Amelia snapped awake not for the first time to the subliminal chime of a tiny bell. An unchartable emotional itch had her in an uncharacteristically irritable mood.

She sat up, then instantly fell back and had to pause all other brain function to recall why her stomach felt like a sack of rocks.

‘I think it’s called a hangover.’

The moral here, she supposed as she willed her uncooperative body into vertical mode and wormed it into the standard three additional weather layers, was that spiced Mentan ale and hard Vjordka, an infamously caustic Horntooth beverage reserved for weddings and male adulthood rites with good reason, should never be imbibed within two sunsets of each other. Especially by one who just barely outweighed the empty keg.

The even greater moral was that not everything permissible was wise. But that insight would just have to come by itself with some further aging.

For the time being she would simply have to bear the fruits of her mistake. If Avlon’s speech was to be taken at face value, she wouldn’t have the luxury of mediocrity or laziness.

The Headmaster's words still buzzed about her brain like angry Hornets. And like most Vespids their offensive effects ranged from irritatingly painful to painfully irritating.

‘With carrots like that who needs the stick?’ Amelia thought as she glanced at her nightstand and realized with a start that she had once again overslept.

Ellie and Bon Bon had already left, and her poor Chimer sounded like it was trying to shake off its chime.

Amelia put the tiny machine mercifully to rest. Then, after taking perhaps three times the normal number of seconds to stash the sleeping contraption in her lock box, she secured the key and ran off. Pausing only as long as it took to grab and holster her itinerary parchment which had apparently been left in their dorms sometime during the festival.

When, in the space of five heartbeats, she’d reached the ground floor, she retracted the unsealed envelope,

Unfortunately, thanks to her cerebral constipation, reading too proved a formidable rival.

“That’s the big trouble with drink,” her mother had warned her daughters after one of her father’s rare tavern outings had very nearly cost him an eye, a leg and a purse worth a fortnight’s earnings. “It shortens your reason so that you mistake your gun for a pointer rod. Common sense falls down the ‘I’ll think about it later’ pit, never to be seen again.”

In her case, haphazardly shoving into her pocket a parchment with still-drying ink on it, did not necessarily mean that she would read it later.

‘How typical’, Amelia’s inner judge fumed, as she scrambled to find the barest scrabbles of language in the incoherent mess of blotched ink.

‘Great start’ her lower amygdala balked. ‘Just wonderful. The legendary Pyrate, Amelia Roberts can’t even stick something in her bloody pocket without shooting herself in the foot with it. The Gods must be having themselves a real good laugh right about now.’

Amelia had never had much use for the gods, and as far as she could tell they had no use for or interest in her either.

Thankfully, cosmic prank or not, if some preternatural entity did have her on its scope, then it had also seen fit to dangle her a thin line of hope.

Painstakingly scrutinizing the barely legible script, she more intuited than deduced that her first lesson would be at the target range.

‘Well, at least I’ll be on familiar ground.’

The fact that she actually found this comforting beleaguered her badly taxed brain all the way to the target sands.

There, standing near enough to exactly where she, Ellie and Drake had all nearly learned the eternal secret was a group of about fifteen other students, all Prospects by the looks of them, crowded around a rather surly old bulldog, whom she recognized and knew from the initiation ceremony as Professor Hugh MacCuligan, but whom they would all soon exclusively refer to as “Old Iron Hide”.

And just as well, for they might as well have been two wholly separate beasts.

The leather-encased, blast-shielded pyrotechnic Pyrate on that stage had looked like a convicted Mentan Sun Diver.

This one, standing at half-again Amelia’s height, his almost sarcastically broad chest and shoulders further emphasized by a stretched and stained beige linen shirt, bristled with that hard sailor aura she had caught ears of on the way here.

The brackish old bruiser wore a quant deep water blue sailor’s jacket and tricorn with a rustic bone pipe jammed into the corner of his crooked mouth between crooked teeth.

