“In the blood-stained annals of the pirate wars, the death of Duke Embrez marked the end of a tumultuous era. A master of both men and sea, the duke met his fate aboard his infamous flagship, the Golden Fist, during a decisive naval clash. Yet, amidst all the chaos and destruction, one puzzle remained unsolved. The duke’s body, unlike those of his loyal crew, was never retrieved from the abyss. Though officially declared dead after the battle, the specter of Duke Embrez loomed large over the Trifelt for years to come. The truth of his fate eludes us to this day, consigned to the murky depths of the sea. Yet one cannot help but speculate; after all, in these troubled waters, truth has often proved more fantastical than any sailor’s tale.”

– Sarai Valtair, From Tricorn to Trifelt: A comprehensive history

With his feet spread wide for balance, Irthal stood on the deck of the ship. His ship. Would feel better if we weren’t chased by bloodhungry thugs, he thought grimly. Squinting toward the horizon, he could just about make out the faint white sails of their pursuers, the sight knotting his stomach in fear. For days they had been fleeing now, yet their adversaries still trailed them like a relentless shadow. Gelman must be paying them a fortune—or provide sufficient motivation of a different kind.

He turned to Sam, standing beside him and Mythas at the helm. “How much longer until we reach the storm?” Irthal asked, voice taut with tension.

Sam scrutinized the sky, brow creased in concentration. “Not much longer, I’d reckon. If the wind holds.”

“That will have to do,” Irthal nodded, eyes firmly locked on the horizon. “Maybe we’ll shake them off for good this time,” he added, aiming for a decisive tone but ending up sounding quite a bit more uncertain than he would care for.

As if in response, a sudden gust of wind swept over the deck, sending the crew scrambling to adjust the sails. Overhead, the sky had darkened ominously by now, clouds churning in a menacing frenzy.

“I get that that’s kind of the plan but you know we’re headed straight for that storm,” Mythas cautioned from his other side, eyes narrowed in concern. “Generally not the best idea on the open sea.”

“We’ve got no choice,” Irthal replied, making his tone as firm as he could manage. “We’ll just have to weather it and hope for the best.” Mythas cast him a doubtful look. Around them, the gusts intensified, the air growing heavy with moisture as the storm inevitably descended upon them, engulfing them in a fury of wind and rain. The crew worked like madmen now, pulling ropes, adjusting sails, doing everything in their power to keep the Escape afloat.

At first, the storm seemed to work in their favor, just like he had planned. Tall waves and fierce winds making it challenging for their pursuers to keep up. But, soon enough, like a fickle mistress, the storm turned against them. Waves swelled larger and larger, until they threatened to swallow them whole. Clutching the railing until his knuckles turned white, Irthal watched as Mythas did her best to steer them through the churning waters. They were long since drenched to the bone.

“Captain!” Lurgon’s gravelly voice broke through the din of the storm. “They’re still gaining on us!”

How could that be? Overwhelmed, Irthal turned around, gazing over the chaotic sea. To his dismay, it was true. Their pursuers were drawing closer, the other ship looming larger and larger amidst the tumultuous waves.

In the back of his mind, Irthal had known this moment would arrive. They had done everything they could to outrun them, had given all they had. Now all their efforts seemed futile. Drained and desperate, he could only watch helplessly as the enemy ship slowly closed the distance.

Men stood at the railings on the other side. Mouths open in battlecries that were immediately swallowed by the tempest. Irthal saw some of their hands. One hand gripping the railing or a line, the other holding a weapon or something looking like an oversized hook. Ah. Grappling hooks. They were going to board them.

Around him, the rest of the crew reached the same realization. Some of them frantically attempting to frustrate their pursuers by giving them just a bit more speed, others scrambling for their weapons. With gritted teeth, Irthal watched as the first men on the enemy ship took aim with their vicious-looking hooks.

Just as Gelman’s ship was on the brink of making contact, a colossal wave surged up, violently separating the two ships. Irthal clung on for dear life, with the men and women around him fighting to keep the Escape from capsizing. From the corner of his eye, Irthal spotted sailors on the other frigate tumble into the frothy, dark waves, as assuredly dead as if felled by a blade.

But even this questionable respite was short-lived, as the next wave closed the gap between the two ships again. The eternal back and forth, the rhythm of the sea.

And this time they came.

Irthal inhaled deeply and unsheathed his sword, determined to fight to the death. He would not be taken back and tortured. “Prepare to repel boarders!” he roared, his already hoarse voice barely rising above the chaos of the storm.

Around him, the crew rushed into action, grabbing any available weapons and forming a ragged defensive line along the deck. Irthal saw Lurgon and Sevastian struggle to organize the men and women as best they could. As the other ship drew even closer, hooks bit greedily into the wood of the Escape’s hull. Irthal’s gaze locked onto the approaching enemy, noting the glint of weapons in the dim light, the fierce determination painted on the faces of the sailors they were set against.

