Night draped the sea in silence, as though holding its breath before the first note of a symphony. The moon hid behind clouds, its light smothered by shifting gray. Only the faint glow of three Espanorian ships cut through the dark — their lanterns swaying softly over the calm waters.

  Unseen behind them, the Royale Nocturne followed — shrouded in shadow, her sails dark as ink. She moved like a shark stalking its prey, unseen and inevitable.

  “Do we have the weather gage, Selene?” said Alaric as he adjusted his bicorn hat.

  “Aye, sir. Full downwind,” she replied, her eyes never leaving the dim lights ahead.

  “Should we commence the attack, sir?” Darian asked beside him.

  “Mr. Ironhorn, have all guns ready for action?”

  “Starboard guns charged and ready. Portside still reloading, sir.”

  “Then we wait.”

  Below decks, men worked in near silence. The gundeck was a ballroom of brass and iron. Flint on the cock gleamed faintly, tamping rods slid in effortlessly. When the last charge was rammed home, a whisper passed through the decks:

  “Guns ready.”

  “Guns ready.”

  “Guns ready.”

  Until it reached Borghar Ironhorn. The minotaur straightened, his deep voice carrying through the silence.

  “Captain, all guns ready.”

  “Darian,” Alaric said quietly, “relay order: ready for action.”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  “Selene, cut us across portside — toward the last hull in formation.”

  “Should we transfer power to the paddle wheel, sir?”

  “No. It will be too loud. We still have surprise.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Selene turned to her crew. “Ease the sheets — open half a point to wind — portside.”

  Canvas unfurled with a low sigh, the Nocturne gliding faster across the waves. Her shadow bled into the darkness, closing the gap with deadly silence.

  “We are in position, sir,” Selene said softly.

  “Fire flare. Turn on all lights. Hoist the color.”

  A flare arced from the bow, bursting high above the sea. The night exploded into scarlet light, and for the first time the hunters were seen. The Royale Nocturne emerged from the dark — the crow banner catching the false dawn.

  “Commence fire, Mr. Ironhorn.”

  Borghar climbed to the topside and bellowed, “Commence fire! Starboard side — ranging shot!”

  The topside battery fired in sequence from bow to stern. Twenty-four-pounders thundered, brass muzzles spitting flame. The sea leapt with white fountains — none struck true, but some fell close enough to shower the tail’s hulls.

  “Twelve hundred yards, sir!” came the cry from the crow’s nest.

  Borghar swung open the hatch. “Twelve hundred yards!”

  The call echoed through the ship:

  “Twelve hundred yards!”

  “Twelve hundred yards!”

  “Twelve hundred yards!”

  “Guns ready, sir!”

  “Fire!” Borghar bellowed.

  The lower gundeck erupted — not in one blast, but in a rolling storm. Thirty-two-pounders spoke in quick succession, a cascade of thunder that lit the night. This time the volley struck home.

  A frigate’s stern vanished in splinters. Smoke and screams rose as her aft quarter was torn open, debris raining into the sea.

  “Maintain speed and course, Miss Marlowe,” Alaric ordered.

  “Aye-aye, Captain.”

  The gun crews worked feverishly, reloading like a well choreographed waltz. Pneumatic carriages hissed as they pulled the guns back into position.

  “Topside battery ready!”

  “Gundeck battery ready!”

  “Enemy frigate opening her gunports!” came the warning.

  Alaric’s eyes flicked toward the glinting brass. “Brace for impact!”

  The Nocturne’s crew ducked behind cover just as the enemy fired. Their return volley was chaotic — shots veering short and wide, splashing harmlessly across the sea.

  “Return fire!” Alaric shouted.

  “Fire!” Borghar bellowed.

  Both batteries answered. Flame and smoke poured from the Nocturne’s sides, and the frigate’s stern disintegrated under the barrage. A powder charge ignited on her top deck, flinging guns and men alike into the black water.

  “Second-rate turning portside!” shouted a lookout.

  “You’re leeward — and this is not that kind of a fight, Admiral,” Alaric smirked.

  “Cease fire!” Alaric ordered.

  “Cease fire, lads!” Borghar relayed.

  “Now, Miss Marlowe — transfer power to the paddle wheel. Hard to starboard, round the frigate’s stern.”

  “Aye-aye, sir!”

  Selene pulled the brass lever, signaling the engine room, then bellowed to the deckhands, “Ready to jibe! Starboard, starboard!”

  The order raced across the deck. The sails shifted, the jib swung wide.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  “Ready to jibe, ma’am!”

