Chapter Twenty-Six:

“The Lord of the Isles”

While Luna Bay slept, Lord Vassoth stood at the bow aboard the Dread Tide. He watched the barrier fracture and flicker, gasping towards its last breath. The arcane wall that had kept him from claiming this defiant corner of the Thousand Isles for three hundred years was finally---finally---on the verge of collapse. Spiderweb cracks spread with each impact.

The sight should have filled him with satisfaction, but he merely waited, unmoving, savoring the inevitability of his conquest. His breathing was slow, measured, but something primal lingered just beneath the surface. A thick strand of what was once drool nearly dripped from the corner of his mouth before he wiped it away with a slow, clawed gauntlet. Patience. The feast would come soon.

The Dread Tide itself breathed beneath his feet. Wood that had once been proud oak now pulsed with corruption, planks splitting and sealing, wounds that refused to heal. The sails above hung wrong, moving against the wind. From the holds below came sounds no ship should make - the click of too many legs, the slither of things that had forgotten how to die.

All around him, his armada of three thousand hammered away at the shield---arcane cannon fire raking across its glowing surface. The barrier had stood for three centuries, a defiant monument to a time when this land had been free. Soon, it would shatter, and then...

Flames. Ash. Desolation.

His fingers clenched against the rail of the ship, the wood creaking beneath the force of his grip. Deep gouges formed where his claws sank into the corrupted timber, black ichor weeping from the wounds.

Behind him, the sounds of his crew whispered and groaned through the ship. Not men. Not anymore.

Once, they had been players, warriors, heroes of the Thousand Isles, those who had stood with Sterling after he betrayed Roland. That choice had cost them their very souls. Time had not been kind. Their bodies had decayed, twisted, and reformed into horrors barely resembling what they once were.

The deck of the Dread Tide crawled with their presence. A former Kitsune dragged herself across the planks, her nine tails fused into a mass of writhing tentacles that left trails of corruption in their wake. What had once been a Nekomijin stalked the crow's nest, its feline grace twisted into jerking, spider-like movements. A Yama-Okami's proud wolf features had melted and reformed countless times, leaving only a suggestion of what he'd been beneath the horror he'd become. Their armor had fused with flesh over centuries of torment, metal and bone impossible to distinguish.

And yet... even in their monstrous forms, even in their undying servitude to him, they still feared.

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A rustle of nervous movement caught Vassoth's attention. His first mate hesitated at the edge of the deck, clutching a rolled scroll, the wax seal broken. The parchment trembled in hands that were more claw than flesh.

The corrupted raven that had carried it still twitched weakly, impaled on the deck's splintered wood, its body pulsing with unnatural decay. Tar-like blood leaked from its beak, each drop eating through the wood beneath. A message from Sterling himself.

The first mate steeled himself and took slow steps forward. His approach made the corruption in the deck pulse faster, spreading outward like poison through veins. Even in his ruined state, the fear was palpable.

Vassoth turned his head slightly, red hateful eyes burning beneath the visor of his helm. The metal of his armor creaked, black energy seeping from the joints.

"Well?" His voice was a low, guttural rasp.

The first mate swallowed. "M-my lord... It is from the Eternal One." The words came wet, struggling past a throat that had forgotten how to form human speech.

A silence fell over the deck. Even the storm above seemed to still. The corrupted crew drew back, pressing themselves against masts and rails, trying to become smaller.

Vassoth extended his hand, and the scroll was placed into his clawed gauntlet. He unfurled it with deliberate slowness. His eyes flicked over the words---

---and the moment he reached the end, his grip tightened.

The parchment crumbled into ash between his fingers, each particle igniting with black flame before scattering to the wind.

Sterling was displeased.

Three hundred years, and he had still not claimed the entirety of the Thousand Isles? The last stronghold of resistance still stood?

What failure.

Sterling would soon awaken in full, his power no longer shackled by slumber. And he would be here. He, and Princess Hex, would arrive to finish what Vassoth could not.

But.

If Vassoth claimed this land before they arrived, he “may” find forgiveness. Once.

The wind howled through the Dread Tide, carrying the screams of his crew's endless torment.

A slow, creeping sensation curled around the edges of Vassoth's mind, something he had long since abandoned. Fear. It spread through him like ice, making his corrupted armor constrict against his flesh.

Not of the battle to come. Not of the barrier or the fools who still clung to their tiny, dying world.

But of Sterling.

The Eternal One's displeasure was not something one survived.

His hunger, his anticipation, curdled into something colder.

Vassoth exhaled slowly, the mist of his breath escaping through the slits of his dark helm - not steam, but something darker that writhed before dissipating. His armor, dark as the abyss, weighed heavier now than it had moments before, a reminder of the price he had already paid.

Once, he had been a player. A warrior. A man with a name.

Now, he was only Vassoth.

He had given up everything for Sterling. For power. And now, even that might not be enough.

His first mate took a cautious step foward, joints cracking as corruption pulsed through his twisted form. "M-my lord... your orders?"

Vassoth did not speak for a long moment.

Then.

"Increase the bombardment."

His voice was lower now. Not a command, but a whisper. A promise.

The crew stirred, eager, desperate to please their master. Some crawled, others slithered, all moving with unnatural speed to relay the command. The first mate shuddered but nodded, his voice carrying across the waves to the rest of the fleet.

The Dread Tide loomed over the fractured barrier, its cannons loading with black fire. The corruption-forged metal of each weapon pulsed, ready to unleash devastation.

They had mere hours before Sterling and Princess Hex arrived.

And if the barrier still stood when they did... Vassoth knew he would suffer far worse than death.

The first volley launched. Black flame struck gold light. The barrier screamed.