As soon as the first boarding lines were in place, men came hurling down, launching themselves from the masts of the enemy ship. The punishing wind led some of them to end their journey not on wooden planks but in the roiling waves below. But others succeeded in reaching the Escape, drawing weapons from belts immediately after touching the ground, or even holding them clamped between their teeth.

The lashing rain only added to the confusion. Men and women yelled curses, swords clashed in a metallic symphony, and blood flowed equally on both sides. Irthal fought with a desperate resolve, muscles screaming from the effort of merely holding his opponents at bay. They were anything but well rested.

As if to echo the unfolding carnage, the storm raged with increasing ferocity. Lightning streaked across the sky, casting ghostly shadows on faces, while thunder roared above, almost drowning out the sounds of steel clashing against steel and the cries of the injured. The deck of the Escape—slick with rain, seawater, and blood—heaved and lurched underfoot, making balance a precarious affair. Sailors lost their footing more than once, toppling into opponents or the insatiable, churning sea below.

Mythas, fighting at Irthal’s side, cut through enemies with a dancer’s grace, unfazed by the storm’s fury. They fought back-to-back, breathing ragged, muscles burning with exhaustion. Their days—years, really—of back-alley brawling more than paying off now. In a chaotic dance of survival, they spun and struck in unison, an unspoken language of battle flowing between them.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

Parrying a strike from a boarding saber, Irthal lunged for the exposed stomach of his opponent, sword slick with rain and blood. The relentless storm showed no signs of abating as rain poured down in torrents, drowning any chance of visibility. With each blink, Irthal found it harder to clear his vision, stinging sweat and blood mixing with the rainwater. He licked his lips. Funny, he thought, how sea, sweat, and blood are all salty. The thought just came to him, unbidden and unexpected, while he slashed at a man’s exposed upper arm. Was he going mad? No time for that now, he decided, dismissing the intrusive thoughts.

In front of him, Irthal spotted Sam hacking at the boarding lines. Beside him, Lurgon let out a guttural cry as he barreled into a group of boarders, axe swinging in a wide arc, scattering them before him. For a fleeting moment—exhaustion laced with hope—it seemed as if the tide of battle might turn in their favor. Maybe they could make it. Irthal took stock of the fighting. Yet, just as quickly as hope had flared, it was doused again as another wave of attackers swung onto the deck, faces hardened with determination.

As the storm waged war with nature, so the human conflict continued on deck—a deadly dance of steel and blood. With no means to tell time, each moment stretched into an eternity of fear and agony. One by one, lives were extinguished around Irthal. And then, just when it seemed this battle would rage on forever, a booming sound echoed through the air, followed by another gargantuan wave, this time looming over the two ships.

The wave crashed into the pursuing ship with incredible force, splintering its mast with a deafening crash and sending it veering off course. Boarding lines snapped with the sound of whips ripping through air. It was ironic, really. Would that ship not have been there, this wave would have surely crushed the Escape into kindling, ending their journey either way. Irthal could not entirely suppress a brief, hysterical chuckle.

The few remaining sailors on the other deck, those who had not been swept overboard, desperately attempted to salvage their vessel, their attention torn from the fight. On the deck of the Escape, Irthal watched as their opponents turned—actually turned their backs on them in the midst of a heated battle—and looked back in desperation and sheer terror at their badly damaged, and decidedly receding, ship.

Irthal did not waste a single moment. He charged. Beside him, he saw Sevastian drive a harpoon through the back of a distracted assailant. Mythas, a crimson-tinged grin spreading across her face, took advantage of the chaos as well and struck down several boarders in swift succession. Even Sam—calm and steady Sam—revealed a surprising pent-up ferocity as her axe sliced through the air with lethal precision, cleaving through flesh and bone alike as she defended her ship and crew.

The entire sequence unfolded in mere moments. Even as some of the enemy crew eventually turned away from their equally doomed ship, it was over. Their feeble attempts to fend off the frenzied onslaught from the crew of the Escape only fueled the anger of the sailors around Irthal.

They hacked, they slashed, they shattered.

And so, a night of terror ended in blood and broken bodies, with the identity of these bodies being the only surprise to those present. What did not end, however, was the eternal storm around them. Raging, roiling, enveloping them in a brutal embrace of searing wind and pitiless rain.

But alive.

Alive.

When the storm had finally passed, it left the Escape battered and in dire need of repairs. Irthal surveyed the havoc wreaked on the ship and their sails. It was bad. But the greatest damage was not found in snapped timber or torn sailcloth. It was to morale.

