“In Ustil’s grasp, where sleeping ships do dream,

Admiral’s ghosts weave through the city’s seam.

From pirate’s shadow to a federation’s crown,

Trifelt’s whispers sail through the merchant town.

Spires reach, not just to sky, but to memory’s tide,

Where blood and salt merged, old hatreds died.

Beneath the sun, proud proof of victories won,

Ustil stands, where ancient feuds at last lie spun.”

– Fintale, Our World in Words

“Utterly unacceptable. This is an insult to this very city and the entire Concordate!” Galen, Vice-Admiral of the Concordate, and like most of the assembled Admiralty a native of Ustil, was unassuming.

Diminutive and stocky, his once straw-blonde hair long transformed into white-flecked ash. Had it not been for his standard-issue naval uniform—decorated with all the appropriate stripes and stars—the man would not have attracted any particular attention.

But when Galen launched into one of his notorious tirades, the Admiralty listened. Whether out of interest or amusement came down to the individual.

Vann sat amongst the gathered officers, metallic arm resting on the ancient oak table as he listened to Galen’s impassioned speech. It was not the first time he had seen the man in action since he had arrived, yet the power Galen wielded through mere words never ceased to amaze him. Not that he liked the man any better for it.

“The Grand Admiral has the situation in hand, Galen,” Admiral Cassia interjected from Vann’s left, her tone brooking no argument.

“Precisely my point. It’s not just about handling the situation. It’s about preventing it from happening again,” Galen shot back sharply. “We need a more proactive approach. We’re not some backwater port, groveling before the odd pirate ship and allowing ourselves to be plundered. We’re the Concordate, depths be cursed. We rule these seas. We need to show strength.” He punctuated his final point by pounding on the podium and cast a fiery glance around the assembled naval officers, challenging anyone to question him.

Yet the other Admirals remained silent, their expressions varying between boredom and mild assent. Vann knew they were waiting for Grand Admiral Burn to speak—the man who had summoned them all here. They had come to address the recent pirate assaults on Concordate ships, and, though Galen was in rare form, everyone knew the ultimate outcome hinged entirely on Burn. As it always did.

“I agree, Vice-Admiral,” Burn finally said in a measured tone. “We must stop these attacks for good.” Even seated, the man was a towering figure. His wild black hair had resisted graying with age and now framed a sun-bronzed face etched with deep creases.

Many years ago, Vann had read texts—pamphlets really, circulating across Olban’s harbor—that painted Burn as the ‘scourge of the seas.’ Now, any historian worth their salt conferred upon him the title of ‘the light of his generation.’ As was so often the case, the very characteristics that had once cast the man into ignominy with the reigning powers of the Trifelt now served to elevate him above his peers. Indomitably strong-minded, skillfully diplomatic, brilliantly strategic.

Now, Burn stood at the helm of a nation—his nation. Burn had vision. His hazel eyes were roving about the Admiralty of the Concordate, the federation he had built with his own hands. On top of blood and fire on the ocean spray.

“Which is why,” he continued, “we’ve called on the services of our newest Elevated, Vann, to root out the source of these attacks.”

Sneering, Galen whirled toward Vann, piercing him with his gaze. “And what makes you so certain, Grand Admiral, that this man, of all people, can handle the task? That he’ll succeed where Loren has so glaringly failed? I’m told this Vann was a simple blacksmith for most of his life, that he’s just freshly trained by Kel.” Galen smirked. “What good can you possibly do against these pirates?” That last sentence, now pointedly directed to Vann. A challenge that was no longer unspoken.

Vann felt a flicker of annoyance at the condescending tone in Galen’s voice. With some effort, he managed to douse the spark again and keep his expression carefully neutral. The loss of an Elevated had put everyone on edge, he had to remind himself. If even gods could fall, Vann thought, who could truly be safe? Strange story that. Entire ship obliterated. Who could do that? Not simple pirates, that’s for sure.

He cleared his throat, rose to his feet, and levelly met the gaze of Galen and the gathered assembly.

“Since you seem so well-acquainted with my past, Vice-Admiral, you might also be aware of my life before that. Before the Concordate. Like yourself, I’m old enough to be intimately familiar with pirates.” He paused briefly for effect. “And I do have a few tricks up my sleeve, so to speak, should these pirates decide to make any trouble,” Vann replied coolly, the metallic sheen of his arm conspicuously reflecting the room’s light as he wiggled his fingers.

Sporadic laughter echoed from somewhere behind him. Galen’s lips tightened in irritation, but he chose not to pursue the argument further. Instead, he directed his attention back to Burn.

“Very well, if this is your final decision, I request that one of my ships accompany the Elevated,” Galen asserted, sounding unperturbed and confident despite his sudden shift in tactics. “My men are exceptionally well-trained and will surely eradicate these pirates in no time.”

Vann smirked. Angling for glory while sidestepping the shadow of failure—a dance as old as the Trifelt itself. This man truly was cleverer than he seemed at first glance.

