1

On the sides of the white china plate were set a small, two-point fork and a knife, left and right, respectively. For the first course, naturally. Inward from there in the glittering line of utensils, were a larger fork and a knife of the same series. For the main course. Above the plate, handle facing right, lay a little dessert spoon. The tools were all crafted of pure silver and were painstakingly polished, clean enough for the diner to perceive her likeness on them. At precisely two o’clock from the plate was a long-stemmed crystal glass for red wine; towards four o’clock from there, a slimmer glass for sparkling wine; and further down the line from there, an adorable little shot glass for the dessert liquor.

Not even someone accustomed to royal dining tables could find a fault in the arrangement.

Not that Yuliana cared for matters of that level. She gripped the spoon for the appetizer consommé, like a fresh recruit her spade, reluctant to use it, even if to save her own life.

The captain’s quarters aboard the Heat Hammer were nothing short of regal themselves, furnished without regard to the cost, an exhibit of red velvet and finely crafted wood. The décor was a curious mix of far-eastern exoticism and more familiar, royal influences, rich in detail, inviting the eye to linger. The ornate, hand-crafted chairs were evidently made to order and uniform in style. A large carpet, embroidered with threads of crimson and gold, covered the aged floor boarding. The windows in the cabin were a tad larger than was standard, granting a splendid display of the open, sunny morning sea behind the stern. In the middle of the room was set a large table, with the wealth of room to host even a greater feast, although the people present at the moment numbered only in two.

Across the table from Yuliana sat the lord of this floating castle.

Against the savage first impression, the old man did seem to know a thing or two about class. He couldn’t be called a “filthy pirate” by any means, being clean, well-dressed, as well as composed in act. But mistaking the outer tidiness for a sign of benevolent intentions, or virtuous character, would have been a fatal mistake to make. The first impression had certainly not been fallacious there. From the moment she had first laid eyes on him, even without taking his notoriety into account, Yuliana had known Captain Greystrode to be a man better than capable of atrocious things.

Paying no attention to her unceasing, suspicious, accusing stare, the old captain dined without a word, making no mess on his impressive beard. Yuliana looked down at her own, untouched bowl that stood on top of the main course plate. It was unlikely the man intended to poison her, yet assuming he had no other mischief in mind would have been premature. It couldn’t be put beyond such a villain to feed her sickening things not meant for human consumption, only for his personal amusement.

Greystrode made no effort to defend his cook’s work, or his own hospitality.

In fact, he hadn’t spoken so much as a word to Yuliana this entire time.

No matter how she looked, the contents of their servings seemed perfectly identical and not at all suspect, and if the man could eat the product himself, then it shouldn’t have been anything too hideous—or so she reasoned. Yuliana had barely eaten anything in almost two days. This was the first time she had been offered any food aboard the pirate vessel, and her stomach hurt from the hunger. She should have refused anyway, in protest to her uncivilized capture and treatment. But her pride seemed to have lost some of its edge, as of late.

Deliberately weakening herself was not going to help her situation, and so Yuliana gave in, lifted her spoon and sampled the brown-red consommé with caution, just a tiny bit. Her palate failed to detect anything off, so she took a slightly larger spoonful next. And, deeming it equally unremarkable—in a positive sense—she went on to empty the bowl. The stock was salty, but salt was what her body longed for, and it seemed to her better than the finest of sweets.

Still Greystrode wouldn’t speak. As the first one to finish, he set down his spoon, and stared off to unseen visions through the mirror-clear table surface, as though the Empress didn’t even exist and he sat alone.

In a moment, a crew member came to pick up the used dishes, followed shortly after by the cook bringing the next course. A soft-steamed turnip, bacon finely chopped and fried, diced garlic and onion. The turnip seemed incredibly sweet, its soft flavor accentuated by the savory bacon. Vegetables were easy to identify and appeared above questioning, and so Yuliana cleared her plate.

Then came the main course.

On the plate laid a beef steak, pan-fried in fat, with grilled cherry tomatoes, potato puree, and cognac gravy. It was not a grotesque sailor steak, thick and overwhelming the plate, but a reasonable sirloin cut, a beautiful Tournedos cooked to perfection.

