The sky was heavy with ash, as if the world itself hesitated to breathe after the bloodshed. The march was slow, dragging, each step sinking into wet sand and an uneasy silence. The dunes they passed still smelled of gunpowder and burnt flesh, and the salt of the sea mingled with the copper of dried blood.
Victória walked beside Luna, her hand resting on the pistol grip, her eyes ever watchful of the shadows between the rocks. The sounds of battle still echoed in her memory – gunshots, screams, the clang of steel against steel – and every passing seagull felt like an omen yet to be fulfilled.
Ahead of them, shackled with naval iron and head held high with wounded dignity, came Rashid Ventoscuro, the Duke of Torre del Vento, spitting insults, threats, and prophecies of vengeance as if defeat had been a mere formality rather than a blow to his Solterran pride.
– Ignorance is your banner, Luna Caelestis! – he bellowed for the fourth time since they had left the cove. – You take me as a trophy, but I will be your end! Solterra does not forget! Solterra never forgets!
The words came through clenched teeth, spat like dull blades, and the clinking of chains around his wrists was a constant reminder of his fall. With every step, Rashid reopened wounds – some on his body, others in the crew's memory.
Luna rode in silence, wrapped in her salt-worn blue cloak, her tunic, still stained from the duel, now covered by a cuirass. Her wounded arm had been hastily bandaged by Alarico, but blood was already seeping through the dressing, slow and persistent like the poison of a broken promise. She did not look at Rashid. She didn't need to. Her attention was fixed on the horizon – on Torre del Vento, somewhere beyond the dusty hills – and on the decision she would make once they arrived.
When the prisoner shouted for the fifth time, louder, more theatrical, like an actor performing for a captive audience, Luna spoke. Softly. Without turning.
– Victória… shut him up.
There was no anger in her voice. No urgency. Only a deep weariness, cold as the marble of ancestral tombs.
Victória did not answer with words. Her eyes met Luna's for a brief moment. Then, she turned to Rashid and, with the calm of one noting the wind's shift before firing, raised her pistol.
The dry crack of the shot silenced the birds. Rashid staggered, grazed at the temple, blood streaming down his face like a crimson veil. He fell to his knees, dazed, his pride as wounded as his flesh. The silence that followed was absolute. Not even the waves dared break it.
Victória blew the smoke from the pistol's barrel, as she had seen Livia do countless times, and only murmured:
– Consider yourself lucky. Had you been mine, you'd have lost your tongue at the first protest.
Rashid remained kneeling, breathing hard. Pain enforced silence better than any chain. His shadow seemed smaller after that, as if he were finally beginning to understand he had been defeated not just in battle, but in dignity.
Luna kept her eyes on the horizon, wordless, but the corner of her mouth lifted slightly, as if a cold tide had risen once more in her spirit.
And so, they continued their march. The narrow path snaked through arid, dusty hills like an ancient scar upon the world's skin. The scent of the sea had faded – now there was only stone, sweat, and the tension of their nearing fate.
A few moments later – though they felt like hours under the scorching summer sun – Torre del Vento rose before them.
The fortress was not beautiful. It was severe. Built of black stone, hard as cast iron, it stood upon a jagged promontory where the winds never ceased, howling between battlements like the voices of forgotten gods. The towers loomed like hollow-eyed sentinels, and Solterra's banners – blood-red and gold – fluttered like tongues of dying fire.
It was Rashid's home. His place of stone and storm.
As they neared the main gate, the horses whinnied, restless. The Sailors of the Eternal Lighthouse took defensive positions, ready for anything.
From atop the wall, a voice roared, firm but cautious:
– Who goes there?
The sound echoed off the fortress walls like the rumble of withheld thunder. The soldier could not see clearly, but uncertainty trembled in his words.
Luna tugged her horse's reins. Her cloak billowed in the wind like a flag about to be raised. Her arm, still wrapped in a stained bandage, pained her, but her bearing did not yield. Her voice rose, clear and sharp, like a blade cutting through fog:
– Luna Caelestis, first of her name, Governor of the Lonely Isles and commander of the Caelestis, the greatest and finest ship in all of Terra Solara… – she paused, – ...and I bring your lord with me.
The words landed heavily upon the stones.
– If you wish him alive, I advise you to open the gates… and surrender.
A murmur swept along the battlements like wind through cracks. A second later, Rashid erupted in protest, his voice hoarse with fury and despair:
– No! Do not open them! It's a trap! A deception! She lies! Kill her now and I shall be freed! Do not–
What followed was swift and brutal.
Luna dismounted, turned in a single motion, and drove her fist into his stomach with military precision. The force was enough to double Rashid over like a winded dog. The Duke fell to his knees in the dust, gasping as if his soul had been punched from his body.
– You've spoken enough for today – Luna murmured, cold as the stones of her homeland.
Silence fell again, thick and expectant.
– This is your last warning – Luna said, her voice as cold as steel left in the open. – The soldiers who marched with Rashid lie dead in the cove. They bled into the sand like pigs in a slaughterhouse. There is no glory in you dying for walls of stone.