He sighed heavily. They were short on food and water, with no clear destination in sight, and had just narrowly avoided violent death. Tensions amongst his crew were reaching a boiling point, after they had finished tossing enemy corpses overboard. Perhaps rightfully so. Still. Having heard enough finger-pointing about who was to blame for their current predicament, he had to intervene before things spiraled out of control.

As he stepped forward, Irthal loudly cleared his throat, capturing everyone’s attention. “Listen up!” he commanded, “Enough! We’re wasting precious energy bickering. We need to figure out a way out of this mess!”

Lurgon came forward, “I’m with you, captain,” he grumbled, “but what’s the plan? Our supplies are dwindling. No port in sight, and neither is a plan for that matter.”

As he spoke, murmurs of agreement rippled through the crew. Mythas crossed her arms, glowering at Lurgon, “Perhaps if someone hadn’t been so reckless with our provisions, we wouldn’t be in this mess in the first place!” she snapped.

“Are you accusing me of something, Mythas?” Lurgon’s face darkened. “I’ve been doing my best to ration what little we have! Don’t pin this on me!”

Mythas leaned back, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Oh, I’m sure you’ve been rationing everything just fine for yourself. No one’s seen you skip a meal.”

“You’d do well to mind your tongue,” Lurgon retorted with a snarl.

Sam intervened, raising her hands in an effort to defuse the situation. “Enough!” she bellowed, silencing the bickering. “We’re all worn out, hungry, and on edge. This is not helping anyone. Let’s face it, fighting amongst ourselves won’t get us any closer to land or fill our stomachs. We need to work together if we’re going to get through this.”

A hush fell over the crew, their anger momentarily quelled. Say about her what you will, Irthal thought, but this little woman has their respect.

“The captain’s right,” Sam continued. “We need to ration what’s left and find a way out of this situation, no way around it. Pointing fingers won’t help us. Let’s focus on survival and getting back to dry land.”

Irthal nodded, trying to regain control. “We’ll make the best of what we have,” he said firmly.

Sevastian groaned from the back of the group, but Irthal silenced him with a stern look. “I know the situation is far from ideal,” he continued, “but we’ve faced tough times before and we’ve come out on top. We just need to stay strong and work together. We can’t afford to give up hope now, not when we’ve come this far. We’ve finally shaken our pursuers, if nothing else. Look at us now, at open sea and on our way to the continent!”

Murmurs of reluctant agreement rippled through the crew, but Irthal could still feel the emotions bubbling beneath the surface. He was aware of their exhaustion and fear, but yielding to these emotions was no option. Not if they wanted to stay alive.

There was a long moment of silence before Mythas stepped forward. “I’m with the captain on this one,” she declared in an unwavering voice. “There are few alternatives here, when it comes down to it. Our best option is to trust each other and work as a team.” She shot a look at Lurgon that seemed to contradict her words.

“Good.” Relief flooded through Irthal, kindling hope to see some semblance of unity return to the crew. “Now, our immediate concern is to reach Limrod, where we can mend our ship and replenish supplies. Limrod is due east, so we’ll just chart a course straight east, hoping that the storm has blown us far enough north that we’ll make landfall not too far from the port. We need to keep moving and stay focused, then nothing can stop us.”

Despite their weariness, the crew set to work—for what else were they to do, Mythas was right on that—making necessary repairs and steering the ship onto the new course. Yet with each passing day, they grew increasingly weary, increasingly hungry. Only their resolve remained unbroken. They could not afford to lose hope; it was a matter of naked survival now.

Days of hard sailing—of growling stomachs—passed, before the lookout in the crow’s nest finally cried out. A wave of excitement and relief swept through the ship, as cheers erupted at the first glimpse of land on the horizon. And it was even better than that. Irthal could not believe his eyes. It was not just land that they had found, but a city. A port. A destination.

As they drew closer, the white harbor walls radiated a warm amber hue, basking in the embrace of the rising sun. Stretching proudly toward the heavens, dozens of elegant spires adorned the skyline, their reflections dancing on the gentle waves. The city was a marvel of architectural beauty, with delicate bridges straddling shimmering canals and cobblestone paths weaving through vibrant markets. Limrod’s famous terraced vineyards and lush gardens cascaded down the hillside, carpeting the landscape with a tapestry of vivid greens and purples.

Irthal imagined standing on that pier, now a mere stone’s throw away, where the scents of ripe grapes and freshly baked bread would mingle with the sea’s salty tang. Laughter and music spilling from the city’s many theaters, while its streets echoed with merchants hawking their wares, creating a symphony of life and commerce.

Approached from the sea, Limrod appeared as a radiant jewel nestled between the azure sky and the glittering sea, a beacon of culture and prosperity welcoming weary seafarers with open arms. A beacon they hailed, and an embrace they, gladly, accepted. They had made it to the continent.