The screaming emissary was dragged from the Great Hall by his collar, leaving a thick, black smear of reptilian blood across the white marble.
Lady Vespera stood by the heavy leather curtains, her expression unreadable as she watched the shock-marines toss Kaelen’s severed hand into an iron brazier, where it hissed and sputtered with the greasy reek of sulfur. Only when the doors were barred once more did the admiral turn back to the throne, her sea-green eyes sharp and calculating.
"A definitive reply, Your Grace," Vespera observed, stepping forward with crisp, military strides. "Though I doubt Emperor Typhon will respond with polite diplomacy. Val-Kharis was an empire that drowned entire archipelagos when an island king refused to pay tribute."
"Then let him try to drown this city," Malakor growled, sheathing his great sword with a definitive metallic click that echoed off the vaulted ceiling.
He didn't return to the foot of the dais; he strode directly to the side of the white throne, taking Aurelia’s hand in his own calloused palm. He lifted her knuckles to his lips, his mouth pressing against the pale skin with a fierce, possessive reverence that burned away the cold lingering in the room. His amber eyes caught hers, alight with the dark, intoxicating thrill of impending slaughter.
"Twelve dreadnoughts," Malakor murmured, his thumb tracing the blue vein pulsing at her wrist. "Armored in petrified bone, powered by abyssal flame. It's the most formidable fleet this continent has seen since the First Era."
"And they are crossing into my waters," Aurelia said softly, leaning into the warmth radiating from his broad frame.
Beneath her breastplate, the Six Shards pulsed with a low, rhythmic hum. It was not fear that stirred her core, but a predatory hunger. The Sixth Shard—the Sovereign Void—had recognized the dragon-iron of the emissary’s armor; it had tasted the ancient, uncorrupted aether of the First Throne. The ancient power wanted the pieces of its history returned, and Aurelia was more than willing to take them by force.
"Vespera," Aurelia commanded, turning her gaze to the admiral. "How long before the dreadnoughts can clear the Outer Reefs and reach the bay of Val-Khor?"
"Three days, at most," Vespera answered, unrolling a tactical chart of the harbor across the armrest of an empty council chair. "The tide turns tomorrow night. If Typhon commands the abyssal currents as the chronicles suggest, his flagship, the Black Leviathan, will be within mortar range of our sea-walls by dusk on the second day."
"We do not wait behind sea-walls," Aurelia said, rising from the throne, the ancestral blade resting at her side. "Walls are for cowards who hope their enemies will tire of burning their fields. We broke Cedric at Mor-Thal, we broke the Syndicate in the harbor, and we will break Val-Kharis upon the open sea."
"Our fleet is still battered from the storm in the Leviathan Straits," Vespera pointed out, her jaw setting with stubborn practicality. "We have twenty galleys fit for sail, and the Syndicate's captured ironclads haven't had their crews re-trained. We are out-gunned three to one in heavy naval artillery."
"Then we don't fight a naval duel, admiral," Malakor cut in, stepping between Vespera and the map.
A wolfish, wicked grin split his scarred lips as he planted his dagger directly through the chart, embedding the dark steel into the center of the Outer Reefs.
"We fight a boarding action," Malakor said, his voice dropping into a lethal, low growl that made Vespera’s eyes widen. "We use the winter fog to close the distance. We jam their dragon-mortars with aetheric frost, throw our grappling irons into their leviathan-bone hulls, and turn their floating palaces into slaughterhouses. I want the decks slick with dragon-blood before their admiral even knows we've left the harbor."
Aurelia looked at the dagger pinned through the reef, then up at the man who would tear down the sky if she asked it of him.
"You heard the Protector, Vespera," Aurelia ordered, her silver-violet eyes flaring with imperial majesty. "Rally the shock-marines. Ready the grappling ballistas. We sail at midnight."