“Done,” Burn responded, giving his armrest a confirming thump, “I’m sure Vann’s abilities will prove invaluable on this mission. I don’t think I need to remind anyone of the reports. There might be more to these pirate attacks than meets the eye. We need someone unconventional to deal with this.”

“I understand, Grand Admiral,” Vann offered Burn a half-bow. “I’ll do my best to put an end to these attacks and uncover their motives.”

“Excellent. You have my full backing, as well as that of the Admiralty, of course. You will liaison with Admiral Cassia for your mission, with an additional ship from Vice-Admiral Galen, as requested. We expect results. Soon.” With those final words hanging like a command, Burn rose from his seat, signaling the end of the meeting.

Everyone took the cue. The room filled with lively chatter as men and women rose from their seats and continued their discussions in smaller groups around the light-filled hall. As the admirals slowly dispersed—with Cassia offering him an encouraging nod before departing—Vann descended the marble steps of the Admiralty, footsteps echoing in the expansive space.

As he stepped out, the world exploded in a blaze of sunlight that stole his sight for a heartbeat. After his eyes adjusted, Vann found himself on Ustil’s busiest market street. The market street, along with the Admiralty building itself, was situated on a promontory that offered a panoramic view of the palm-fringed harbor and the sparkling tapestry of the surrounding bay that gave Ustil its vaunted naval prominence.

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Vann drew in a deep breath of salty air, releasing a sigh. He had always loved the sea, but now it felt different, somehow. He was here to serve and fight, not to sail or do anything else he wanted. That salty scent of freedom had somewhat changed for him.

Vann could remember a different time—the last time he had been in Ustil, under different circumstances. Not fighting for the city, but against it. Navigating choppy waves, amidst a heavily armed fleet. Duke Embrez had not sent them out for a full-scale invasion. More of a don’t-mess-with-me kind of message. From the Bloody Duke.

Ocean spray mingling with scarlet. He remembered a face among those he had taken that day—a young Ustilian sailor. Eyes wide open in disbelief, as the life ebbed away from him. Then Vann had watched his Olbanese friends be killed by Ustilian sailors. It was not a good day for anyone.

Now he served the people of Ustil. Embrez was dead—drowned alongside his flagship—and Burn was not. That seemed to have made all the difference. Vann could have felt resentment. There had been a time—a long time—when he had. But it had been too long now, the resulting peace under the Concordate too prosperous to hate its architects. Vann did not dare to even imagine what a ‘Concordate’ under Embrez, instead of Burn, would have looked like.

He made his way down the cobblestone street, senses on high alert, eyes lazily scanning the merchant stalls lining both sides. Vann strolled past merchants selling all shapes and sizes of fish, sea urchins, and clams, alongside stalls laden with strips of cured leather, crates of papayas, or rows upon rows of hooked knives. It was at the same time different and yet the same as the market back in Olban. Maybe they really were one nation. He still was not sure.

As he walked, Vann felt the weight of the metallic arm dragging on his shoulder, a constant reminder, as if he needed one. After all, he had to always maintain his hold over the metal to keep it intact. Sometimes he wondered that it still held its shape while he slept, that he did not wake up with a formless silver lump lying next to him.

Only a few brief weeks had passed since Lavelle had handed him over to Burn and the Concordate. The moment was still etched in Vann’s memory, as if it had occurred just the other day. They had said their goodbyes on the docks, down by the harbor.

Though ‘saying goodbye’ was perhaps a too grand term for what had happened. They had known each other for years—years of almost daily contact within the confines of that secluded training compound near Kel. But Lavelle was a woman who did not care much for ceremony or tradition—one of the first things he had learned about her.

Vann still recalled his first lesson with her. He, thrown into a completely foreign world, both literally and figuratively. She, this composed, curt figure of legend, yet not without kindness. Not completely. In an open courtyard, bathed in a warm drizzle.

“Two things you need to understand,” Lavelle had begun, holding up her index and middle fingers for emphasis. “Your usefulness as an Elevated will depend on the strength of your power and how you harness it. Trust me, everyone tries, but there’s nothing you can do about the former. You need to accept that.”

Her middle finger folded back, leaving only the index finger pointing upwards. Raindrops speckled Vann’s head and shoulders, rolling down his body unheeded. “The only thing I, and the others, can teach you is how to use your power. That’s what we’re going to focus on here.” Throughout this routine speech, doubtlessly delivered to countless new-born Elevated before him, Lavelle’s verdant eyes never strayed from his, seemingly tracking his understanding.

Creativity. That was her driving principle. If you could control rocks, you would never be able to manipulate larger rocks by sheer force of will, but you might be clever and move the ground beneath your enemy’s feet.

Vann had heeded Lavelle’s advice closely. Over time, he had also come to understand that her first point was only technically correct. Sure, he could do nothing about his level of power. But others could. And they did, ramping up investment during his training.

Vann had quickly transitioned from barely grasping his newfound power to wielding it with deadly precision. He had been transformed into a living weapon in those jungles. You only really grasp the cost of such power once you take it for yourself, he thought. Being a god in this world just makes you a slave. Vann realized this too late. Not that he had much of a choice in the matter, admittedly. When the spotters wanted you, you went to the Belt.

