The deck was slick with blood and seafoam. Alaric Valemont stepped over the sprawled body of one of his fallen men Captain Renwick, if the torn navy blue cloak was any indication. The Aurealis groaned beneath him, her timbers cracked and smoldering from the relentless cannonfire that had started before sunrise. She was the pride of the Duskmoor fleet, polished ivory sails and a carved silver prow, now she burned.

Smoke coiled skyward in thin spirals. His lungs stung, but he held his posture shoulders back, chin raised, hand gripping the hilt of his sword with practiced elegance. No crown adorned his brow now, but the weight of it pressed invisible into his spine with every breath.

A shift in the wind, boots that weren't his. Alaric didn’t need to look to know the enemy had come. He turned and there he was, the pirate. The one he’d heard about in whispers through cold castle walls. The Ghost of Caerthwyn. The Thorn of the Dagger Coast. The one who boarded royal ships like dancers twirl into ballrooms graceful, effortless, deadly.

And now he stood before him, framed by smoke and sunlight. Tall. Silent. A coat of raven-black leather hanging loose over storm-tossed shoulders. Their hair wind-whipped, eyes dark and unreadable, mouth curled with the barest hint of amusement. He didn’t raise his weapon nor spoke, he just watched him and gods, that unsettled him more than a battle cry would’ve.