Over his left eye was a spot of black cloth veined with spirals of silver orbiting a sparkling blood-red ruby about the size of a large Dragonfly’s eyeball.

In short, he was the spitting image of the archetypal pirate. All he needed was the peg leg and hook.

His good eye was so squinted that one could be forgiven for thinking he was asleep on his feet.

At least until he started talking.

“Alright maggots, line up! No, you three get o’er there. Right! Now stand still. Now, le’see, that's one, two, three, four ... Hey! Would you squawkers quit yer bloody squirmin' already! How am I supposed to properly audit y'all when ye’re wrigglin’ about like mites on a crumpet?!”

‘I doubt you could even spell the word audit’ Amelia thought, but through sheer cephalalgiac trauma did not voice, as she inched reluctantly closer.

She hadn’t yet ruled out the idea of simply going back to sleep. She had already been thrown against more odd personalities than there were hours in a day and she was hardly in the right headspace just now for more.

Unfortunately, if she thought she was going to be given a choice in the matter, she seriously needed to recheck her universal extension because she had the wrong number.

For a stupid moment she wondered how Old Iron Hide had spied her hanging in the distance, what with him only having one eye already split fifteen separate ways. But then it occurred to her that she was a blue stud on a white beach. It would have been harder to miss an arrow lodged in his other retina.

But it was what he did next that cemented her opinion of him squarely in the ‘get out when and while you can’ category.

He somehow squinted even harder and bellowed, “finally! Our missing link graces us with her presence at long last! Alright yer royal lethargy, get yer regal arse over here so I can count ye already!”

This time she had to actually bite her tongue as the inexpertly concealed jeers and judgements of her classmates seared metaphorical brands into her flesh like a field of glowing iron pokers.

Old Iron Hide put his fists on his hips while he waited. A mocking gesture that reminded Amelia a little too strongly of Ellie.

“Right! Now that's all done and sorted, we can get on to the proper business o’ gettin’ you lot acquainted with the basic gets and goes o’ Pyratin’.”

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He cast his steel gaze over all of them, as if the whole class had been complicit in some plot to undermine him.

He strode over to a short-barreled cannon that Amelia knew had not been there yesterday. She regarded the thick iron barrel and surmised that it must have weighed more than everyone there combined. The old Pyrate must have had more than just a steel gaze if he could haul that thing out here all by himself.

Old Iron Hide positioned himself behind the weapon’s breach and placed one gnarled calloused hand on the lever. With the other he withdrew his chewed pipe and swirled it around as though it were a glass of cherished wine.

The notion of this crude mutt ever partaking of anything more highbrow than a spittoon made every reasonable brain cell Amelia had balk. Though thankfully not audibly. Her mouth seemingly having fast learned the first lesson of adolescence which her addled mind was still fumbling with. Which was that if you don’t want your thoughts scrutinized with a war chest, keep them to yourself.

“Right you lot, listen up!” he growled. “First we’re gonna run you over the bone basics. Starting with the HO regimen.”

He held up a gnarled, stubby finger. “Heavy.”

Then a second. “Ordinance.”

A third. “Proficiency.”

Last, “and Experience.”

Amelia grimaced. Not just over her profound lack of interest in anything that was likely to see her flat on her ass again, although that did factor in. Mostly it was because years of primary school had taught her that any subject that had its own acronym was all but guaranteed to be a critical exam topic later.

The ramshackle fixture and the way he expectorated the words gave her the added impression that Prokvert was this particular aural abortion’s baby daddy.

Fortunately for her, the FPA staff had several massive advantages over even the private side of Amurzan educators. Chiefly their being an elite class in the actual sense. Each and every body which held the coveted doctorate of teaching at Flint’s Academy had earned it the hard old fashioned way.

There were no soft academics here. Decades of live experience plying crafts in often ruthless and unforgiving fields sculpted their lesson plans.

What Old Iron Hide in particular lacked in propriety and social grace he more than made up for with inexhaustible reserves of that most invaluable Pyratical asset.