The soldiers on the wall exchanged glances. One of them, younger, his face pockmarked, his eyes white with fear, swallowed hard.
– And if we open the gate? – he asked, his voice trembling like leaves in the wind. – What becomes of us?
Luna tilted her head slightly, like a hawk sizing up prey.
– By my honour – she said slowly, letting each word weigh like an oath, – you will leave this fortress alive. Or stay, if you wish, under my banner. But you will not be mistreated. Not today.
A heavy silence fell over the battlements. The wind whistled through the cracks in the stone, as if punishment itself were whispering advice to the soldiers.
From above came the grating sound of rust giving way.
The gate began to open, slowly, like the mouth of a corpse exhaling its last breath. And from within, alone, emerged the same soldier who had spoken. Unarmed, his steps were hesitant, yet resolute.
He advanced with trembling strides, his hands raised like a penitent before an altar, his fingers – grimed with soot and sweat – shaking in the hot air. Around him, a dozen muskets tracked his every movement, their barrels black as the eyes of serpents poised to strike.
– I beg a moment of your time, Your Grace – his voice cracked like green wood in fire. – Just a moment of your attention.
Luna watched him through half-lidded eyes, the same gaze a cat might give a mouse writhing on the ground.
– Speak – she commanded, with the calm of one holding a hangman's rope.
The soldier swallowed hard. When he spoke, the words tumbled out like prisoners fleeing a dungeon.
– We… we were only following orders. Rashid swore that anyone who questioned the Cult of the Eternal Sun deserved the mines. Or the galleys. – a shiver ran down his spine, and his eyes dropped to his battered boots. – There are more soldiers inside… your sailors, captured after the battle. And others. Many others.
Somewhere behind him, a horse snorted nervously.
– Slaves? – Luna asked, her voice as soft as the whisper of a blade being drawn.
The soldier nodded, too quickly.
– In the dungeons. In the pits. Even in the kitchens, the weakest ones. Rashid said… it was better than letting them rot at sea.
Luna did not blink. But something shifted in her face – a shadow, a chill, as if a cloud had passed over the sun. Her fingers stretched slowly, then clenched into a fist.
– Show me. Show us every cell. Every pit. Every dark corner where that son of a rabid bitch hid his shame.
It was not a request. The soldier swallowed again, his eyes darting to the muskets still aimed at his chest.
– And… and what about me? My life?
– Now. Before I reconsider the worth of your breath.
The soldier turned so fast he nearly stumbled over his own feet, leading them toward the fortress's black gate. The shadows of Torre del Vento swallowed them one by one – first the trembling soldier, then Victória with her clenched teeth, and finally Luna, her cloak flowing behind her like the treacherous waters that had brought them there.
The fortress's interior revealed itself as a nightmare forged from stone and human sweat. The thick air stank of excrement, rust, and aged despair. Luna tasted the bitter tang of bile rising in her throat as the first slaves emerged from the gloom – living ghosts, their ribs protruding, their eyes hollow as abandoned seashells on the shore.
– By all the gods… – Victória growled, her fingers tightening around her pistol like claws.
There were two thousand, perhaps more. Men, women – even small children, chained to stone blocks they dragged across the courtyard. Some still wore tattered naval uniforms, the insignias of Isolara and Marellia unrecognisable beneath the grime. Others bore whip marks in sinuous patterns, like dark serpents coiling into their flesh.
– What is this, Rashid? – Luna asked, her eyes blazing.
– Cargo – Rashid replied, his tone devoid of emotion, as if this sight were commonplace across the entire continent.
– Cargo… – Luna's voice echoed off the stone walls, colder than northern winds. – You call these people cargo?
Rashid, still shackled, but with the haughty bearing of one who had never knelt in his life, smirked.
– King Eryx Caelestis has grand plans, Luna Caelestis. Plans that require hands… many hands, to expand into new domains. – His eyes gleamed with perverse satisfaction. – These are… involuntary contributions to the glory of the Kingdom of Isolara.
Luna moved so fast even Victória could not stop her. Her Isolarian blade flashed in the damp air before sinking into the flesh of Rashid's thigh. The Duke fell with a muffled grunt, blood seeping between his fingers as he tried to stem the flow.
– You speak of them as if they were sacks of grain, not living souls! – Luna spat. She withdrew the sword and pressed its bloodied tip beneath Rashid's chin. – How many died here? How many more would you sell like cattle?
An unexpected sound shattered the moment – the clinking of chains. One of the slaves, a man who moved like a spectre, had staggered forward. His eyes, once dead, now burned with silent tears.
– My Queen… – His voice was hoarse from disuse. – He sent the weak to the salt mines. Those who couldn't endure… he left them to rot in the lower cells, as a warning to the others.
Victória looked at Luna and saw something rare in the Queen's eyes – not just fury, but pain. The pain of one who recognises the face of a lost sailor.
– You brought death to the wrong place, Rashid Ventoscuro – Luna raised her sword, the bloodstained blade reflecting light in a hue like sunset. – But today, you learn a new lesson. There are things worse than dying.
