1

A new kind of a day dawned in the capital of Luctretz, and it was a day no one alive wanted to see coming. The sunrise by itself was no different from most of the others before it, yet a very profound, immaterial change had taken place in the city since yesterday. No news of this change had yet been shared with the general public, officially, out of a mutual agreement by the parties involved. There was, of course, no real way to prevent rumors from leaking anyhow. Rumors, according to which a highly unusual pact had been formulated between the two nations, which left the Principality subordinate to its giant neighbor—the very thing they had dreaded for so long.

In the absence of solid proof, these claims seemed fairly far-fetched indeed, and not so easily swallowed by the citizens who overheard them. Even though the truth of the situation was precisely what it was said to be, and began to show itself in the following days.

Nevertheless, the scenario was not quite as terrible as the local politicians and military leaders had envisioned it in their nightmares.

It took one sleepless night for the administration to familiarize themselves with the forced peace terms, and a lot of explaining and answering of queries by the Imperial side. But by dawn, all the key personnel had formed a sufficiently clear understanding of the situation and the relevant conditions, the worst of the agitation had cooled, and a settlement of sorts could be reached.

The Principality would maintain her territorial and political independence, to their great relief. Tratovia demanded no land, no military secrets, no special trade rights, no tax exemptions, no tributes, nor reparations, no say in the governing, although they had every opportunity to issue whatever outrageous demands they liked. Imperial troops were to be stationed at Efastopol, but only for a strictly limited period of time, and were assured to be withdrawn when the conflict was resolved. The Empire’s sole major demand was temporary control over the Principality’s naval forces; their unquestioning commitment to preparing and executing the greatest military operation to ever take place in these waters, since the mythical Operation Dayglow two centuries before, where mankind played no part.

Upon learning the full story of the Empress’s kidnapping, the Luctretzians grew—if not outright willing—at the very least slightly more understanding towards the Imperials’ objectives. Whatever they personally thought of her majesty and her tragic fate, they could bring themselves to agree that the buccaneers had gone too far this time. After all, if even Empresses weren’t safe anymore, then who exactly was? What would happen if the pirates were to start abducting princes, ministers, or trade union presidents next? By all means, the time seemed ripe to do something about this problem, if anything at all could be done. And if it were the Imperials, who took care of the heavy lifting, then all the better.

Minister Lancaster required perhaps the longest to convince, but upon getting a bath, a smoke, and a clean change of suits, he returned more or less to his standard self, and acted as if the embarrassing scene earlier had never happened. He was not “forced to surrender”—oh no, he had merely judged cooperating to be the most productive of the available choices, after giving it proper thought, and the situation remained firmly under the Ministry’s control. Meanwhile, everyone else deemed it the most productive choice not to correct him.

The coming of daybreak brought no respite for either side.

Shortly after sunrise, Lancaster was obligated to host the Imperial Marshal on a tour to the city harbors, to inspect the status of the Royal Navy.

The harbor workers found no rest either. The sunken frigate Victoria was being salvaged, her broken hull pulled up for repairs, and all the scattered debris had to be collected from the docks and the Bay too. The mess was quite something.

“I still do think such measures were entirely unnecessary,” Minister Lancaster sourly voiced his criticism, as the entourage passed the shipyard. “You could have simply explained the situation in order, from the beginning, like civilized people, instead of resorting to this...flagrant barbarism!”

“That is the wisdom of hindsight speaking,” Miragrave retorted, showing no discernible remorse over her actions. “Had I not done what I did, we’d still be arguing over ink drops on parchment and never live to see results. The faster we move past the red tape to tackle the actual problem, the sooner we may all return to minding our own business again.”

Sighing and puffing like an old steam train, the Minister swallowed additional complaints and moved on.

