The sea stretched out like a plain of lead, motionless and grey beneath the weight of a morning drowned in mist. Nothing could be heard but the constant creaking of timber and the distant lament of invisible seagulls, swallowed by the thick fog.
The Caelestis, proud and silent, glided through the treacherous waters off the coast of Solterra like a forgotten spectre of ancient empires.
Alongside it, like shadows lurking in a feverish dream, ten ships of the Marellian fleet followed in tight formation, though their presence was more felt than seen. The sails and masts rose like spears pointed at the sky, but the fog made everything uncertain – blurred shapes, threatening silhouettes that could be either allies or enemies. On the decks, the men and women spoke in whispers, as if the mist might hear their fears.
The Marinova, with one hundred and ten cannons, rose from the waters like an ill-tempered fortress, its hull creaking and sails stained with salt and neglect. It was the largest ship of the Maritime Republic's fleet, currently allied with Luna Caelestis – if the word 'ally' still held any meaning beyond the promises written by the Senate of the Republic, which never set foot on the decks of the ships they sent to war.
Its presence beside the Caelestis was more unsettling than comforting. Where the Caelestis was elegant and austere, the Marinova looked as though it had come from the bowels of a weary workshop, hastily patched together, with frayed rigging and a rudder that squealed as though it were weeping. They said it had been built in a time of urgency, from young wood and nails now rusted with age. The weight of its cannons was more a threat to its own bones than to the enemy's.
They had departed from the port of Marinova four days ago. Behind them, an uneven line of smaller ships spread out like a disordered tail – captains who preferred to follow from afar, where danger still seemed like a rumour.
The enemy had been sighted the day before. Shadows on the horizon, perhaps sails, perhaps merely fog shaped like a threat. Since then, tension among the commanders had grown like mould on damp bread. Each man had his map, each woman her omen. The sailors muttered of portents at sea – dead seagulls, fish with whitened eyes, and a colossal figure that had been spotted in the depths two nights earlier.
Victória, her frozen hands gripping the forecastle rail, narrowed her eyes. There was something out there. It wasn't a common shadow, nor a trick of the light. It was the tip of a mast, cutting through the mist like a needle, with a scrap of torn sail swaying slowly, as if waving in greeting – or warning.
– Ship sighted! – she shouted, her voice ripping through the air like thunder across a battlefield. – To port!
The Queen was on the command bridge. She did not hesitate. She did not ask. She did not doubt. Since the bloody night in Caelestis, when Victória warned her of her uncle's plans and saved her life, Luna had come to trust Victória as she trusted no other.
– Ready the crew for battle! – she ordered, her voice sharp as cracking ice. – Gunners to stations, seal the hatches, combat sails. I want muskets loaded and sights to the skies until we see colours.
The crew obeyed as if they had already been expecting the order. The Caelestis began to transform – it ceased to be a ship and became a predator preparing to strike. Men to the sails, women running to the cannons, sergeants shoving the hesitant with the butts of their pistols.
The sea roared in muffled tones, choked by the thick mist, as if the very goddess of the ocean whispered omens through the foam. When the first shot echoed – a dry thunderclap wrapped in mist – it was like the beat of a war drum long forgotten by time. And then, almost without warning, battle erupted in the midst of the fog.
The Marinova's hull trembled under the weight of its own cannons, spewing fire and iron into the shadows ahead. A moment later, the Caelestis fired as well, its artillery arranged like the teeth of a golden dragon. The sounds of war began to tear through the veil of silence: screams, snapping chains, ropes breaking like ribs.
Within the fog, the ships barely saw one another – shadows fighting shadows, moving like blind beasts guided by the scent of blood. It was a battle like no other: there were no defined lines, no honour in the duels of cannons. It was pure chaos, violent, maritime – a floating massacre wrapped in smoke and salt.
The Marellian fleet, heir to ancient traditions and the arrogance of fragile alliances, found itself out of position. They had drifted too far from the Caelestis, relying on a system of signals now swallowed by the fog. The Marellian admirals, confident in their own formations, believed the enemy would come from the front, as was the 'custom' of the Solterran Empire.
But the Solterran fleet had not come from the front.
It emerged from the mists like a dagger between the ribs, silent and sudden. First came the vague, distant sound – of sails. Then, the roar of the first cannon shots, so close that one of the Marellian ships was struck before it even saw the enemy.
The Perla Marina, a Marellian ship of the line with one hundred cannons, was struck at the waterline and began to sink with the men still running to their posts. There was no time to respond. No time to pray.
