Whoosh.
Wind howled through the storm. Rain came down in sheets. The three-masted ship heaved and rolled, tossed around like a toy in a giant's hand.
The crimson glow faded from Alger Wilson's eyes. He was still standing on the deck. Nothing had changed.
A heartbeat later, the odd-shaped glass bottle in his hand shattered. The frost inside hissed and melted into the rain, gone in seconds, leaving no trace that it had ever existed.
A snowflake — hexagonal and crystalline — bloomed on Alger's palm. It shimmered once, then sank into his skin and disappeared. Alger nodded faintly, deep in thought. He stood there in the cold and wind for five long minutes, unmoving.
Then he turned toward the cabin.
As he reached for the door, a man stepped out — blond, soft-featured, wearing the same lightning-embroidered robe. The man froze at the sight of him, then brought a fist to his chest.
"May the Storm be with you."
Alger mirrored the gesture. "May the Storm be with you."
His voice was flat, stripped of all emotion. The kind of voice a man learns at sea, where storms and death are too familiar to fear.
He walked past and entered the narrow corridor. The air was still. No sailors, no voices — only the groan of wood and the distant crash of waves. The ship felt deserted, like a tomb drifting on the black water.
At the end of the hall waited the captain's quarters. A soft brown carpet lined the floor. Bookshelves and wine racks stood along the walls, their contents bathed in flickering candlelight. Yellowed pages and dark red glass glinted like secrets.
On the desk sat an open ink bottle, a quill, a brass sextant, and a black metal telescope. Behind it, a pale man in a captain's hat stared up from the shadows — the skull embroidered on the brim catching the light.
"I won't give in!" he snarled.
"I believe you," Alger said evenly. His calm was unnerving, as if he were commenting on the weather.
The captain blinked. "You—"
He never finished. Alger lunged.
The distance between them vanished in an instant. His right hand shot out, catching the man by the throat.
Crack.
Scales shimmered faintly across Alger's knuckles as he squeezed, pouring his strength into the grip. The man's eyes bulged. His boots kicked at nothing.
Then — another crack. His neck gave way.
The body went limp, pupils wide and empty. A dark stain spread down his trousers.
Alger didn't stop. He dragged the corpse forward, bent his knees, and drove it straight into the wall.
Bang! The wooden panel splintered open, rain spraying through as wind and salt roared in.
Alger tossed the body through the hole and into the black waves below.
The storm swallowed it whole.
He pulled out a white handkerchief, wiped his hand clean, and flicked the cloth into the sea. Then he stood still, waiting.
Within ten seconds, footsteps pounded down the hall. The blond man burst in.
"What happened?"
"The captain escaped," Alger said through shallow breaths, his tone clipped with irritation. "Didn't realize he still had some Beyonder strength left."
"Damn it," the man cursed. He rushed to the breach and peered into the storm, but saw nothing — only waves and rain.
"Forget it," he said after a moment, shaking his head. "He was just extra loot. We'll still get credit for finding this ghost ship. Tudor Era, no less."
Even as a Keeper of the Sea, he wouldn't dive into waters like this. Not tonight.
"If the storm keeps up, he won't last long anyway," Alger said. He glanced at the splintered wall. The wood was already knitting itself back together, as if alive.
He looked away, eyes flicking toward the rudder and the sail. They were moving — but there was no one there to move them.
The first mate, the second, the crew… all gone.
No heartbeat, no breath.
The ship was sailing itself.
Alger thought of The Fool again — that figure wreathed in gray fog — and let out a long breath.
He turned back toward the storm, watching the endless waves crash against the hull.
"A new era has begun," he murmured.
†
Empress Borough, Backlund — Capital of the Loen Kingdom
Audrey Hall pinched her cheeks, testing if she was still dreaming.
On the vanity before her, the old bronze mirror had shattered. Tiny shards glittered like fallen stars.
She looked down at her hand. A crimson sigil — a star of liquid fire — swirled faintly on her skin. Slowly, it faded and sank beneath the surface, gone.
Only then did she let herself breathe.
It wasn't a dream.
Her lips curled into a grin. Rising from her chair, she lifted her skirts and twirled. Laughter bubbled up as she spun across the room, her movements light and graceful — the Ancient Elf Dance, a favorite among highborn ladies.
She danced like someone bewitched by joy.
Knock, knock.
The sound made her freeze mid-step.
"Who is it?" she called, smoothing her dress and straightening her posture.
"My Lady, may I come in? It's time to prepare for the ceremony," came her maid Annie's voice.
Audrey glanced at the cracked mirror, composed her expression until only a faint smile remained, and said softly, "Come in."
The door creaked open. Annie stepped inside — dark hair, simple uniform — and immediately spotted the shattered mirror.
"Oh dear, it's cracked again…"
Audrey blinked, then replied smoothly, "Ah… yes! Susie was here earlier. You know how she loves to make trouble."
Susie was her golden retriever — a gift to her father, Earl Hall, though Audrey had long since claimed her as her own.
"You really should train that dog better," Annie said as she knelt to collect the shards, careful not to cut herself.
Once done, she looked up. "Which dress would you like today?"
Audrey thought for a moment. "The one Mrs. Guinea made for my seventeenth birthday."
Annie's brow furrowed. "No, my Lady. You can't wear the same dress twice to a formal ceremony. People will talk. They'll say the Hall family is… struggling."
