The shipyards of Anchorhead had not rested since the dragon banners were raised over the basalt seawalls.
For seven continuous days, the rhythm of iron hammers on seasoned oak and the hiss of superheated pitch into salt water echoed across the three fortified harbor basins. Under General Kaelen’s relentless oversight, sixty deep-sea war galleys were stripped of their ornate marsh-carvings and refitted for high-seas siege warfare. Heavy ballistas capable of launching incendiary pots and chained iron bolts were bolted onto reinforced forward platforms, while dragon-scale bronze plating was riveted along the hulls to withstand the crushing bite of the Leviathan Straits.
By mid-afternoon, the sea wind brought the taste of approaching storms—a dark, bruised horizon gathering fifty leagues south where the open ocean churned into froth.
Aurelia stood upon the high dry-dock gantry overlooking the flagship, The Dread sovereign, a three-decked war-galley with twin rams of blackened steel and four tiers of oarsmen. She was clad in her fitted leather brigandine, her silver fox mantle pinned at the shoulder with a star-iron clasp.
At her side, Captain Dennis stood unrolling an ancient navigational parchment captured from Lady Vespera’s private chart-room.
"The Leviathan Straits do not forgive arrogance, my lady," Dennis warned, tracing a narrow channel bordered by jagged shoals and submerged coral reefs known as the Siren’s Ribs. "The currents run at ten knots against any vessel sailing south, and the depths are plagued by Kraken-class leviathans that can snap an unarmored galley in two like kindling. The High Arcana protected the Isle of Serpents by binding three abyssal sirens to the channel. Any navigator who hears their song steers his ship straight onto the reefs."
"Then we will ensure our navigators hear nothing," Aurelia replied, her clear voice carrying over the din of the carpenters below. Her azure-and-silver eyes scanned the charted reefs with cold calculation. "The songs of the sirens rely on psychic tethering through the water vapor in the air. When the time comes, I will freeze the sea-spray around our hulls, deadening the acoustic resonance before it can touch our oarsmen’s minds."
Heavy, purposeful footsteps clattered up the wooden scaffolding of the gantry.
Aurelia didn't need to turn to recognize the cadence. A familiar, suffocating warmth washed over the chilly sea breeze, and a heartbeat later, Malakor stepped onto the platform. He had just returned from inspecting the newly integrated auxiliary cohorts outside the city walls.
His dark hair was windswept, a heavy wolf-pelt mantle draped over his broad shoulders, and his crimson-flecked eyes burned with that untamed, predatory energy that never seemed to dim.
"The auxiliary levies from Val-Mora and the marsh clans have been drilled," Malakor announced, his deep voice rolling over the harbor. Dennis stepped back with a respectful bow, rolling his chart. "Three thousand fresh spears are garrisoned in Anchorhead to secure our supply line to Sol-Vaelen. Two thousand of our finest Val-Roc veterans and eight hundred blood-riders are embarked upon the galleys."
He came to a stop beside Aurelia, his shoulder brushing hers before his heavy arm reached around her waist, pulling her firmly against his side with casual, uncontested ownership. His gaze dropped from the horizon to her face, softening as he took in the pale curve of her cheek and the quiet starlight dancing in her eyes.
"You look like you're already standing on their island," Malakor murmured near her ear, his thumb stroking the leather over her hip.
"I am thinking of the Fourth Shard, Malakor," Aurelia said softly, leaning into his touch, her hand resting over his forearm. "The Astral Tear controls the ebb and flow of etheric tides. With three shards united in my soul, we can mend the cosmic rift that Emperor Valerius tore open at Mount Sorrow. The empire will no longer bleed from abyssal ruptures."
"And the High Arcana?" Malakor asked, a dark, wicked smile pulling at the corner of his lips. "The archmages who fled Sol-Vaelen with their noses in the air, swearing they would rebuild their order in exile?"
"They will learn that there is no exile beyond our reach," Aurelia said, her voice dropping into a lethal, icy whisper that sent an electric thrill through his blood.
Malakor chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated deep in his chest. His grip on her waist tightened, drawing her flush against his armored frame until their breath mingled in the cold sea air.
"A ruthless queen," he growled affectionately, his lips brushing the shell of her ear before planting a firm, lingering kiss against the hollow beneath her jaw. "The fleet is provisioned. The wind shifts south tonight on the evening tide. Tomorrow at dawn, the galleys leave the harbor."
Aurelia turned in his arms, her hands sliding up to cup his jaw, feeling the rough stubble of his cheek and the fierce, protective heat radiating from his skin. Her azure-and-silver eyes locked onto his crimson gaze.
"Then let us sleep well tonight, warlord," she murmured with a slow, provocative smile. "For tomorrow... we take the ocean."
Malakor’s eyes flared with dark fire. He captured her mouth in a swift, bruising kiss that left her breathless, sealing their promise before the sixty war-galleys waiting below in the harbor.