But staring at the medium-rare piece of meat, Yuliana hesitated again. Did she have any guarantee it had been a cow this cut came from, and not somebody she knew by name? What did human meat look or smell like, anyway? She didn’t know, but for a passing instance, she felt she ought to find out, just to be able to tell the difference. Not that there was any acceptable method to acquire this information, and she quickly threw the deranged idea off her mind. She really had picked up some terrible influences.

“—Not at all,” Captain Greystrode suddenly spoke up out of nowhere, and held up a piece of the meat, impaled on his fork. “It’s more tender, smoother in texture. Easy to overcook, takes practice to get it just right. The smell is—mild, a little off. Not that appetizing. You can tell right away it’s not what it should be. You can feel the wrongness about it. But that’s only ‘cause you’re not used to it. It’s an acquired taste.”

Yuliana frowned at the man, disgusted. How could he tell what she had been thinking? Then again, it had to have been fairly obvious on her face. People at the court had been telling her to be more mindful of her expressions.

Captain Greystrode met her gaze.

“But take my word for it: don’t you ever eat a sailor! They’re dry and tough. Too damn chewy. If you can take your pick, eat a princess. Not half bad, those!”

He put the meat in his mouth and chewed, slow and savoring, all the while maintaining firm eye contact.

“...I can see this is terribly amusing to you,” Yuliana replied, hoping her look conveyed her deep disapproval.

Greystrode wouldn’t reply but went back to peacefully dining.

As strongly as Yuliana condemned his words and actions, on the ideological level, her stomach was regrettably not so easily subdued. Mere soup and a turnip weren’t going to take her far. Frustrated, she picked up her fork and knife. With great care, she sampled the tomatoes first. Then the potato puree. She hoped to be content with just those, but the more she ate, the more her hunger seemed to grow, like an ancient beast aroused from its uneasy slumber. Cursing her demanding form, she cut into the steak and tasted it. It smelled like beef and it tasted like beef. It was delicious. Devilishly good. The strong gravy was a spot-on companion for the juicy, smoky meat, the subtle flavor of cognac inebriating, even if the alcohol itself had boiled away. Every cell of her being appeared to be signing in joy, and her ethical side was left alone with its disapproval.

But if there was nothing wrong with the food itself, then what was Greystrode after?

Surely he didn’t simply mean to treat the prisoner to a dinner?

Was it a petty mental victory he was after, first starving her, then to see her overcome moral barriers in favor of earthly needs, like any simple, unprincipled peasant, even though she was the Empress? Too bad, as a former knight, Yuliana was better attuned to the realities of life than he had expected. Of course she was human! Of course she was hungry! Her spirit wouldn’t be crushed by such a worthless argument. It changed nothing.

No. Greystrode’s face gave no hint of such a thesis, and he spoke no word of it. Obviously, that man never knew any difference between a peasant and a noble from the start; it was not a point worth proving to him, but the most obvious thing in the world.

Then what was he going for, exactly?

There was only one real way to find out.

Finished with the main course, Yuliana set down her utensils, wiped her lips with a napkin, and lifted her gaze across the table again.

“What is it that you want?”

Finished as well, Greystrode placed his knife and fork on the plate, making little noise, picked up his white napkin in kind and wiped his mouth with care, before answering.

“Freedom.”

“Excuse me?” Yuliana raised her brows. The ambiguous one-word answer didn’t explain a whole lot.

The man snatched his wine glass, gave the contents a spin, inhaled the boquet in no hurry, and took a little sip. And then spoke,

“What do you suppose life was like thousands of years ago? Hundreds of thousands of years ago? Back when the Old Gods first made man?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Yuliana answered. “I wasn’t there to see it.”

“Neither was I, of course—but think!” he said. “Imagine it. There were no cities. No countries. No kings, no knights. No laws, no judges, no criminals, no nobles, no commoners, no money, none of this shit. So what’s left? ‘To each their own’—and that was it. What you could pick up and carry in your arms was yours. Where you laid your head was home. Now that is what I call ‘equality between men’. A world without borders. Nobody gave a damn about the future, where you’re gonna be when you’re fifty. Do you have enough coin saved up for retirement. How will society remember you after you’re gone, how will you go down in history, the legacy you leave to your children—you see, none of that mattered. There was only the present. The food you eat, here and now, the breath you take, here and now, the scents filling your nose, the sounds in your ears, the sensations in your hands, the land under your feet—here and now!—that was your all. All else was irrelevant, superfluous, nonsense. Pure nonsense. What they had back then was true freedom. Infinite possibilities, in every single instant.”