  From below came Thorin’s voice over the speaking tube: “Power transferred to the paddle wheel — battle speed!”

  “Acknowledged,” Selene replied, then shouted, “Jibing!”

  The Nocturne turned sharply, unnaturally fast for her long, sleek hull. Spray burst from her bow as she swung around the wounded frigate.

  “Mr. Ironhorn, tell the crews to man the portside battery!”

  “Aye, sir!” Borghar roared. “Man the portside battery, lads! Move, move, move!”

  The Nocturne completed her turn, engines roaring like a train. She cut through the water, parting the sea like a blade. In moments she reached the frigate’s starboard flank.

  The enemy vessel leaned to port — her hull split and groaning from the earlier barrage, her belly exposed to the hunter.

  “We’re at point-blank range, sir!” one of Borghar’s lieutenants shouted.

  “Mr. Ironhorn,” Alaric said evenly, “open fire.”

  “All batteries — open fire!”

  The Nocturne’s guns unleashed again. Smoke and flame engulfed her flanks, the roar near-deafening. Almost every shot struck home. The frigate’s side exploded inward — gunports torn apart, her decks ripped open, the stern shattered into a storm of splinters.

  She began to heel harder, groaning as water poured through the holes in her hull. Her lanterns swung wildly as the deck tilted underfoot. Still she floated — stubbornly, barely.

  “The steamer is trying to break away, sir!” Selene called.

  Alaric’s eyes followed the plume of smoke ahead. His tone was calm, precise. “Let her run. Give her some rope. We finish this one first — then cripple the second-rate.”

  “Topside battery, ready!”

  “Gundeck battery, ready!”

  “Mr. Ironhorn,” Alaric said, “finish her off.”

  “With pleasure, sir.”

  “All batteries — fire!”

  The Nocturne thundered one last time. Both decks erupted in flame and smoke; the blasts rolled down her hull like a chain of thunderclaps. The final shots ripped into the frigate’s wounds — and then a blinding explosion tore through her belly like a crescendo.

  When the smoke cleared, the frigate was gone — swallowed by the black sea, only wreckage and firelight marking where she had been.

  “Miss Marlowe, cut us to the second-rate’s stern. Try to stay away from her broadside.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Selene swung the wheel. “Hands to the braces! Hard to port — bring her round!”

  The Nocturne surged ahead, the paddlewheel thrashing white foam behind her. Steam hissed through the pipes as she bore down on the massive silhouette of the second-rate.

  However, the larger ship had already turned, her broadside facing the dark. Lanterns glinted along her gunports as she rolled, still recovering from her last maneuver.

  Then she fired.

  Forty guns erupted at once, thunder shaking the night. Even Alaric’s heart seemed to pause for a breath.

  Cannonballs screamed across the sea. Some splashed short, others tore holes in the Nocturne’s sails, and a few twelve-pounders glanced harmlessly off her iron-plated sides.

  When the smoke cleared, the Nocturne still sailed — unbroken.

  “Mr. Ironhorn,” Alaric ordered, “return fire if you have the shot.”

  “Aye, Captain!”

  Borghar dropped to all fours, claws and hooves clattering against the deck as he thundered toward the bow like a charging beast. Sailors leapt aside as the minotaur bounded past, breath steaming in the cold night air.

  He reached the forward gun, aimed down the barrel, and bellowed, “Fire!”

  The cannon roared, the recoil shoving smoke and flame across the deck. The shot splashed short — too far forward. Borghar was already on the move again, running low and fast, his voice echoing through the night.

  “Reload and adjust! Next gun — fire!”

  He stormed aft along the line, calling the rhythm of destruction. One by one the Nocturne’s guns fired in succession — their thunder rolling down her flanks. The first few missed wide, but as Borghar moved toward the stern, his commands found their mark.

  “Fire!”

  The air split as cannonballs slammed into the second-rate’s hull. Planks burst outward, iron fittings sheared, and the great ship shuddered under the growing barrage. It wasn’t enough to cripple her — not yet — but the scars ran deep enough to make her bleed.

  Smoke rolled between the ships, curling in moonlight. Alaric watched through it all, cold and unblinking, studying each strike and the slow unraveling of his prey.

  “She’s entered dead angle, sir,” Selene reported.

  “Alright. Good — hard to port, cross her portside and then round her bow. Full speed.”

  “Aye, sir.” Selene pushed the lever forward and spun the wheel, the Nocturne groaning as she turned, spray bursting from her flanks.

