While the Hylian offensive in the north burned like wildfire, the southern campaign floundered in brackish water and uncertainty. Over the sun-glared surface of the South Hylian Sea, the winds of war blew stiff and briny.
The sun beat down mercilessly on the choppy waters as the two opposing fleets drew ever closer. Gulls circled overhead, cawing above the clamor of war-drums and shouted orders. Salt clung to the skin like a second coat, and sweat ran freely down the backs of anxious rowers.
On one side, the proud banner of the State of Pavo fluttered defiantly—a horizontal tricolor deep green stitched with a silver top and bottom—on the mastheads of seven mighty triremes. Each ship boasted a disciplined crew of 170 rowers and 30 armored warriors, their armor gleaming like polished copper in the sun.
Compared to the almost nonexistent Pavonian army with some equipped with wooden weapons and mismatched outfits, the Pavoian navy was superior in every way. Pavo's naval traditions stretched back millennia, and their ships were instruments of power and pride.
Opposing them was the Kingdom of Hyrule's southern fleet: ten sleek, fast-moving galleys, smaller but nimbler, each carrying around 100 sailors and soldiers. Unlike the bloated ships of Pavo, the Hylian vessels were fitted with more advanced technology—long hulls, reinforced prows, rows of archers perched atop elevated decks and greek fire.
Atop the lead Pavoian trireme, Admiral Bohdan Shevchenko barked orders. A tall Rohati man with skin like dark bronze and a voice like breaking stone, he scanned the horizon with a spyglass. His second-in-command, Captain Dmytro Hrytsenko, approached with concern etched across his face.
"They outnumber us," Dmytro said, wiping sweat from his brow. "Shall we form the Crescent Line formation?"
Bohdan didn't lower the glass. "No. We form the Claw formation. Push hard with the center triremes, split them, then rake the flanks. If we let them circle us, it's over."
"Yes, Admiral." Dmytro gave a sharp salute and relayed the command.
The battle began with a storm of sound: the thud of drums, the bellow of horns, and the snap of sails catching the sea wind.
The Pavoian triremes surged forward, oars rising and falling in perfect rhythm. Their bronze rams gleamed like hungry fangs beneath the surface. From the Hylian side, galleys spread out like darting fish, sails snapping taut as they picked up speed.
As the fleets closed the gap, Pavoian archers loosed a deadly volley—arrows and javelins hissing through the air. The Hylians veered wide, their helmsman maneuvering expertly. A few galleys took hits—shouts rang out, and blood slicked the decks—but most dodged, their formation holding.
Then came the Hylian counter strike: arrows, slingstones, and flaming projectiles launched from catapults bolted to their decks. One Pavoian trireme was struck near the stern. Flames caught in the ropes and sails, and a column of smoke rose as sailors scrambled to douse the blaze but their actions were futile.
"Blyat! The fire won't go out!"
"AH! I'm on fire! I'm on fire!"
"It burns! It burns! It's burning the water! Help!"
That ship burned to pieces as the ships met each other in close combat.
One Pavoian trireme rammed clean through a Hylian galley, splintering its hull like dry bark. Men screamed as the galley cracked in two and began to sink. But elsewhere, the Hylians swarmed the sides of Pavoian ships, grappling hooks biting into hulls, and boarding planks clattered into place.
Hand-to-hand combat erupted. Blades rang. Shields shattered. The decks became battlegrounds slick with blood and water. One Pavoian soldier, Levko Mazurenko, wielding a hooked glaive, swept through three enemies before a spear pierced his ribs and dropped him where he stood.
Admiral Bohdan himself fought at the prow of his ship, sword in one hand and signal horn in the other. "Push the right flank!" he yelled. "Cut them from the main!"
But the battle was slipping from his grip. The smaller Hylian galleys darted through the lines, circling and attacking in coordinated waves. Their lighter hulls let them escape retaliation before Pavoian oars could pivot to block them. Some triremes had to disengage and reposition, breaking the integrity of their formation.
Captain Dmytro staggered up the steps to him, blood on his sleeve. "Admiral—if we don't get support, we lose the sea by the next hour!"
Bohdan clenched his jaw. He could see it too. Five out of Six of their ships were already listing, water pouring into the lower decks. The enemy was faster, more fluid, and most of all, more numerous.
Just before the fleets clashed, a streak of pink light cut through the clouds overhead, descending like a meteor onto the flagship of the Pavoian fleet. Sailors ducked and shielded their eyes as the air rippled with heat and wind. When the light faded, a figure stood atop the mast—wings spread wide, feathers glinting rose-gold in the sun.
Valord Pavo had arrived.
He dropped to the prow, landing beside Admiral Bohdan, who offered only the barest nod of acknowledgement.
Without waiting for orders, Pavo flared his wings and launched himself forward—low and fast over the churning waves. The water hissed in his wake, briefly steaming. From the Hylian formation came shouts of alarm. He surged toward one of the lead galleys, heat trailing behind him like a comet-tail. Arrows fired—too slow. Slingstones flung wide.
He slammed into the deck of the galley with a thunderous crack, the wood beneath his feet blackening and splintering. Warriors staggered, shields raised.
In response Pavo pulled his saber out and began to focus. Electromagnetic fields focused wrapped around his blade. The air around his blade started to heat up then spontaneously combust, drawing in more air to sustain the reaction.
