Alex lost his conscience the second the remaining two slugs started their final barrage of attacks over Ketovan. His eyes went a deeper shade of gold, black and silver colors. He floated in the air as his hands lifted the cutlass towards the slugs.
"The world has cast its vote, and the victor stands before you. By that will, and the decree of the one who endures, your life is the offering! My blade is ravenous—Mortal Hunger!" Alex cast a spell.
The cutlass' black blade became a glop of black slime for a fraction of a second. Right before Ketovan's eyes, the cutlass reached out for the slugs before him and gobbled them up.
Alex at an instant fell to the ground, the cutlass clattering to the ground and his eyes returning to normal. Ketovan held his friend in his hands as he looked around to find remains of the three slugs he managed to slay on his own.
"It took me an hour of fighting, and my life at risk at least three times to kill three of these bastards, and here this man killed two in fraction of second that too at normal rank. This might be the reason the world chose this man to give its gift," Ketovan thought.
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The cloud beam solidified into a shimmering, temporary bridge of compressed white mist, stretching from the helm deck of their private vessel toward a docking platform that jutted out like a jawbone from the colossal Pyreheart Galleon.
Ector felt a thrill surge through him, a feeling far more electric than the subtle, chilling hum of his new sword, The Flying Nimbus. He was a Prince, yes, but he was also an enthusiast of the grand and the glorious, and this spectacle was unmatched. The heat emanating from the Galleon was palpable, a warm, spiced breeze that smelled of volcanic sulfur and burnt amber, a stark contrast to the sword's coolness.
Madam Diva was already taking two purposeful steps toward the bridge, her eyes wide with undisguised avarice and wonder. "Motsari," she breathed, the name a reverence and a warning. "An invitation from that family is not merely a courtesy, Your Highness. It is a political maneuver disguised as a handshake. We accept."
"I have already done so, Madam Diva," Ector replied, a hint of his regal confidence returning. He was the one who made the decision, after all, and he would not let her forget it.
"Of course, Your Highness," Rick said, his grin now wide and genuine, easing the earlier tension. He moved to Ector's side, his hand resting near a concealed weapon. Rick was the shadow, the protective wall, and the closest thing Ector had to a true confidant.
Ector adjusted the hilt of The Flying Nimbus. The smooth, cold obsidian of the grip felt like a constant, chilling presence against the heat of the air. The sword, with its ripples like captured storm clouds and flecks of shimmering starlight, was a perfect weapon in its current state, but the weight of its unawakened power—the potential for the Storm heart—was a steady reminder of the journeys he still had to undertake. The contrast between the sword's latent tempest and the ship's blazing fury was palpable.
The temporary bridge of cloud mist was surprisingly firm, like walking on a floor of polished, frozen snow. As they crossed, the sheer scale of the Pyreheart Galleon became overwhelming.
They stepped onto a wide, semicircular landing dock. Two figures stood waiting.
The first was a man dressed in the uniform of a high-ranking officer: polished black leather, brass buttons that gleamed like small suns, and a coat trimmed with a rich, singed-looking fur. He stood with the unyielding posture of someone accustomed to command, his eyes sharp and wary, taking in Ector, the cloud vessel, and the faint, barely perceptible shimmer of the Flying Nimbus with equal scrutiny.
The second figure was a woman, the source of the melodious voice. She was younger, with long dark hair that had streaks of vibrant copper, as if she, too, carried the fire of the ship. She wore a less formal but still richly embroidered velvet gown of deep crimson that somehow managed to look elegant amidst the industrial, fiery backdrop. She offered a graceful, deferential bow that somehow retained an air of self-possession.
"Welcome to the Pyreheart Galleon, travelers from the clouds," the woman said, her voice carrying a warmth that was at odds with the ship's intimidating aura. "I am Seraphina, Captain's personal envoy and Mistress of the Helm's Fire. The captain is delayed with a matter of protocol, but he bids you be made comfortable."
Madam Diva stepped forward, her voice dripping with an elegant suspicion she reserved for rivals. "Mistress Seraphina. A pleasure. I am Divalina, and this is my esteemed charge, His Royal Highness, Prince Ector of the kingdom of Uratos." She paused, allowing the title to settle like a heavy crown. "We appreciate the invitation, though I must admit, it is unusual for a vessel of your reputation to solicit guests in the open skies."
Seraphina's smile remained serene, but her eyes held a spark of knowing amusement. "Reputations are often half-whispers, Madam Diva. Our captain is merely a man with expansive curiosity. He saw a vessel of such unique design—a private cloud vessel is a rare sight indeed—and felt compelled to offer a moment of hospitality. Come. The captain awaits you in the Flame-Wrought Observatory."
Seraphina led them into the main body of the galleon. The air was a constant, comfortable heat, and the mechanical symphony of the ship was overwhelming: the rhythmic hiss of pressurized steam, the distant, muffled roar of the furnaces, and the deep, Resonating Thrum of the infernal keel. The atmosphere was rich with the scent of oil, burning spices, and a faint, metallic tang.
They passed through hallways that were more like stone corridors, lit by flickering gaslight within gilded cages. Ector realized the gilded accents he had noticed from afar were gilded energy traces, part of the ship's complex magical machinery, glowing faintly with contained heat.
They ascended several levels via an enormous open-caged elevator, powered by a piston of pure, shimmering heat. From this vantage point, Ector and Diva could look down upon the main deck, confirming their initial impression: it was a thriving village.
"This… this is magnificent," Ector murmured, the prince replaced by the wide-eyed boy. The presence of his own conjured blade, the Flying Nimbus, felt almost insignificant against this monument to human and elemental power.
"It is a marvel of the Motsari engineers, Your Highness," Seraphina said, sensing his awe. "They bind the Elemental Heart of a Salamander Lord into the keel, tempering the Darkwood with pure volcanic plasma. It took two generations to complete."