There were screams coming from every direction. Cannons firing blindly, hitting both friends and unknowns. Burning rigging, broken masts, sails in flames. The Piramide Solare, the Deserto Ardente, and the Luna Infuocata, along with other Solterran frigates, fought with cunning and brutality – they came not in rigid formation, but like sea hunters, surrounding the Marellian ships one by one, lost in the mist.
The Marinova, enormous but slow, was caught on the flank. Three consecutive volleys battered its hull like hammers against an old gate. It tried to respond, but the shots ricocheted into emptiness. The gunners couldn't see where to aim. By the time they finally spotted the Solterran frigates responsible for the attacks, they were already retreating for another strike, like a snake that bites and pulls back.
Lost among the echoes of cannon fire and the cries of drowning sailors, the Costa Azul, a Marellian warship with one hundred and ten cannons like the Marinova, but with a hull reinforced with oak from the northern forests, fought blindly. The deck vibrated with every shot, the gunners shouting orders over the roar, and the bridge officers rubbed their eyes in vain, trying to see through the thick curtain of mist and smoke.
In a moment no seer, however powerful, could have foreseen, a Solterran cannonball – made of black iron and cruel intent – penetrated the lower flank of the ship, carried by a shot so close that no one heard the volley – only the dull impact, as if a divine fist had punched the ship in the heart.
The shot tore through wood, bone, and faith, and lodged itself in the powder barrels stored on the lower deck. Silence lasted a second. Perhaps two. Some would later say that in that brief instant the sea pulled back, as if it too knew what was coming.
And then, the Costa Azul exploded, disintegrating into a ball of fire and black smoke, so vast and violent it lit up the mist for miles. The masts flew like broken spears, the cannons were hurled from the deck like leaden toys. Men and debris rained from the sky. The roar of the explosion swept across the sea like thunder.
The flash was visible from the Caelestis, leagues away. Victória raised her hand to her mouth. Luna said nothing, merely clenched her fist as the reflection of the flames painted her eyes red.
Nothing remained of the Costa Azul. Nothing to bury. No body whole enough to recognise. Only floating splinters, pieces of sail burning.
With the explosion of the Costa Azul, the fragile thread of order snapped. Until then, there had still been hope – the numbers favoured the Marellian fleet, and among the more confident there was talk of victory, of shared glory, of rewards in gold and praise, as it had been when the Maritime Republic of Marellia and the Burning Empire of Solterra faced each other on the high seas.
From that moment on, the battle began to slip through the Marellians' fingers like bloodstained sand.
Some ships fired at each other, missing by mere metres, unaware whether they were aiming at comrades or enemies. Others stood still, trying to save powder, waiting for signals that would never come. Three ships caught fire entirely, consumed by their own coal reserves, fed by misdirected shots and the treacherous wind.
One ship, the Faro Alto, turned back and retreated without orders. Another, the Onda Poderosa, panicked and collided with the Vallombra, splitting its side like an axe cleaving a dry trunk. The impact caused explosions, which in turn fuelled even more fire on the northern flank of the fleet. The sea seemed to burn.
And the Solterrans – they could not be seen. They were everywhere – or nowhere. Ships appeared and vanished in the mist like wolves in snow, launching sudden volleys, firing at unpredictable angles, disappearing before anyone could respond. The lack of visibility was their ally; panic, their most effective weapon.
– How many are there? – people asked in desperation on the deck of the Caelestis.
– Where are they?
– Why aren't the Marellians responding to our signals?
No one knew. No one could know.
Luna remained standing, but even her commander's gaze wavered. She saw what the others didn't want to see: the battle was lost. The lines had disintegrated. Communication had died. The numbers, once a sign of confidence, were now a disadvantage – more ships meant more targets.
And it wasn't just the fleet that burned. It was the prestige of Marellia. It was the power of the Republic unravelled by the heat of fire and the weight of humiliation.
Victória approached, her face grim, her hands stained with black powder.
– Give the order, Majesty – she murmured.
– Which one? – Luna replied, without taking her eyes off the flames on the horizon.
– The one that saves your ship.
And for the first time that morning, Luna nodded without speaking. Because she knew. Because it was already too late.
– Turn south – her voice was low, but clear, like the crack of ice before it gives way. – We're abandoning the line. Save whoever can be saved. Let the dead stay with the sea. Now!
The Caelestis began to turn. It was a slow, heavy manoeuvre. A ship of that size did not turn lightly – it was like moving an entire kingdom with a single decision. The torn sails were hauled in, the rudders adjusted. The wood groaned under the strain, as if protesting against abandonment. But its Queen had given it her orders – and with them, its survival.