The rain hadn't stopped for three days. The sky was the color of old lead, and the sea rolled with a sickness that made every plank of The Vagrant Star groan. Herzl stood at the stern, coat collar up, watching the horizon where the thin black line of smoke bled into the clouds.
"They're here," Kael said, shouldering his rifle. He didn't sound worried — he sounded hungry for it.
Through the glass, Herzl counted three enemy ships. Sleek, fast, all flying the crimson banner of the Eastern Freehold. Mercenaries, not navy. Paid guns.
"Guns hot," Herzl ordered, voice even. "We hold fire until they're close enough to smell the powder."
The enemy came in quick, knowing the Republic had a bounty on his head. Their gunners opened up first, cannonballs smashing the waves into walls of spray. One shot clipped the Vagrant's bow, splintering oak across the deck.
Herzl ducked the flying wood, drew his revolver, and grinned at Kael. "See? Now we know they're serious."
Kael snorted. "You're impossible."
The ships closed in, the distance tightening into the space of a heartbeat. Then Herzl moved — not rushed, but with the precision of a man who understood time in battle like other men understood music.
"Port guns — fire!"
The roar shook the world. Smoke swallowed the deck as iron tore into the nearest ship, shredding its forward mast. Through the chaos, Herzl vaulted over the rail with a grappling hook, swinging to the crippled vessel. He landed in a knot of enemy boarders before they even realized they'd been breached.
The first man raised a cutlass — Herzl shot him twice, spun, and smashed the butt of his revolver into another's jaw. His movements were clean, efficient, and brutal.
A rifle cracked from above — Kael's shot dropped a would-be backstabber. "Little busy here!" Kael called.
"Just keeping score," Herzl replied, slashing a rope loose so the enemy's mainsail collapsed like a broken wing.
The fight spilled into the ship's lower deck. Gunfire echoed in the cramped space, muzzle flashes lighting the dark like brief storms. The air smelled of salt, powder, and blood.
By the time Herzl climbed back onto The Vagrant Star, two enemy ships were burning, their crews leaping into the sea. The last ship turned tail, vanishing into the haze.
Kael leaned on the rail, rifle still in hand. "Three to one, we win again. I'm starting to think we're cursed to never lose."
Herzl reloaded calmly, watching the smoke fade into the horizon. "No one's cursed to win forever, Kael. Sooner or later, the tide turns."
Kael frowned. "You always have to ruin a perfectly good victory, don't you?"
Herzl smirked, but didn't answer. His eyes stayed fixed on that horizon — as if he could already see the shadow of something worse waiting there.