Despite his gruff manner, they all followed easily as he explained in expert detail the elegantly simple procedures for loading, unloading, cleaning and firing any type of standard artillery they would likely encounter aboard ship.

After a solid hour, Old Iron Hide cocked his grizzled head and snorted. Whether this was a gesture of praise or challenge was not yet clear.

The ambiguity would be rectified by his next question. “Who among you can tell me,” he asked as he passed his eye over each set of wide eyes. “the difference between slug and grape shot?”

A murmur of collective uncertainty ran through the crowd. Both uncertain of the answer and whether or not giving it would prompt a similar hot round of accosting as Amelia had been dispensed for tardiness.

Then one slender mustard hand rose above the pack. Dropping a cold silence on the rest like a glass guillotine.

Amelia had read, or had she heard, somewhere this sort of effect referred to as Wild Magick. Essentially a free-range version of a spell. In this case the seizing life-jaw hex cast by the Headmaster last night.

She knew the offender was Ogden before she’d even turned to look. Who else could so easily unbalance an aura literally single-handedly?

It somewhat offended her personal and logical sensibilities that she hadn’t noticed him until he’d wanted to be noticed. But it was such a minor offense she didn’t notice it.

Old Iron Hide looked pleased. Or as pleased as an old chunk of knotted wood can look. He pointed to the skyborne appendage and barked, “step up!”

As Ogden took the stage ahead of the shivering mass, Amelia could see that he wore the same posh attire as well as the same condescendingly miserable expression.

“Well sir …” he started before Old Iron Hide cut him off. “Don’t give me that crap boy! Brown nosers make piss poor Pyrates. Name’s Old Iron Hide. That or Professor’ll do if ye’re so inclined. But none of this ‘sir’ or ‘mister’ garbage.”

He flung a spitting gaze over the rest of them. “And that goes fer all of ye.”

Ogden nodded blankly in acquiescence then started again from the top. “First of all, ‘shot’ is the shorthand for a DLF, or Direct Line of Fire, projectile. One of two branches of which is a Slug, or a single solid round. Its main use is to pierce the enemy’s armored flesh. The aim, both literally and figuratively speaking, is to cut straight into the enemy’s vital systems. Hobbling or even destroying the vessel outright depending on the gunner’s aim and the exact type of ammunition employed.”

As he spoke there was no perceptible change in his countenance. Though if they could have peeled back the regency veneer and peered at the festering acreage within they would have seen a cauldron of assailant arrogance brewed in valleys of ambitious pining and stifling ineptitude.

Amelia perceived, albeit as through a clouded, fractal prism, the presiding flame of sadistic thrill he took in the slight edge his noble inheritance afforded him.

Though for now this would remain his secret pleasure alone.

“Excellent!” crowed Old Iron Hide, shoving his pipe back between his lips without opening them and giving a slow round of applause. “Yer better’n the last bunch of knockoffs I had, I’ll grantya that.”

Ogden … snarled. Or was that really his idea of a smile?

Either way, he went on as he’d began. Only now imitating the Professor's perpetually incendiary manner and tone. “These are further delineated into the strategic branches of HE, or High Explosive, and ED, or Electro Disruptive, ordinance. Both decimalize the ship’s living internals. Only the latter cares to spare the squishy meat sacks. Unless they’re too close to the blast that is.”

His mouth stretched into an evil crook that didn’t touch his eyes. Which stayed as dark and unyielding as Amurzan tarpits.

“If a Captain aims to capture an enemy vessel intact, then he may order a volley of grape shot be hurled into the enemy’s rigging.”

He cocked his head so that he could survey his classmates while still facing Old Iron Hide.

“This cripples the enemy’s capacity to cycle and charge their systems, forcing them to draw on their reserves to flee or to fight back.”