And so, they had found themselves on the docks in Ustil, one drizzly morning. Ironic, really, that it should begin and end in rain, as if no time had passed at all. A handshake, a nod, a look. That was all that passed between them that day. All that was needed, apparently. He watched her board her ship—striding confidently, as usual—and set sail, her thoughts likely already on her next assignment. Vann watched as his anchor these past few years gradually disappeared into the horizon. He did not expect to see Delegate Lavelle of Kel again. He would be wrong.

Vann shook his head, pushing the memory to the back of his mind. He had a mission to focus on now, one that would easily demand his undivided attention. He took a left at the end of the winding market street and headed toward the harbor. The cries of seagulls filled the air as he passed the endless lines of ships moored at the docks, their masts jutting toward the sky.

The smell of salt water was much stronger here than up on the hill, and he could hear the waves crash against the shore. Vann surveyed the docked ships, searching. Finally, he spotted his target: a large carrack flying Admiral Cassia’s personal flag from its mast, fluttering just beneath the Concordate flag.

As he approached the ship—the Silver Arrow, according to its hull—Vann noticed a uniformed figure lean against the sturdy wooden railing of the docks, gazing out to the sea. She was a slim woman, with long, almost completely gray hair. As he approached, she turned, her eyes meeting his. “Admiral Cassia?” Vann asked as he drew closer, extending a silvery hand.

Inevitably, her gaze flicked to his arm, an unreadable expression crossing her face. But it was fleeting, almost too quick to catch. Feodora Cassia was not a woman to be easily perturbed, that much he had heard about her. She shook his hand, her eyes appraising him. “Elevated Vann,” she said, “I’ve heard much about your abilities. Looking forward to seeing them in action.”

“I can only return the compliment,” he returned a smile, “I’ll do my best to impress you, Admiral.”

Cassia gave a small nod, “I have no doubt about that.” They stood in silence for a while, watching the undulating waves. “Well, you know why we’re here,” Cassia finally spoke, breaking the silence, “But do you know why we are here?”.

“I have a general idea,” Vann turned to regard her. “Seems like the typical approach isn’t working against these pirates and everyone’s getting queasy when Elevated start dropping dead. As Loren’s replacement, I’m… expendable.” He hesitated but did not add: Are you too, Admiral? He decided he still did not know enough about Concordate politics.

Oblivious to his hesitation, Cassia nodded her agreement, “The attacks have been increasing in frequency, and they seem to be targeting specific types of cargo. A specific type of cargo.” She shot a significant glance first at Vann and then at his arm. “The Concordate—the Grand Admiral—suspects there’s some kind of broader organization using these pirates as a front. Burn suspects there’s a reason why they’re able to kill Elevated in the first place. Our mission is to find out who’s behind it all and put an end to them.”

With a frown, Vann held her gaze. “Do we know anything else about these pirates, other than that they attack ships passing through these waters?”

“Not much, unfortunately,” Cassia shook her head resignedly. “Only that they don’t leave survivors. These pirates do seem to be coordinated and well-armed though, which at least suggests they have a nearby base of operations.”

“So, where exactly do we start, then?” Vann asked.

She responded with a wry smile. “That’s the thing with unconventional methods, Elevated Vann. We have to think outside the box.” Cassia crossed her arms, deep in thought. “First, we need to gather as much information as possible. I know some ports with… questionable activities that we can visit. Speak with locals, gather rumors and whispers. Sometimes, the best intelligence comes from the most unlikely sources. We just need a trail. Then we hunt.”

Vann considered this. We’re looking for a mysterious group of pirates, he thought, that devours Elevated on ships with… an Elevated on a ship. And our strategy is to sail from remote place to place, hoping for a breakthrough. Sounds like fishing rather than hunting to me. And it sounds like I’m the bait in this metaphor. Searching Cassia’s blank face, he finally nodded. “I’m ready when you are, Admiral.”

A faint smile crossed Cassia’s face as she gestured toward the ship. “Then let’s not waste any more time. We’ve got a mission to accomplish. Grand Admiral Burn isn’t always the most patient man.”

As they boarded the ship, the crew welcomed them. Battle-hardened Concordate veterans, crisply saluting their superior officers before resuming their tasks. Then Vann and Cassia stood on the deck of the Silver Arrow, surrounded by the frenzy of last preparations, readying the ship for departure.

High above, three flags billowed in the breeze—green and gold fletching for Cassia’s house, three masts representing Ustil, and the banner of the Concordate, a set of interlocking circles. Above those, only clouds, seagulls, and flocks of black birds.

Or not quite. High above—in-between the Silver Arrow and the crystal-clear sky—stood a man. Or perhaps it was a woman, impossible to tell. Standing at a parapet on the highest tower of the Admiralty, itself located atop a hill, the figure peered down at the docked ships, no bigger than a fingernail from this distance. Watching, as two ships ventured into the open sea. Watching, without being watched. Even if Vann would have had the urge or foresight to glance upwards, the figure would have been too far to clearly make out. Save perhaps for the outline of a dark cloak, flapping in the wind.