At that moment, the first cries began to echo – from the dungeons, the courtyard, the kitchens – hoarse voices recognising their liberators. The sound spread like fire on dry gunpowder, until the entire fortress trembled with the clamour of the condemned returning to life.
The courtyard became a cauldron of broken chains and murmurs swelling like the sea before a storm. Luna climbed the steps to the battlements, standing higher so all could see her.
– Hear me! – Her voice cut through the air like a ship's whistle in fog. – You are free! The chains that bound you are now scrap iron. But the war is not yet over.
The slaves – too thin, their scars telling stories crueller than any lament – lifted their faces. Some trembled; others clenched their fists, as if already feeling the weight of a weapon in them.
– The man who did this to you still breathes – Luna said, pointing her sword at Rashid, who, even wounded and shackled, kept his defiant glare. – The kings who ordered your suffering still sit on gilded thrones. And so I ask you now: how many of you would take up a sword, a musket, an axe, even a kitchen knife, if given the chance to repay every lash, every day of hunger, every night spent listening to your brothers and sisters dying in the dark? How many of you are willing to fight for me and help me free more of your kin and mine?
The silence that followed lasted less than a heartbeat.
– WE ARE!
The cry came from two hundred, from five hundred, from a thousand throats at once, echoing off the walls of Torre del Vento like the roar of a chained beast finally set loose. Men and women, some so weak they could barely stand, raised their arms. Their eyes, once dead, now burned.
Rashid laughed – a dry, hollow sound, like the flapping of a crow's wings.
– And what will you do with beggars and cripples, Luna Caelestis? – he spat. – Is this what remains of Isolara's pride? This does not end here. Eryx will come for you. And for them.
Luna lowered her sword, levelling the blade at Rashid. The Duke of Torre del Vento still knelt, his pride wounded but unbroken, blood running down his leg. He stared back at her with disdain.
– As proof of loyalty – Luna declared, – I want that man's head.
Rashid laughed. A dry, hoarse sound – the laugh of a man who still believed himself master of his fate.
– What are you doing, woman? – he asked, tilting his chin up. – Handing my death to slaves? Do you think this humiliates me?
Luna did not smile. She did not blink.
– No – she answered slowly, – I am teaching you a lesson. Your final lesson.
And then, as if a dam had broken, the slaves surged forward.
The first was a man who had once been a sailor, his arms marked by rope burns. He seized Rashid by the hair, wrenching his head back with enough force to crack vertebrae. The second was a woman, thin as a skeleton, her bony fingers turned to claws. She raked her nails across Rashid's face, stripping away ribbons of flesh as if peeling a rotten piece of fruit.
– People – Luna said, as Rashid screamed – are not cargo.
The blows came one after another – not orderly, not clean, but brutal, chaotic, the fury of countless times of suffering poured onto the flesh of the man who had sold them like cattle. A broken chain-link buried itself in Rashid's flank. A tooth flew, stained red. A finger, torn from the root.
Rashid tried to scream, but the sound was smothered by filthy hands covering his mouth, his nose, his eyes. He fought, of course. A man like Rashid Ventoscuro would never accept death without struggle. But there were many. And he was alone.
When they finished, little remained of the Duke of Torre del Vento. Just a shapeless mass, a sculpture of flesh and hatred moulded by the hands of those he had deemed inferior. The setting sun cast a coppery glow over the ragged faces of the crowd gathered below Luna – freed slaves, soldiers that deserted, men and women who had long forgotten the taste of freedom.
– Hear me well! – Luna's voice cut the air like a razor. – You are free. The gates of this cursed fortress stand open. If you wish to leave, none will stop you. Take food, water, even weapons, if you ask for them.
A murmur rippled through the crowd. Some exchanged disbelieving glances. Others wept silently, as if they did not yet understand the words.
– But… – Luna raised her hand, and silence fell like a heavy mantle. – If you stay, if you take up arms at my side, I swear to you by blood and salt: we will do more than survive. We will tear out the heart of the Burning Empire of Solterra with our bare hands. We will burn its slave-cities and fields until nothing remains but ash. And when Emperor Solario Ignifer falls, it will be your boots upon his throat.
The courtyard erupted.
Shouts, howls, fists thrust skyward like spears. Even Rashid's former soldiers – now lordless, honourless, futureless – knelt in the bloodied dust and swore fealty to the Queen-Without-a-Kingdom.
Only a handful turned toward the open gates. Some elders, some mothers with children too young to understand. Luna did not stop them. She merely nodded as they passed, as one who understands that not all souls are made for the storm to come.
Beside her, Victória watched the crowd, mad with hope, wearing a smile like a starving wolf's.
– It seems we'll have an army to bring down Solterra after all – she murmured.
– Not an army – Luna corrected, – a plague. But even a plague must strike with something. Take inventory of this fortress's weapons – her voice was as cold as steel left in the open. – Every sword, every musket, every cannon, every hidden cache of powder in the dungeons. I would know what we have to wield.
Victória inclined her head – but not before a sharp smile cut across her face like a knife.
– Yes, Chainbreaker Queen.
Luna arched a brow but did not protest the title. Perhaps she even liked it.