The Grand Vermilion River stretched wide and slow beneath the pale autumn sky.
Four hundred war-galleys and heavy transport junks followed in disciplined ranks, their white sails swelling with the southern breeze. Together, they carried three hundred thousand warriors of the Free Cauldron Alliance, cutting a deep wake through the muddy brown water.
At the head of the armada sailed the flagship, a massive triple-hulled ironclad barge that moved with the stately grace of a floating fortress.
Its black star-iron hull deflected the river current with ease, while twelve heavy sweeps on each side kept the vessel gliding forward in absolute silence.
Hanging from the mainmast was a polished pine board twenty feet long, painted in bold red lacquer:
Supreme Commander Convalescing — Any Battle Cry Above Sixty Decibels Costs 1,000 HSS.
Below the sign, the armada kept a respectful two-mile buffer zone. No signal drums beat on the water. No war flutes pierced the morning mist.
Even the oarsmen dipped their wooden blades into the river with exaggerated care, terrified of earning a personal visit from Old Barnaby Holt and his iron ladle.