Old Iron Hide gave only a few slow claps. His whole aura was becoming a fuzzy superposition of taunting and actual approval. Though like most of the crowd Amelia was heavily inclined towards the former, a more experienced social agent would have seen clear to the buried truth in a heartbeat.

“Bravo,” the Professor chanted slightly too emphatically to have been genuine.

‘Thought so,’ Amelia’s hindbrain exclaimed.

“Pray tell,” Old Iron Hide continued. Was that a burr in his voice or was Amelia’s imagination throwing red herrings around again? “What might one do once his enemy’s at his mercy?”

Ogden's suppressed smile turned into a vampiric grin that coaxed barbs of electrochemical alarm from Amelia’s central servo clusters.

“If he’s an old pirate, shred em’,” he chimed. The closing syllables dripping with salvatory pleasure.

“And if he’s the new breed?”

Ogden held his teacher’s eye. His very wit had become a cudgel. His thoughts and words living razors.

“We are free beasts are we not Professor?”

Old Iron Hide’s lips pursed over snubby smoke-blackened fangs. He waited a moment before replying, “aye. That we be lad.”

The voice that followed up was a waft of hot steam. “Then mercy does not become us.”

In spite of her innate repugnance, Amelia took notes. This pedestrian Q and A session had morphed into a verbal sparring match between a veteran Pyrate and his uppity student. And the latter was winning, if only narrowly.

Ogden appeared to discern as much. Recognizing that he had built valuable momentum, but that his foothold was still tremulous, he pressed his advantage without pausing for breath.

“Since Grape shot doesn’t rely on indirect AOE methods to kill … splinters, shrapnel, etcetera … the Captain may just order the main guns to rake the enemy’s deck before boarding.”

He shrugged. “Or, if he’s not facing a war ship, simply forgo the volley fire and have his crew hop aboard and carve up the enemy with hangars and axes.”

“Oh, aye?” Old Iron Hide chided.

“Aye,” Ogden answered with a true sadistic growl.

The rest of the line instinctively fell back a step.

Aspirant free-blades they all may have been, but even the most true-to-letter pirates knew a monster when they saw one.

Being the only body who knew that daemons and dragons came with the territory at world’s end, Old Iron Hide stood his ground.

Even still, clearly pleased at the effect he was having, Ogden continued his poetesque monologue.

“Use smoke to confuse, fire to corral. Claws, fangs and beaks work well in tight quarters where applicable. Any enemy beasts who fight well are to be slain on the spot. Those who cannot resist, women and children and the like, may either be kept as entertainment, souvenirs or sold to groups like Black Sky.”

Amelia choked on a gag. Her stomach threatened to leap out of her mouth.

It wasn't so much Ogden’s words. Most of them Amelia already knew or could have easily guessed on her own. It was the way he talked about slaughtering an entire ship’s-worth of beasts like he was preparing a barbeque, that made her stomach twist itself into a ball.

She busied her mind recanting poems and songs from her extensive Nursery repertoire to avoid thinking that, in the not-too-distant future, this was exactly the sort of callous butchery which she had signed up for.

Even Old Iron Hide seemed to have lost his appetite for jests. The Professor remained silent for a long moment. Then he decided to resolve the matter the only way he knew how—by pretending it did not exist and having them all spend the rest of the morning shooting large metal balls at rocks.

Understandably, from that point on, the Prospects handled the equipment as if it were shards of shattered glass. They all steered well clear of Ogden, as though he himself were a bomb set to detonate.

They all knew, perhaps not in such terms as their elders, but all the more potently for the lack, that a heart which saw the world through a lens of sulfur and brimstone did so for its own curse to blaze with the most sickly and baleful kinds of fury imaginable.

Such wretched spirits walked as a torch amidst dying grass. Sometimes knowing, most often purposely blind to their own blight.

Pitilessly consuming and reducing anything and everything within reach into ash. Inevitably ending in a pit of their own infernal design. Doomed to eternal exile, alone with their dragon heart, forever roasting on their own pale altar.