“Going after the pirates is all fine and well,” the man said. “But I would ask that you not to underestimate us too much, Marshal. We’ve done all we can and more over the years to hold the marauders in check, but it is a task much easier said than done. The so-called Confederacy is no organized institution, the way we understand such. There is nothing these rogues have in common, save their endless greed and wickedness. They have no principles, no integrity, no loyalty. They come and go like the wind. An innocent fisherboat in the morning is setting coastal huts ablaze by dusk, and come sunrise, they’re filling barrels with sardines again. The Bay bustles with activity all day long, thousands of sailors pass through our ports, yet you could count the number of honest sailors among them with one hand fingers. Should we stir the nest too much, all we will achieve is make targets of our own merchants! If the foreign traders begin to avoid our markets, our economy will be done for! We’ve been at this deadlock for years, thanks to your benevolent Empire making trade unfeasible by land.”

“Don’t blame the Empire for letting the corsairs put your balls in a vice, Minister,” Miragrave replied. “It was your people, who chose to cut all ties and closed the border, in response to our ‘unethical military conduct’, and thereby shot your own knee. Apparently, having bandits sustain your economy is not as immoral as us securing the lives of our citizens.”

“Semantics,” Minister Lancaster mumbled.

They arrived at a fortress built at the eastern end of the harbor, where the Royal Navy had their headquarters. Tall rock parapets protruded over the waves, overlooking all activity near and far, although Lancaster’s story stained the watchers' credibility somewhat. Villains sailed before those walls from day to day unchecked, like rats before a toothless cat. Would this symbol of impotent order be of any actual use to anyone?

Such was Miragrave’s topmost concern as they made their way to it.

Fortunately, the place appeared properly manned, clean and disciplined, by any standards. In the airy courtyard of the fort, Minister Lancaster introduced the Marshal and her retinue to the Royal Navy's current commander, Admiral Wittingam, who had come down to meet them.

Wittingam was a tall, slender man, surprisingly young for such a high-ranking officer, in his mid-twenties at best. The fact could probably be explained by how the local commanders were all nobility. They didn’t climb the ranks in order from the bottom up, based on personal merit; they were trained specifically to be officers from the start, and competence was not always a deciding factor in regards to their position. As a model sample of Luctretzian aristocracy, Wittingam bore his handsome uniform with grace. The decoratively embroidered, deep blue coat of white linings, knee-length trousers, long white socks, sparkling shoes, and buttoned gaiters, made him resemble more a theater performer than a military leader. On his head, he had a silvery wig with a ponytail, as well as a splendid, deep blue tricorne.

Facing Miragrave, the Admiral performed a suave, chivalrous bow.

“Grand Marshal,” he said. “It is an honor.”

As soothing as it was to see a display of good manners after all the crude arguments, threats, and gnashing of teeth in the past day and night, Miragrave left it without response. What she needed now was a soldier, not an actor.

“I trust you have been briefed on the situation, Admiral?” she asked him instead.

“Naturally,” Wittingam replied, straightening his posture. “Please accept my heartfelt condolences for this tragic turn of events. Rest assured, we shall endeavor to do everything in our power to help you recover her majesty, as soon as it may be done.”

“Don’t get carried away now...” Minister Lancaster grumbled on the side. Even if they were technically working with the Imperials now, there was no need to be too eager about it.

“Music to my ears,” Miragrave said, ignoring Lancaster. “And how soon do you think that would be?”

“Please,” the Admiral said and gestured for them to follow, “if you’d be so kind as to come with me, I shall give you a better view of the situation.”

They left the courtyard and climbed nearby stairs up to the northwestern bastion, from the top of which opened a dizzying view over the harbors and the deep blue waves of the Bay, lightened by the pure white sand bed underneath.

The wall hadn’t looked so high from the ground level, but the panorama from the edge of the bulwark was gut-wrenching. The outbound fish boats were as grains of barley, and even the larger carracks would fit well on the palm of a hand. The wind was stronger up here as well, strong enough to snatch one’s hat if they weren’t being careful, or brush a lightweight person out of balance. Miragrave couldn’t claim to be a fan of such heights, but sourly gritted her teeth.

“Five third-rate frigates can be readied in but two days’ time,” Admiral Wittingam explained, pointing at the ships below, showing no concern for his big hat. “A handful of smaller ships alongside. But I would not recommend going so easy on the pirates, ma’am. By the intelligence gathered over the years, we know the Confederates are not all mere fishermen, but have a formidable fleet of their own. Moreover, they have spies everywhere. If they anticipate our moves and summon their captains, we may find ourselves sailing to a death trap whence there is no return.”

