White surrender banners fluttered from thirty star-iron masts across the turquoise waters of the lagoon.
Elder Sterling stood on the outer pier, his arms crossed over his leather cuirass. Beside him, Princess Valeria’s continental naval officers barked orders, directing thousands of disarmed Sanctuary conscripts into holding barracks along the lower ridge.
Long lines of captured sailors marched past in silence, their heads bowed and their weapons piled high on cedar carts.
Out in the deep channel, thirty alliance salvage cutters worked in pairs. They lashed thick hemp hawsers to the seventy dismasted dreadnoughts, slowly towing the crippled hulks toward the drydocks.
Up on the breezy cedar porch of the villa, Kaelen Vance reclined in his padded bamboo armchair.
A light woolen blanket covered his lap, and a bowl of chilled lychees rested on the small tea table beside him. He peeled a translucent fruit with his thumb, popping the sweet flesh into his mouth.
Footsteps clicked on the porch boards as Princess Valeria climbed the stairs, holding a bronze tactical slate. Her formal admiral’s coat was unbuttoned at the collar, revealing faint traces of sea salt on her throat.
“Young master Kaelen,” Valeria said, coming to a halt before his chair. “All thirty vanguard dreadnoughts have dropped anchor inside the sea-gate. Their spirit-engines are powered down, and their captains have surrendered their command tokens.”