Madam Diva, ever pragmatic, raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "And how do you feed such a heart, Mistress Seraphina? I imagine the logistics of fuel are… considerable."
"The Infernal Keel draws on residual energy ley-lines," Seraphina explained smoothly. "It requires no traditional fuel, only careful magical channeling and a yearly tribute of enchanted obsidian. A high cost, but well worth the freedom it grants."
The elevator hissed to a halt at the highest point of the Pyreheart Citadel. Seraphina led them through a heavy, fire-wrought door that opened onto the Flame-Wrought Observatory. It was a vast circular chamber with a domed ceiling of dark smoky glass, dominated by a huge viewing window.
At the center of the room was a sprawling table of polished, cool black marble, around which several figures were seated, their faces sharp with intelligence and authority. As the group entered, the occupants rose, their attention now fixed on the prince.
The man who rose from the head of the table was impressive. Tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in a pristine uniform of dark grey velvet and copper-threaded silk. His hair was the color of fresh ash, and his eyes, the color of molten brass, fixed on Ector with an intensity that made the young Prince instinctively straighten. The surrounding air seemed to ripple with a focused, contained energy. He was a man who commanded gravity itself.
He took two slow steps forward. His voice was deep and resonant, a tone that cut through the ship's noise with no need to shout.
"My apologies for the slight delay, Your Highness," he said, extending a hand not in a shake, but in a gesture toward the black marble table. "Welcome to my humble vessel. I am the captain of this ship, and my house thanks you for accepting our invitation."
Ector took the subtle cue and matched the captain's formality. "Captain, the honor is mine. This is no humble vessel—it is a masterpiece of elemental engineering. I am Prince Ector. This is my advisor, Madam Diva, and my sworn guard, Rick."
The captain gave a curt nod to Diva, but his molten eyes returned to Ector, a small, knowing smile touching the corner of his lips. "I trust the journey here was agreeable, Prince Ector. This ship is a marvel of the Motsari craft, but I confess a fascination with your own magic, young Prince."
His eyes linger on the Flying Nimbus before he speaks.
"I noticed the weapon you bear. It has the look of a pure Nimbus Blade, though I have not seen one outside the legends of the old Sky Kings."
He paused, clearly waiting for Ector to elaborate. Madam Diva's hand twitched, clearly signaling for Ector to offer a vague, non-committal answer.
The captain continued, his eyes unwavering. "Please take a seat. We have much to discuss before the sun sets on this glorious sight. This is Master Solon, our chief Astromancer and Navigator. He tells me your cloud-craft is on an interesting trajectory, one that might intersect with our own urgent interests."
Madam Diva's eyes narrowed slightly at the mention of the trajectory, a clear sign the captain had more than a casual interest. Ector, however, felt a surge of excitement. This was a game of the powerful, and he was finally being invited to the table. He took his seat, the cold, smooth marble a stark contrast to the heat of the room and the intense gaze of his host. The meeting had begun, and the prince knew with absolute certainty that this invitation was not about hospitality, but about the future of Uratos itself.
"A Nimbus Blade, Captain?" Ector repeated, deciding against Diva's silent warning. He touched the hilt of the Flying Nimbus, which felt colder now, almost demanding attention. "It is my newest companion. A blade of cloud and storm. And if it is the legends you speak of, Captain, then you know it has a power yet to be truly awakened."
The captain's stern features shifted, the molten brass of his eyes deepening with speculation. "Indeed, Your Highness. We at Motsari crop have spent centuries binding the elements, awakening the hidden fury within things. A sword is one thing, but a storm heart? That is an entirely different matter." He leaned forward, resting his powerful forearms on the cool marble.
The ceiling of the room splits into two parts that mechanically move into the side of the ship, leaving an opening to the room. A man dropped into the room, his legs landing Firmly in the middle of the marble table. All the personal sitting there stood and moved back, not in fear but in submission.
The captain stood and bowed to the arrived figure. He was no smaller than Hakon Klein, but his hair matched Ketovan's, and he had broader shoulders that the hulking captain. His left eye had a scare beneath it. He wore simple clothing, noting unique other that the shotgun he held in his belt. It was made of black wood with silver metal works and mechanisms. It looked ancient, and Ector knew it was ancient, because the man before him was the eldest son of the strongest swordsman in humankind. The man who single handedly killed everyone who burned the city of the forest dwellers.
"I present you the current owner of the ship, Vincent Motsari," the captain said, moving back.
"Long time no see, Rickert," Vincent said, his voice was not hoarse but not smooth, it had somewhat of sandy texture.
"Same here, Lord Vincent," Rick said, bowing down.
"Do n't call us that, we gave up on nobility 4000 years ago." Vincent said as he dropped to the floor as a chair appeared out of the floor like he called it up with his presence.
Vincent Motsari's control chair is less a piece of furniture and a more magical nexus that allows him to physically interface with the ship's elemental power. It is officially known as the Obsidian Crucible.
The throne is carved from a single, vast block of Darkwood, but it has been permanently fused with a casing of jet-black, polished Volcanic Obsidian mined from deep within the Motsari's own fiery estates. This gives it the appearance of hardened lava flows.
The high back is sculpted into a stylized representation of a Phoenix's spread wings, which look like hardened, segmented soot. The arms of the chair are thick and terminate in ornate, gripping claws of Brass and Enchanted Iron, mirroring the Dragon's Breath Cannons on the ship's flanks.
Despite the dark material, the throne is not dull. Engraved into the obsidian surface are thousands of microscopic Copper-Threaded Glyphs—the very same gilded energy traces seen throughout the ship. These glyphs constantly glow with a low, flickering internal red light, like embers deep within cooling rock.
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