“What is your suggestion then?” Miragrave asked him.

“This is our chance to end their reign of terror for once and for all,” the Admiral replied, and while he remained outward cordial, a slightly odd zeal rang in his words. “We should go all out. All frigates, carracks, and brigs we can get our hands on, schooners for escort. I would also petition the Ministry to refit the ships of the Royal House you see over there as men-of-war. If we work day and night, we can have in two weeks’ time a fleet powerful by any worldly measure.”

“Admiral, are you being quite sane now!?” Minister Lancaster interjected. “You would subjugate the crown jewels of our nation to this here Marshal’s reckless witch hunt?”

Unfazed by the criticism, Wittingam assured the others of his sanity,

“I believe that if we are to embark on an undertaking of this gravity, then it should be done either with prudence, or not at all. If we win this maneuver, then Law and Order will be preserved on all of the western continent. But should we be outperformed by the pirates instead, then we will never take the seas back from them. It will mark the beginning of a new age for all of Noertia; a dark age, ruled by remorseless greed and anarchy, where the only law is the law of the jungle, and order is a relic of the past.”

As well as he argued, the man could not fully mask the underlying emotion that lent strength to his intonation.

Miragrave gazed over the bulwark for a moment in thought. Perhaps Wittingam was not a mere poser, after all, but had the hunger fit for a bloodhound. Under different circumstances, she would’ve cautioned an officer to not let a war turn into a purely personal affair. That never ended well for anyone. But in this particular case, having motivations beyond those on paper was undoubtedly a useful quality.

“The pirates have yet to issue their demands,” Miragrave then said aloud. “We should have time. I’ll see to it that you get everything you need, Admiral, so get to work at your earliest convenience. I’ve also summoned reinforcements from the Empire. You may include them in your calculations. My adjutant will give you the details afterwards. For your eyes only.”

“With pleasure, ma’am,” the Admiral bowed his head.

“Yes, wonderful,” Minister Lancaster spoke, not hiding the sarcasm in his tone. “Call the elves over while you’re at it! But I’m afraid winning against the pirates isn’t simply a matter of who has more and bigger ships! Many have tried to weed out the rogues over the ages; none have ever succeeded. Do you know why that is, Marshal? Because of the Thousands. The main hideout of these renegades is hidden among countless uncharted islands, veiled in secrecy and ancient witchcraft. They will always have a place to fall back to, endless resources, all the wealth they and their predecessors have plundered and more. You can spend a lifetime scouring those unnumbered islets and shoals, wrecking your ships, losing your men to disease and scurvy, all the while those savages laugh in their beards. They are an invisible nation, you see. Everywhere, yet nowhere. Always close by, yet just outside of reach. As Wittingam said, their spies are among us, even now, sniffing out every word we barter. That rat scurrying over there, that snot-nosed young seaman over there—who can tell? Nothing keeps a secret for long. You will never surprise these devils. No, it is you, Marshal, who will be sorely surprised yet, and I’ll be damned if I’m not almost looking forward to it.”

“You make several good points, though I doubt it is on purpose,” Miragrave answered him. “If a viper is strong in its nest, then it must be drawn out to level land, where it may be easily surrounded and smashed. Fortunately for us, this snake has grown old and fat in idleness, having gone uncontested for too long. It forgot it ever had a weakness. Which is why it will seize the bait, no question of it.”

“Bait?” the Minister scoffed. “What bait? These few ships? The royal galleons? You don’t presume to provoke the villains to face you on your terms only by a simple-minded show of force, surely? Granted, they have grown arrogant as of late, but can anyone be quite that arrogant? Underestimate them at your peril, Marshal! The one they call their king, Cartognam, is a sailor of monstrous cunning. You have not heard what I have of that man! They say he has a sixth sense! He knows where every ship is going to be out there before it ever leaves port. The Ocean Lord himself bows to the Pirate King’s will, and he can speak the ancient tongue to command dragons. His ship, the Jade Tempest, is the fastest vessel ever known to man, its boards blessed by the Fey. They say it cannot be sunk. That man is a ghost, evil incarnate! If there is any more room left in the lowest pits of Hel, it is Cartognam, who will be right there with you, Marshal, mark me.”