“That is unexpectedly poetic of you,” her majesty said, “but what does it have to do with our situation right now?”

“I want to go back,” Greystrode told her. “I want us to return to that time. To achieve that, all of this has to go. Your ‘empire’. Your laws and nobles, and your so-called ‘civilization’. I’m going to tear them all down, burn them to the ground till there’s not one rock left standing. Only then can we humans be free again.”

His words made Yuliana shudder.

There could be no question that he was serious.

“And does your loathing for organized society extend to the community you’ve built in Harm’s Haven?” she asked. “Or your criminal empire on land?”

“Of course,” Greystrode replied with a wave of his hand. “Did you think it was my goal, this rabble, this game? Oh no. If you assume the order I’ve built in my life is somehow exempt from the purge I have envisioned, you’ve missed the whole point. It was only so much noise! But useful noise. It’s what brought about the downfall of you and your people.”

“You’re mad,” she gave her verdict. “I hope you realize that.”

“I didn’t bring you here to ‘understand’,” he replied, turning his attention to the wine glass. “You’re the one who asked. Yours is the type that wants answers and explanations, for things to make sense. But even ‘reason’ is just another illusion men cooked up to bind the lesser to their will. You build your little ideological sandcastles all over, because you’re scared, because you can’t accept that there are things in this world that cannot be understood or explained, or controlled by the logic of men—life itself for one! The greatest puzzle of all is found within yourself, and not being able to make sense of it is what drives you truly insane. All your ideals and principles are but shackles, a handy cage where to dissect and define the reason why you’re alive, even when there is no real reason, it doesn’t make any sense—doesn’t need to make any sense! You think you’re my prisoner, little girl, but you’ve got that dead wrong. You’ve been your own prisoner from the day you were born! I doubt there is a soul in the world more shackled than you are, your majesty. How you can even breathe with all those chains on you is a mystery to me.”

Greystrode downned what was left of his wine in one go, set the glass back down with a clang, and refilled it. Hearing the firm conviction ringing in his words, Yuliana could already tell there was nothing she could say to change his mind. Nevertheless, even though she knew the effort futile, she couldn’t only sit there in silence.

“People need boundaries to exist,” she spoke. “They need limits to define themselves by; a direction to strive for, to grow. Without a glass to contain it, wine will lose its shape and vanish. The horizon line drawn by our conscience is what gives our ship its bearing, and separates us from drowning. Without rules and principles, no crew may remain afloat. We chose to carry these chains, not because we were afraid, but because we found the courage to rise above our nature. Without civilization, we people would soon cease to be conscious, intelligent beings, and become as feral beasts, wolves to one another. As such, we would never know happiness any better than grief, but live and die as leaves fall off the trees, uncaring and uncared for. Is that the world you dream of? It’s not freedom you seek, Captain Greystrode. It the surrender of hope, relinquishment of all beauty and value, and the final defeat of humanity.”

Greystrode’s hand stopped abruptly in mid-air, a few drops of wine spilling over the rim of the glass in his hold, staining the table cloth like blood had been drawn. His thick brows sank and his eyes lost their humor as he glared at the young woman opposite of him. He set the glass down without drinking, and stood.

“Fair words,” the man pronounced and threw down his napkin. “I shall see they’re carved in your gravestone!”

The old captain marched out of the cabin, and Yuliana found herself once again in silence, alone, and without much comfort.

It was probably better to give up on the dessert.

To put the grating conversation off his mind, Captain Greystrode went out to where he felt most at home, upon the quarterdeck of his ship, and moodily surveyed the scenery. No land remained anywhere in view after over a day at sea, only the cerulean waves where the sunlight reflected in countless glittering, blinding, fleeting shards. There was a sample of the ancient freedom he longed for, which knew not man; the absolute absence of attachments.