  “Mr. Ironhorn, man the starboard batteries and load the star shot.”

  “Aye, sir!” Borghar bellowed. He rushed to the hatch and shouted, his voice echoing through the decks. “Man starboard battery — load star shot! Move, lads, move!”

  Below, men heaved open the ammunition chests. Within gleamed the star shot — five-bladed projectiles joined by iron chain, built to whirl through the air and rend sails, spars, and flesh alike.

  “Star shot coming up!” a loader shouted, hauling one across the deck.

  Crews rammed the deadly rounds home, locking them tight with powder and wadding.

  “Starboard battery readying!”

  “Guns in position!”

  The Nocturne held her turn, the second-rate’s broadside glimmering through smoke and moonlight — her gunports hollow like the eyes of an eldritch beast.

  “Hold steady, they’re still reloading,” Alaric ordered. His hand rested on the rail, eyes fixed ahead. “We’ll cross her broadside at full speed. When I give the word — fire the star shot.”

  Borghar nodded. “Aye, Captain.”

  The Nocturne roared forward, steam and wind driving her straight toward the broadside of the enemy leviathan — a predator racing through fire and smoke to strike at the heart of its prey.

  “Fire!” Alaric commanded.

  “Fire!” Borghar echoed.

  The Nocturne’s broadside erupted in flame. The star shot screamed through the dark, sabots unlatching midair as the chained blades spun into a whirlwind. They tore through the second-rate’s rigging with unholy force — shredding sails, parting ropes, and snapping spars like kindling. Men in the fighting tops were torn to shreds, flung from the masts or lashed by the whipping cords.

  The great ship convulsed under the assault. Their guns finally returned to battery, but the answering broadside came a heartbeat too late — the Nocturne was already gliding past, her wake glimmering white in the firelight. The enemy’s cannonballs struck only smoke and sea.

  Then came the final calamity: the mainmast buckled under the recoil, its rigging sliced to ribbons, snapped under its own weight. It toppled with a shriek of wood and iron, crushing gun crews and sending debris tumbling overboard.

  As the Nocturne swept around her bow, Alaric gave the next command, calm and deliberate.

  “Load the parting shot, Mr. Ironhorn — round balls.”

  “Aye-aye, Captain.”

  “Load round ball!”

  With speed and fury, the Nocturne swept along the second-rate’s starboard flank. Steam hissed through her vents; the deck trembled beneath Alaric’s boots as the predator came broadside once more.

  “Fire!” Alaric shouted.

  “All batteries — fire!” Borghar bellowed.

  At barely a hundred yards, faces were visible in the gun flashes — pale and desperate behind the smoke. At that range, there was no need for aim. It was execution.

  The Nocturne’s parting broadside tore loose in perfect unison. Thunder rolled the length of her hull; flame and smoke poured outward like the breath of some vengeful machine. Every round struck true — planks split, ports shattered, and the enemy’s mid-deck erupted in fire.

  A powder crate caught. The final crescendo of explosion blossomed upward, throwing men and cannon alike into the air. Fire climbed the shrouds and spilled across the top deck, licking at the sails that still hung in tatters. The second-rate groaned, crippled and burning, her guns falling silent one by one.

  As the Nocturne broke away from the burning wreck, she passed down the enemy’s flank — fire and smoke painting the night in hues of red and gold.

  On the shattered second-rate’s poop deck stood the Admiral, his uniform scorched, his face lit by the glow of his dying ship. Across the distance, their eyes met.

  Alaric stood tall at his own stern rail, coat whipping in the wind. The firelight danced across his face — sharp, confident, untouchable. He grinned, tipped his hat, and gave an exaggerated bow, like a conductor acknowledging applause after a flawless performance.

  The Admiral answered only with a furious glare.

  The Nocturne turned away, her engines howling as she slid back into the dark. With barely a scratch on her hull and a crew that only suffered a blister on their hands, the Royale Nocturne disengaged from the fight. The burning ship dwindled behind her until it was no more than a fading star on the horizon.

  Alaric glanced toward the open sea. “Are you ready for dessert, Miss Marlowe?”

  Selene smiled faintly, one hand on the wheel. “There’s always room for dessert, sir.”

  “Then let’s chase the lone steamer. Double speed — full burn.”

  “Aye-aye, sir. Double speed, full burn.”

  Steam hissed through the pipes, and the Nocturne leapt forward once more — the hunter vanishing into the smoke, leaving ruin in her wake.