Princess Valeria’s voice faded from the burning talisman, leaving behind the distant, rhythmic thunder of coastal cannon fire.
The golden smoke from the distress flare drifted across the grotto terrace, smelling of scorched sulfur and royal courier ink.
Kaelen Vance looked toward the northern horizon. Faint flashes of orange light pulsed against the low evening clouds, five miles across the strait.
“Vakor,” Claire Vance said, her eyes narrowing as she stepped to the stone parapet. “Grand-Admiral Vakor commands the Ashen Sun Second Armada. He is a Saint Vessel Mid butcher who specializes in coastal bombardment.”
“Fifty dreadnoughts,” Elder Sterling muttered, his knuckles whitening on his sword hilt. “Fort Iron-Watch has held for six hours, but their shore batteries are running dry. If the sea-wall falls, the continental ports will burn by midnight.”
Barnaby Holt banged his wooden ladle against the stone railing. “Sound the general alarm. Mobilize all forty-four captured warships. We can form a double battle-line and hit Vakor’s southern flank before dawn.”
Kaelen let out a heavy, weary sigh that rustled his flannel bathrobe.
He reached up, scratched behind his ear, and looked down at his slippers.