“Duly noted, Minister,” the Imperial replied. “But a man with hands as soft as yours shouldn’t bother to speak of villainy. True enough, I have great affinity with Hel. And I’ll have given you a lesson or two on that front, ere this is over. I am certainly not counting on your floating tea sets alone to provoke the enemy. I have something else in store for their ilk; language they understand, no less ancient than that of dragons. Then we shall see whether these cutthroats really are the heartless monsters you paint them as—or mere men that bleed and cry.”

Minister Lancaster couldn't tell what she meant, but he could only shudder at the way she said it. This woman is possessed, he thought, and was certain only doom awaited them all for going along with her.

Not that they had much choice in the matter.

A few paces behind the Minister stood in silence the haunting figure of Aurlemeyr, the secret weapon of the Empire. What was he but surrounded by monsters on all fronts?

But what if—just what if—at the end of this dreadful path awaited not defeat, but that glorious day when the flags of the Principality should flutter in all the western ports of Noertia? Perhaps it was a gamble worth taking, so long as it was the Empire that shouldered the blame.

2

Even as dusk fell, the Marshal’s work day showed no sign of ending. Efastopol had surrendered peacefully, on paper. The local military adhered to standard routine, and the civilian population carried on as ever before, the takeover so far only a matter of gossip. It seemed that things had gone more or less as planned, for once. Still, it would have been too naive to assume this alliance was now set in stone. While key individuals like Prime Minister Barrington and Admiral Wittingam seemed agreeable to the cause, there were also those like Lancaster. Only one thing that kept such people from immediately taking over and casting the Imperial guests in the sea by force.

Superior force——the Gilded Bow.

Fortunately, yesterday’s demonstration seemed to keep the opposition in check. Two more warships, the Ifalna and the Hagrave, would arrive in two days, and a cavalry regiment had been called by land to secure the capital. With reinforcements, the threat of betrayal would turn less likely. But until then, they had to tread with care and depend on the Bureau operatives' vigilance.

Due to the security concerns, the victorious Imperial command wouldn’t settle in the quarters offered to them on land. When her work didn’t necessitate otherwise, Miragrave remained aboard the Thule in the harbor, and that was also where she spent the few fleeting hours of the night to rest. If rest it could be called.

Lamp light burned in her cabin still well after dark.

“Know thine enemy” was the principle by which wars were won, and the Marshal immersed herself now accordingly in study. She would go over every little tidbit of data the officials of Luctretz could provide her regarding the eminent pirates and their ships. However, in this matter, the Imperial sources proved more useful. After all, until very recently, a number of Confederate captains had been sponsored with Imperial funding. The Circle of Pale Ashes had likewise employed pirate operators to collect personnel and resources on the continent, although one could only guess at the extent of this partnership.

What was the Confederacy, really? An alliance of captains, no different from a standard federation of nations, it seemed, but with only the ships they owned for mobile homelands. As per the legend of the nine elven kings of eld, the corsairs had a Council of nine captains, who had over time brought most of the criminal operations at sea under their control.

Save their number, little was known about the Confederate leaders. Changes were frequent in the lineup of such an anarchist group, for the titles were not hereditary, nor were they decided by vote. To be promoted among the nine captains, one had to defeat a current captain and take his key, his symbol of authority, or otherwise buy or force him to yield his position. Only the strongest and most ruthless of the villains would live long enough to make a name for themselves, and among those few, Captain Greystrode was in a league of his own. He and his ship, the Heat Hammer, had terrorized the seas for decades, before he took a passenger seat in his criminal syndicate, and left his followers to build his wealth in his stead by the savage lessons he’d taught them.

The Confederacy might have seemed like a mere cult of mindless chaos and violence to an outsider, but the pirates did have their own rules—ambiguous, often contradictory on the surface, but nevertheless strictly binding.

A pirate would not steal from a pirate.