Fourteen other ships tailed the Heat Hammer in a wide, spread out fan. But while five were durable caravels, in addition to his galleon, the rest were but smaller brigs, schooners, and tartans with minimum crew, and good as gnats against the navy. More sails had Greystrode expected to see, and he never appreciated it when his expectations weren't met.

“Where's Sai-Lin!?” the Captain hollered in anger. “Where are her ships!? Why are they not caught up with us yet?”

“They’re not coming,” his grim Quartermaster, Jiggs, told the man, closing a message a pigeon had delivered. “Captain Qi Weler has given her fleet leave, and sailed off to land herself.”

Greystrode didn’t take the news well.

“That cheap whore!” He leaned far over the bulwark, raging at the sea. “Has she forgotten who owns her!? I brought that harlot to the Council, and this is how she repays me! Gone, that one time you actually need her! A useless coward and a traitor to the last! Oh, she’ll beg for death yet when I get my hands on her!”

“What should we do, Captain?” Jiggs asked. “These numbers are not what we hoped. Doubt the other captains are any better off. The navy will have bigger ships, archers, and mages. Their harpoons are powerful. We’d need to outnumber them at least four to one to have any real chance at victory.”

Not immediately answering, Greystrode dug up his spyglass from his coat pocket and peered westward. There, in the distance, riding on the horizon curve, he saw more ships, led by a brig of pale green sails, braving the foam and waves with the perkiness of a dragonfly. The sight of that gallant vessel brought a wry grin to the old Captain’s face.

“Don’t you worry ‘bout a thing, Jiggs,” he said. “Even if outnumbered ten to one, we’ll win this. We have a legend with us, after all.”

High up on the top-gallant boom of the Jade Tempest balanced the figure of a small girl in her white dress, like a second flag, upon whom he now fixed his scope.

“And the mighty wyrm!”

2

A few hours before noon, on the fourth day after their departure Efastopol, bells were rung aboard the Crucifico, and the fateful words, long-awaited, shouted everywhere around.

“——Sail ho! Sail ho!”

The brassy clangor and vigorous shouting spread quickly to the other ships of the fleet, which became like churches calling believers to service, and all hands were summoned on deck in great haste.

Miragrave joined Admiral Wittingam, Captain Belfraum, and the other officers on the quarterdeck of the galleon, where they swiftly handed her a telescope. Taking a stand by the helm, the Marshal peered northward past the masts.

It was a sight no sinless soul should ever wish to behold in this life, sure to strike fear in the hearts of all mortal seafarers. Not only one set of sails emerged from beyond the planetary curve. The whole sea appeared decorated by patches of mismatched canvas, cross trees, and black flags in an uninterrupted line from east to west, as though on a day of a grand festival. A parade of death and mayhem, a bona fide Dia de Muertos.

“Lo and ho, the marauders rise in defense of their vices,” the Marshal remarked in a tone unaffected by the anxiety that seemed to plague her colleagues. “Reef the sails, Captain. Get us off the wind. Admiral, signal the fleet to halt.”

“Why stop here?” Wittingam asked her in response. “Most of their ships are rubbish. We should crush straight through while we hold momentum.”

“You’re not using your head,” Miragrave answered. “They’re coming from upwind, we’re close hauled. We’d have them behind our asses before your hat’s off, and that’d be the end of the battle. Besides, confirming her majesty’s status comes before anything else.”

“You think they’d have brought their hostage to battle with them?” he asked, confused. “Why? Should they lose the Empress, they’re finished.”

“Of course they’ve brought her,” she replied, closing the telescope and tossing it back to the man. “They wouldn’t fail to flaunt their sole advantage in our faces! That’s just the sort of creatures they are, Admiral.”

Recognizing from her look that the Marshal had reached her argumentation limit for the day, the Admiral left to share orders. Miragrave waited by the helm, her gaze fixed at the rising sails. How like a storm front they seemed, though the natural clouds in the sky were few and tattered like puffs of cotton, and the visibility was excellent.

“Aury, are you awake?” she asked the Imperial standing further back.

“As if even the dead could sleep in this racket,” Aurlemeyr responded, picking her ear.