"But I like it," Audrey said softly, almost pleading.
"You can wear it at home," Annie said firmly. "Not today."
Audrey sighed — a quiet, ladylike surrender. "Then… the one with the frilled sleeves. The one Mr. Sades sent two days ago."
"Excellent choice." Annie smiled, pleased. "You always have such taste." She turned toward the hall. "The sixth dressing room— no, I'll fetch it myself."
Servants began to move. Dresses, accessories, shoes, hats, powder, hair — every detail attended to with practiced precision.
When it was nearly finished, a knock sounded again. This time, it was Earl Hall himself — tall, moustached, dressed in a dark brown waistcoat and matching hat. His blue eyes still sparkled despite the years settling on his frame.
"The brightest jewel of Backlund," he said warmly. "Time to go."
"Father," Audrey groaned, embarrassed, as the maids helped her stand. "Please stop calling me that."
"Then come, my beautiful little princess," he teased, offering his left arm.
"That's for Mother," she said primly.
He chuckled and switched arms. "Then this one's for you — my greatest pride."
†
Pritz Harbor Naval Base — Oak Island
When Audrey stepped from the carriage, hand in her father's arm, she froze.
The harbor roared with noise — and in its center, something massive loomed.
A ship of steel, gleaming under the gray sky. No sails, only two towering chimneys, a broad deck, and monstrous gun turrets fore and aft. It made the nearby sailing ships look like children's toys.
"Holy Lord of Storms…" someone whispered.
"By the Saints…"
"An ironclad," another breathed. "A warship of iron."
The crowd murmured, stunned. Even Audrey felt her chest tighten. Humanity had built many wonders — but this was something else. A god of the sea, forged by human hands.
The noise died when a dark shape appeared overhead — a black speck growing fast, swelling until it filled the sky.
Gasps rippled through the gathered nobles. The air itself seemed to still.
A flying machine descended — vast and sleek, painted deep blue, its gasbags gleaming under the sun. Alloy beams framed its belly, armed with machine guns and launchers. The rhythmic thrum of its steam engines filled the air like thunder.
The royal insignia shimmered on its hull: two crossed swords crowned in ruby light — the emblem of House Augustus.
The King's airship.
The vessel hovered, majestic and terrifying. Audrey held her breath as it touched down.
Guards in red uniforms descended first, forming two rows. Rifles gleamed on their shoulders, medals catching the light. Then came King George III himself — tall, white-haired, regal — followed by his queen, and their children.
Audrey remained in the back with the uninitiated young ladies. At seventeen, she had yet to attend her introduction ceremony, the formal debut marking a woman's entry into Backlund's society. She didn't mind. It meant she didn't have to smile at princes.
Her gaze drifted instead to the two figures flanking the King — armored knights in black steel. Their presence felt like a shadow drawn across the sun.
In this age of iron, steam, and gunpowder, full armor should've been obsolete. Yet the sight of it — cold, black, gleaming — carried a power that silenced the crowd.
"Paladins of Discipline…" Audrey murmured, recalling hushed adult conversations. Curiosity burned in her, but she dared not step closer.
The Prime Minister stepped forward next — Lord Aguesid Negan, of the Conservative Party. Slender, sharp-eyed, and balding, his presence commanded attention.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he began, voice steady and resonant. "Before you stands a ship that will change the course of history."
He gestured toward the colossus in the harbor.
"The Pritz measures one hundred and one meters in length, twenty-one in width. Her armor belt — forty-five centimeters of solid steel. Displacement — ten thousand and sixty tons. She bears four 305-millimeter main guns, six rapid-fire cannons, twelve six-pounders, eighteen machine guns, and four torpedo launchers. She sails at sixteen knots. She is, in every sense, the lord of the sea."
A murmur rolled through the crowd. Even the ocean seemed to hush.
Aguesid turned, bowing to the King. "Your Majesty, please — grant her a name."
George III smiled faintly. "She was born here. Let her bear the harbor's name. The Pritz."
"The Pritz!" the crowd repeated, growing louder.
"The Pritz!"
The cry spread through the harbor. Sailors and officers took it up, echoing it across the waves.
Cannons fired in salute. Smoke billowed from the twin chimneys as the ship's engines roared to life. The iron giant began to move.
Honk!
The horn's thunder rolled over the crowd as the Pritz turned toward open water. Two of her cannons fired in demonstration — the sound shook the ground.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
The shots hit an uninhabited island ahead. Explosions tore through rock and sand, sending plumes of dust skyward.
When silence returned, Aguesid turned back to the onlookers, his voice fierce.
"From this day forward, the age of pirates is over. The seven who call themselves Admirals — the four who call themselves Kings — their doomsday begins now!"
Cheers erupted, but some in the crowd hesitated. One man asked loudly, "Couldn't the pirates build ironclads of their own?"
Aguesid smiled coldly.
"Impossible. To build this ship required three steel conglomerates, twenty foundries, sixty scientists and engineers from the Backlund Cannon Academy and the Pritz Nautical Academy, two royal shipyards, hundreds of factories, an Admiralty, a shipbuilding committee, a cabinet, a visionary king — and a nation that produces twelve million tons of steel a year.
"The pirates have none of that."
He spread his arms, voice rising with conviction.
"Ladies and gentlemen — the era of iron and cannon has begun!"