Although, it was mostly considered wrong only if he was clumsy enough to be caught.

A pirate would not lie to a pirate.

But that didn’t mean he had to always tell the whole truth, or have otherwise honest intentions. When used right, even the truth could become a weapon, after all.

A pirate would not abandon a pirate.

If one of the brotherhood was in trouble at sea, by forces beyond his control, then even his worst enemy was bound by honor to sail to his aid. Murdering a fellow pirate was still fine, though, if the fight was deemed fair, and both parties agreed that they had a feud.

Such and many more were the peculiar customs of their colorful lot. Violating any article meant immediate expulsion from the community, leaving the culprit without the protection of the Code, free game for his old comrades to plunder and sink.

The symbol of the Code was the King; a sailor known for his excellence, who had bested all his rivals and earned himself their collective respect. The King was a captain in the Council, more like a chairman than a ruler, but he had the final say in all matters and his word was law on its own. He would serve to settle the brotherhood’s internal disputes and hand out punishment accordingly.

No one knew what King Cartognam looked like, but ever since he had risen to the top of the Confederacy, the buccaneers had developed all new vigor and ambition in their activities. He had reunited the Council after a long period of decline, and directed them to inflict one heavy blow after another to the economy and the political scene of the coastal nations—the Empire, in particular. As if the kidnapping of the Empress weren't enough proof of this, the corsairs seemed to hold special hatred for Tratovia. Was it revenge, because their financial support was cut? Or was there some other reason?

Whatever the case, they had to be stopped.

Regardless of cost.

Overcome by a bout of fatigue, Miragrave set the documents aside, stood, and went over to the cabin window, to rest her eyes on the nightly sea view. She could only hope and pray that Yuliana was still, by some miracle, safe and in one piece, as terribly unlikely as it felt.

There came a knock from the door.

“Yes, what is it?” Miragrave raised her voice, knowing the cabin wasn’t locked.

Shortly, the door opened. The one to emerge was the gloomy figure of Aurlmeyr in her dark cloak. Without sparing a word of greeting, the girl stepped into the cabin and closed the door behind her.

The visitor didn’t particularly improve Miragrave’s mood. She had nothing against the bearer of the Gilded Bow, personally, but she loathed all the champions of the Guild out of principle. A force without discipline or hierarchy, no law or accountability, established by the Emperor’s selfish whim—weren’t they only pirates on land, even as people celebrated them as heroes?

Miragrave had secretly wished Yuliana would disband the whole order, but their effect on the public morale couldn’t be denied. The common people longed for stars, something better, something above themselves, to adore and put their faith in. Something lasting in the age of uncertainty. So long as the champions stood by her, the Guild made Yuliana’s position stronger. Yet, beneath the shining image were still only flawed humans. Rules could be made to limit their conduct, but that didn’t take away the dangerous powers these people individually possessed—the girl here being the prime offender.

“What do you want?” Miragrave asked, turning back to the window. “You picked the wrong cabin if you were lonely.”

“Did I?” Aurlmeyr asked, stepping in front of the work desk.

The Marshal answered with a disapproving over-the-shoulder scowl.

The girl with the golden arm ignored the look.

“Aren’t we glad they bought your bluff?” she asked.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“The Bow exists not for any one person’s need, but to safeguard the human race as a whole, as you well know. I don’t see how burning down the 900,000-odd citizens of Efastopol would have served the cause. Had the Ministers not taken the deal, I probably would’ve self-destructed before the end of the countdown, bringing your gamble to a pitiful end.”

“I’ve told you this before,” Miragrave replied. “If we lose her majesty, the Empire is done for. A civil war will tear us apart. Pirates will rule the seas, squabbling warlords the lands. Countless innocent lives will be lost. That will be the sunset of humankind, our hour of twilight before the final nightfall. Preventing this falls well within your duty. Any sacrifice we must make to rescue the Empress is justified, for our species as a whole to endure.”

“Fair words,” Aurlemeyr replied, tracing the surface of the desk with her golden finger. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe you’re not. You’re not a Divine Lord, but only one woman; you cannot know how the future will unfold. Machines are not operated by beliefs, but what exists and is true now, in this moment.”