Now armed with a flaming sword, Pavo waved his weapon, igniting dozens of warriors surrounding him.
But the Hylians did not falter.
From beneath the ships rose pale colored bodies, Zora. The Hylian navy's hidden strength was not in their ships, but in the sea itself. Zora warriors vaulted from the depths, some wielding Zora spears, others armed with Zora swords and shields. One launched from the waves and collided with Pavo mid-air, knocking him back with a resounding splash. He crashed into the water, wings flaring violently as he plunged into the brink.
Unlike humans, Valors are significantly more dense than water. Valors cannot swim. Water is one of the few weaknesses of Valors.
From the depths three more Zora surged in. One slashed at his side, forcing him to roll away, wings dragging through the brine. The water boiled around him as his heat rose reflexively, but it wasn't enough.
Above, the sky rang with the thunder of Pavoian war horns. Admiral Bohdan watched, jaw clenched. "Dmytro—he's too far out! Pull us toward him, now!"
But Pavo had already broken free. A powerful beat of his wings hurled him upward, trailing sea spray and steam. He shot toward the clouds, wheeled once, and dove low again—not toward the galleys this time, but toward the flank where the battle had begun to shift.
The Zora had repelled him, for now.
Back on the front lines, the galleys maneuvered with unnerving coordination, bolstered by Zora teams that climbed aboard mid-combat. Two Pavoians were dragged screaming overboard, disappearing beneath the surf. Another trireme, trying to assist the embattled Valor, found its hull peppered with Zora spears.
"Sir," Captain Dmytro called over the din, watching the chaos ensue, "most of the Pavonian fleet has been destroyed! This flagship is what is left of the Pavonian Navy!"
Bohdan growled. "Then we fight to the death!"
Then, a cry from the watchman. "Sails on the southern horizon!"
Every head turned. Two more triremes were cutting through the waves toward them, flying the emerald and silver banner of Zeleny.
Cheers erupted from the Pavoians. The Hylians faltered, suddenly faced with renewed resistance. The Zelenyian triremes plowed into the flank of the nearest Hylian galleys, their archers releasing devastating salvos as boarding crews stormed across.
At the helm of the Zelenyian fleet stood Admiral Yaroslav Melnyk, his armor forest-green and gold-trimmed. "For the alliance!" he bellowed, raising his blade. His ships struck like wolves—fast, vicious, and coordinated.
With the fresh Zelenyian reinforcements flanking the Hylian right, Admiral Bohdan sounded the signal horn. "Attack!"
The tide of battle turned.
The Pavoians, now reinvigorated, fought with renewed ferocity. The combined Pavo/Zeleny fleet attempted to tighten formation and cut off the Hylian escape routes. A galley was set ablaze, their crews diving into the sea. Others tried to flee, rowing hard toward open water.
Then disaster struck.
The remaining Pavonian flag ship caught fire and was sunk with most of the men too injured to swim. Only several dozen Pavonians were able to survive.
Bohdan's voice rang out over the crashing waves. "Damn those Hylians!"
By late afternoon, the Hylian fleet was scattered. Two ships had been sunk, another captured. The rest limped back eastward, bloodied and broken. Dozens of Hylians died.
The Pavonian and Zeleny Navy had won a strategic victory.
But even as the sailors celebrated and tended to the wounded, a grim reality loomed.
The entire Pavonian Navy had pretty much been destroyed, only 650 of the original 1,400 personnel survived. The Zeleny Navy had also lost 50 of its initial 400 personnel.
It can be said that the both States are either crippled or destroyed, losing the ability to confront the Hylian Navy for the remainder of the war.
Though Pavo/Zeleny efforts repelled Hylian Naval attacks, the lands north of the South Trench River were a different story entirely. The Pavoian "army" had retreated from those regions weeks earlier, unable to sustain their supply lines or defend against persistent Hylian raids.
Their once-proud albeit weak fortifications now lay abandoned, their garrisons reassigned to a thin line of makeshift fortifications along the river. Observation towers rose from muddy banks, hastily constructed with whatever timber could be salvaged. Torches burned day and night as signal fires.
Skirmishes flared often. Hylian scouts tested the defenses, probing for weaknesses. Occasionally, full squads would launch raids, cutting down sentries or burning supply wagons. The Pavoians held the river only by sheer grit and desperation.
General Mykhailo Drachuk, commander of the river defense, stood overlooking a newly dug trench, brow furrowed.
"We're bleeding dry," he muttered to his adjutant, Colonel Ostap Bohatyriuk. "Over the course of a few weeks our force of 200 has now dwindled to a couple dozen. If they send their main force, we won't hold for more than a minute."
Compared to the Pavonian Navy, the Pavonian army was really a disgrace to the Valor States. This is because the geography of the State of Pavo dictates so. Pavo City sits on a large island in the middle of Pavo Bay, vulnerable to naval bombardment but impenetrable from land based forces.
When faced with the strongest army on the continent, the Pavonian Army can only keep retreating.
Ostap nodded grimly. "Scouts report six thousand levies massing beyond the northern hills. It's only a matter of time."
Mykhailo looked south, toward the interior of Pavo's dwindling territory.
"Then we must buy time. Retreat to the Island. Delay them. Hold the river, no matter the cost."
"Pavo must not fall!"