“Have a look at what we’re up against. What can you tell me?”

The bearer of the Gilded Bow gazed ahead, her enhanced eyes adjusting to the range, and faint threads of light appeared dangling in the air above her brow, as she employed the celestial weapon’s radar to augment her perception.

“I’m counting fifty-two vessels, divided into seven main groups. Over three thousand life forms. They are likewise in the process of decelerating, it seems.”

“So they’re not above dialogue?” Miragrave replied. “That gives us some hope. What about her majesty? Can you pinpoint her location? Any individual kept apart from the others?”

“Negative. They are too far away for me to make out such precise details. But I do perceive two exceptional souls among the numbers.”

“The dragon…?”

“It must be one. This reading isn’t like anything I've seen before.”

“I see. Let me know if it makes a move.”

Next, Miragrave turned around, shifting her attention—to the two maids standing a few paces away. Looking at the pair, she couldn’t keep a subtle smile from overtaking her lips. The servants had to be worried sick for her majesty, and scared to death of the pirates, yet they stood courageously on the deck, enduring the view. It would have been unjust to let their bravery go unaddressed. Miragrave went over to have a few last words with them.

“You two,” she told Hila and Tilfa, “I know you wish to see Yuliana as soon as possible, but this ship will soon become a field of battle. That’s no place for either of you. Go below the deck to my cabin, lock the door, and do not come out unless we’re on fire or sinking.”

“Dear Marshal,” Tilfa responded, “I hope I have conveyed my thorough appreciation for all your hard work over the past weeks—but if I could impose upon you just a tiny bit further, I would ask that you don’t let the ship sink or catch fire! Under any circumstances!”

“Dear Marshal,” Hila said, “I hate to always parrot the blathering of my weaseling colleague, but if only you allow me, I’d like to repeat her appeal word-for-word, for improved effect if nothing more. Drowned corpses are not at all beautiful, and burned corpses even less so! If we are to all die today, I wish my family could still recognize the remains. On the other hand, if our only other alternative to that is being raped to death, then you have my permission to torch the ship and don’t tell us a word of it!”

“Go below the deck,” Miragrave quietly repeated. “I’ll assign my adjutant to watch over you. She will also get you out if we are burning or sinking, to a critical extent. In exchange, do try not to drive her insane with your nonsense. She happens to be one of the rare few competent officers I know.”

And so, under the Lieutenant’s care, the maids were sent below the deck.

“Uleison,” Miragrave turned next to the magic Major. “Have you come up with any secondary counter-measures, in case our anti-dragon weaponry proves less than adequate?”

“I’m fully within the hearing distance,” Aurlemeyr pointed out, her professional pride somewhat insulted.

“Marshal,” Uleison replied with a smile, “shall I give my thoughts as a Major of the Imperial Army, or my thoughts as a man?”

“Be direct with me and don’t act smart,” Miragrave reprimanded him. “Do you want to get demoted?”

The magician recoiled with a grimace. “I have yet to even receive the promotion I was promised earlier, yet I’m already in danger of being demoted!? Ah, to be frank, I don’t mind my rank so much, if only I may still retire on schedule…”

“Well, Sergeant Uleison?” Miragrave urged him. “Can I have your answer now?”

“Have mercy! How would I ever explain a demotion that drastic to my wife!?” the man cried in shock.

Leaning heavily on his staff, Uleison slowly recovered, and answered with appropriate seriousness, “There is a very real reason why the slaying of dragons in old stories always happens with the assistance of destiny and magical weapons. For common mortals like us to contemplate the defeat of an ancient wyrm is tantamount to trying to part the seas.”

“What does that mean, in real words?”

“Meaning,” he summarized, “if our ‘anti-dragon weaponry’ proves less than adequate—we are fucked. No two ways around it.”

Miragrave glanced at Aurlemeyr, who suddenly appeared to be well outside the hearing distance and entirely ignorant of all that went about her.

“No pressure!” the Marshal remarked.

At that moment, a cry was heard from aloft, where a sailor stood pointing ahead.

“White flag! I see a white flag! They call for parley!”

In response, Miragrave met Captain Belfraum’s look and nodded.

“Have the gig lowered. We’ll talk.”