“I know history and I know people,” the Marshal wryly responded. “It’s not a matter of faith to me.”

“Why do you hate your own kind so?” the girl asked, stepping slowly around the table. “Don’t you think they are capable of better?”

“What is it to you?” Miragrave asked. “What I believe doesn’t matter. I will leave nothing up to chance, but use any method at my disposal to take the future I want from probability to certainty; that is the way I was taught.”

“Well, I can agree that I loathe ambiguity just as much.”

Seeing the champion draw closer by the reflection in the mirror, Miragrave turned around to face her. Without stopping, Aurlemeyr walked right in front of her, halting only at a distance that didn’t adhere to military guidelines by any stretch. Leaning her face yet further in, bringing her nose a hair’s breadth away from the woman’s, Aurlemeyr stared straight into Miragrave’s eyes. Seeing the tiny gears whirl, like gateways to abyssal dimensions, Miragrave frowned in displeasure.

“Your sophistries are not good enough for me,” Aurlemeyr whispered, gripping the Marshal’s wrist in the hold of her armored hand. “You may satisfy Ekate with your lukewarm rationale, but I need more than that to play your dog. I am not a machine. I am not the sword of your conquest. I’m not your servant, nor your subordinate, not your family, nor your friend. The way I see it, I stand to gain nothing by risking my life for your noble cause. I have no reason to care about the Empress I’ve never even met. There’s a new face on the Onyx Throne every time I come by, why is this one so much more special than the others? There are countless better things I could be doing right now, instead of subjecting myself to the hazards of your volatile game. Then tell me, ‘Grand Marshal’, how do you plan to make it worth my while?”

“...I reckon there is something on your mind,” Miragrave replied, her frown deepening, “or else we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“There is,” Aurlemeyr answered. “Give me your body.”

“...”

Miragrave squinted her eyes at the comment, but it appeared Aurlemeyr wasn’t joking. Slowly, she leaned yet further in, compelling the Marshal to lean backwards and lift her chin to keep their lips from touching.

“Let me have my way with you,” the champion repeated her request. “Having the notorious ‘Red Terror of the Stohenkartes’, the untouchable iron lady, submit to me, to my pleasure—that is the payment I want.”

Miragrave stared down at the girl for a lengthy while, not moving, not talking, not even blinking. Even the bearer of the Bow knew she was playing a dangerous game, but the payout of that gamble, she felt, made up for the risk. No, was it not precisely the risk that gave the prize its value? What was life without danger but completely empty?

“Fine,” Miragrave suddenly said. With her free hand, she seized the collar of her uniform shirt and tore it open, ripping off the buttons and exposing her cleavage. “Do what you will.”

With a look of utter disinterest, she turned her face away and waited.

“That was…unexpectedly fast,” Aurlemeyr commented with a pause.

“What is there to mull over?” Miragrave asked. “Your cooperation is critical for the success of this operation. We are both women, so there is no risk of you getting me pregnant, so to force me to interrupt my duties to deliver a child. I have no logical reason to refuse, do I? As you said, I am not a Divine Lord, but only one woman. Personally, I don’t see what is so valuable about this scarred body of mine, but the terms are your own. If you think there is some entertainment to be had, then get it done and over with. But be swift about it. I still have work left to do.”

The Marshal fell quiet and continued to wait.

No matter how Aurlemeyr looked, it didn’t seem to be a mere front. The woman really didn’t care one whit. That horrid, very machine-like disregard for her own self and other people was a turn-off of unfortunate effect. There were many ways to arouse passion beside love and affection: anger, even fear and disgust could be converted into allies of lust. But trying to force it out of nothing was the one guaranteed recipe for failure each and every time. After a lengthy, awkward while, the champion could only give up looking for the lost spark.

She released her hold and turned away.

“As I thought, this bed might be too cold for me,” Aurlemeyr remarked and left the cabin.

Alone once again, Miragrave exhaled a heavy sigh, relaxed the tension in her shoulders, and looked down at her disheveled uniform.

“Waste of a good shirt.”