying the smell of blood and powder.

  Alaric turned his head through the haze and caught her eyes. A single nod — nothing more. Mila returned it without a word as her line stepped forward to secure the deck.

  But then — boom!

  A cannon fired from the steamer’s starboard side.

  No splash followed. No smoke trail arced toward the sea. It was a blank.

  “Cease fighting! Cease fighting!” someone shouted from the Espanorian line.

  The clash slowed. Blades hovered mid-swing, men frozen where they stood. A sailor paused, knife raised over his fallen foe, unsure whether to strike or step back.

  Through the haze, a man in a finely tailored coat pushed past his own line, the silver of his epaulets dulled by smoke and blood. “We wish to surrender!” he called.

  Alaric stepped forward, lowering his sword. “That can be arranged.”

  He raised one hand, and his crew followed suit. The fighting stilled completely; the deck was suddenly filled with the rasp of labored breath and the soft groan of timbers.

  A few paces apart, the two captains faced each other amid the drifting smoke.

  “Are you the captain of that vessel?” the man asked, gesturing toward the Royale Nocturne looming beside them.

  “Indeed. I am Alaric Van Aerden, captain of the Royale Nocturne. And you are, sir?”

  “I am Capitán Diego del Mar, of El Tiburón.”

  A few of Alaric’s crew chuckled under their breath. “Sea Diego,” one whispered.

  “Alright, that’s enough,” Alaric said with a grin.

  Del Mar straightened, weary but composed. “Can you guarantee my life—and the lives of my men—as prisoners of war?”

  Stolen novel; please report.

  “Will you strike your colors and hand all weapons to me?” Alaric asked evenly.

  “It seems the colors are already struck before I surrender,” Diego said, glancing up at the half-hanging flag of Espanor torn loose from the mizzenmast.

  “Nevertheless,” he continued, drawing his sword and offering it hilt-first, “I yield it to you.”

  “Very well, Captain Del Mar,” Alaric replied, accepting the blade. “I accept your surrender.”

  Diego hesitated, eyes shifting toward the hatch leading below. “However…” He withdrew his hand, voice low. “I cannot guarantee the men below deck will listen to me.”

  The Order’s knights?

  “Sí, se?or.”

  “How many?”

  “We departed from port with fifty of them, but I don’t know how many were left

  right now.”

  Alaric exhaled slowly, tucking the surrendered sword under his arm. “It’s fine. I’ll deal with them myself. In the meantime, obey my men’s instructions and disarm your crew.”

  “Without fail, Mr. Van Aerden.”

  Alaric turned sharply. “Mr. Falco, you stay here. Help them disarm and watch for any trouble.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Mila,” he said, meeting her eyes through the smoke, “you and your detachment come with me — and call Darian. We might need his help.”

  Alaric, Mila, and her detachment made quick preparations to clear the hull of El Tiburón from the remaining knights of the Order. Carefully, they reloaded — pistols and muskets packed with buck and ball, heavy charges meant for close quarters.

  “Check your priming,” Mila said quietly as she inspected her own pistol, thumb brushing the hammer. The men around her nodded, faces pale beneath the soot.

  They moved first through the cabin quarters. The air was thick with the reek of powder and splintered oak. A cannonball had torn through the stern — daylight streamed through the ragged hole, catching the slow drift of dust and smoke in a pale golden beam. Splinters littered the floor like shrapnel; bodies of officers lay sprawled where they’d fallen, glass eyes staring at nothing.

  But no knights.

  They pressed onward. The narrow stairs groaned under their boots as they descended to the gundeck. Here, silence ruled — heavy and unnatural. The rows of long guns stood idle, their carriages not in battery, their crews gone. Only the soft creak of timbers and the dull thuds of footsteps echoed through the haze.

  “Where the Hel are they?” someone muttered under his breath.

  Alaric turned sharply toward him, raising a gloved finger to his lips. The man froze.

  For a moment, nothing — only the faint sound of waves and the groan of wood. Then Alaric tilted his head, listening, his expression sharpening. He gestured downward toward the floorboards.

  One of Alaric’s marine knelt, pressed his ear to the floorboards, and listened. His eyes widened.

  “They’re below,” he whispered. “In the berthing hall, sir.”

  They descended the final steps, the air thick with the stench of men packed too long in a wooden cage. The passage ended at a single doorway leading into the berthing hall. Alaric raised his hand, and the line halted.

  They pressed themselves flat against the walls on either side of the frame, muskets ready, breath steady but shallow. Beyond the doorway, daylight spilled faintly through the glassed windows — enough to see the outlines of bunks, hammocks, and overturned tables scattered across the room.

  “Give me the periscope,” Alaric murmured.

  A sailor passed it forward. Alaric crouched low, angling the brass tube just beyond the corner. Through the mirror, he saw them — a cluster of men in steel breastplates behind makeshift cover, muskets trained directly on the doorway. The Order’s knights. Waiting.

  Then—

  Bang!

  The shot struck the periscope dead-on, splintering it in his grasp. Glass and brass flew.

  “Fuck!” Alaric cursed, pulling back sharply. In anger, he swung his arm out from cover and fired a single shot toward the hall.

  The pistol cracked, the flash briefly cutting through the smoke. One of the knights flinched back, his musket clattering to the floor as he fell.

  Alaric ducked behind the wall again, jaw tight, smoke coiling from the muzzle of his pistol.

  “Where is Darian when you need him?” he muttered as he reloaded.

  Then he called out, voice loud enough to carry across the berthing hall. “It’s over! The captain has surrendered. You’re outnumbered — the fight is over!”

  “Fuck that coward Diego!” came the answer. “We don’t answer to him — we fight till the end!”

  “For what? For pride to rub your wounded ego?”

  “For Gods! You heathen wouldn’t understand!”

  Bang!

  Another musket fired blindly toward the doorway. Splinters peppered the frame.

  “Come on, be reasonable!” Alaric shouted.

  “If you want your silvers — then die for it!”

  Alaric glanced aside, muttering under his breath. “Well, at least we know the silvers are inside.”

  Then a heavy thud echoed through the deck above — another, then another, like a hammer striking the world itself.

  It was Darian.

  “Ah, there you are,” Alaric said as his brother appeared on the stairs. “We need your expertise here.”

  “It’s a good thing you’ve got me, eh?” Darian grinned, unstrapping the blunderbuss slung across his back.

  “Alright, just fire blindly from this corner,” Alaric said, shifting to give him room.

  Darian cocked the weapon, heavy and well-worn, then peered it toward the doorway.

  Boom!

  The blunderbuss roared, buckshot hammering through the doorway into the berthing hall.

  “Are you all dead yet, do we have your surrender?” Alaric called.

  When the smoke cleared, several muskets cracked back in reply — balls whistling past the frame and thudding into the beams.

  “I take that as a no,” Alaric muttered.

  “Another one, brother?”

  “Another one,” Alaric said. “But this time we charge as soon as you fire.”

  Darian nodded, lowering his head slightly as he worked the weapon. With practiced ease, he swung a lever on the blunderbuss; the breach popped open. He slid a pre-packed cartridge into place, pressed the breach home with his thumb, and swung the lever back, locking it shut. Then he set it on half-cock and primed the pan with a measured pour from his powder horn.

  “Alright,” he said quietly. “I’m ready.”

  Alaric looked over the men crouched around them. “As soon as he fires, we charge. Clear the corner and fire blindly down the hall. Is that understood, gentlemen?”

  A firm nod rippled down the line.

  “Alright,” Alaric said, voice steady. “Fire when you’re ready.”

  Darian nodded once. He leaned into the doorway, aimed low, and pulled the trigger.

  Boom!

  The blunderbuss thundered again. Smoke and buckshot filled the berthing hall in one deafening burst. But this time, while the haze still hung thick, Alaric shouted, “Now!” and his men surged forward.

  They crossed the threshold, boots thudding on the planks, and clear the corner behind the doorway. From there they formed a hasty firing line, muskets braced against shoulders.

  “Present!” someone called.

  “Fire!”

  The volley lit the room like lightning. Buck and ball tore through the smoke; men shouted, fell, rose again. The defenders answered in kind — their muskets flared, echoing inside the confined hall. The air was so choked with gunpowder that no one could tell who had fallen or who still fought.

  Then the lines broke. The shooting stopped. Steel met steel.

  The room erupted into chaos — close, suffocating, desperate. The air was thick with smoke; a man could barely see an arm’s length ahead.

  Alaric’s marines charged with bayonets fixed, but the knights’ armor turned most thrusts aside. Several marines fell where they stood, blades glancing uselessly off breastplates, while others found the narrow gaps between armor and drove their steel home.

  Darian plowed through the confusion, tackling a knight to the floor and pinning him beneath his bulk. One clean swing of his axe ended it — brutal and final.

  Mila and Alaric fought side by side. They moved like dancers through the haze — no words, no hesitation. Alaric parried and drove opponents back, opening their guard, and Mila struck where it counted, her blade finding the joints and soft edges of armor. Together, they cut a silent path through the chaos.

  Little by little, the smoke began to thin. The sounds of combat faltered — first the clatter of steel, then the cries.

  When the last of the haze lifted, the berthing hall lay still. Bodies sprawled among shattered bunks and scattered powder horns. The air was thick with iron and silence.

  The fight was over.

  “You alright, brother?” Darian asked, still catching his breath.

  “I’m fine,” Alaric replied, wiping soot and sweat from his brow. “You?”

  “I’m fine.” Darian said as he wiped the head of his axe.

  Darian looked around at the corpses strewn across the berthing hall, smoke still lingering in pale wisps. “Is that all of them?”

  “I don’t know,” Alaric said quietly. “But keep your guard up.”

  They moved cautiously through the ruined hall, boots crunching over shattered wood and spilled powder. Every sound made them pause — the creak of a beam, the groan of a dying man. A few of the fallen still twitched; no one risked assuming they were dead.

  Then a shout came from deeper inside. “Sir! I think we found it!”

  Alaric hurried toward the voice. The sailor stood at the doorway of a small storage room — iron-bound walls, heavy timber beams, and several large chests stacked along the far side, their locks still unbroken.

  “Darian,” Alaric said, nodding toward the nearest one.

  “My pleasure,” Darian grinned.

  He swung his axe once, the blow echoing through the room. The lock burst apart in a spray of iron shards. Darian stepped back with a little flourish. “The honor is yours, Captain.”

  Alaric knelt, lifted the lid — and froze.

  Inside, silver coins filled the chest to the brim, packed tight in leather sacks and loose piles. The morning light caught them just so, and the whole hoard shimmered like liquid moonlight. The faint clinking of shifting coins was the only sound in the room as Alaric shifted the coins.

  “Our hunt is over, gentlemen.”