Her glass slipped from her fingers, suddenly forgotten as the sight below overwhelmed her need for magnification. The harbor curved like a sickle blade carved from living black stone, the ancient cliffs' only surrender to the sea's persistent demands. Centuries of storms had smoothed the harbor's inner curve while leaving the outer edges sharp enough to tear hulls that approached carelessly.
Masts clustered thick as winter wheat—fishing boats with paint-scarred hulls that told stories in every scrape and patch, merchant vessels grown fat with cargo, their holds filled with goods from every kingdom that touched salt water. Naval vessels prowled the outer waters, sleek warships designed for purposes grimmer than commerce. Some flew the personal standards of their captains alongside Masan's coral-and-blue, a privilege earned through blood spilled on foreign decks.
Even as she watched, sails bloomed white against the horizon like flowers opening to greet the dawn. Others furled tight as departing ships carved wakes through the harbor mouth, foam roads that would fade long before their prey was sighted. The constant motion spoke of prosperity built on ancient rhythms—tide and wind and the courage to take what others were too weak to defend.
The naval fleet stretched across the bay's throat like a barrier of floating death. At its heart, the Crownbreaker floated with the massive stillness of a predator that had gorged itself and now waited, patient as stone, for the next feeding. The ship was a city in miniature—five decks, four hundred crew, enough supplies for six months at sea without resupply. Her black oak hull had been treated with tar and oils until it seemed to drink light, making her nearly invisible on moonless nights when screams carried farther across water.
Each bronze mouth along her hull waited beneath wooden shutters, silent promises that had earned the ship her name across a dozen campaigns. The Crownbreaker sat low in the water, ballasted with stone and iron, stable as an island even in storms that would roll lesser vessels onto their beam ends.
Heat bloomed in Aiyara's chest, fierce and hungry as forge fire. She could taste the memory with perfect clarity: herself at twelve, finally tall enough to see over the gunwale without standing on a crate. Salt spray had soaked her within minutes, but she'd refused to go below, transfixed by the way the ship moved through water like it belonged there more than on land. The deck had trembled beneath her feet when the guns fired—practice rounds that still made her bones sing with the music of destruction. The Crownbreaker had been both sanctuary and inspiration during those childhood voyages—the ship that had carved Masan's name into every chart with fire and fear.
The warmth in her chest spread deeper, settling into places that had never felt such intensity. Her people had built this floating graveyard through generations of taking what they needed, when they needed it. Other kingdoms begged their gods for prosperity—Masan sailed forth and claimed it from those too weak to resist. The sea rewarded courage, punished weakness, and her ancestors had learned its lessons well.
Tonight Queen Meilara would celebrate above in halls decorated with silk and gold, surrounded by dignitaries who spoke of peace and cooperation while their own kingdoms' wealth had been reaped through Masani steel. But the fleet waited below with the patience of professional killers, ready to remind the world that their queen's diplomacy came backed by bronze and iron and the accumulated hunger of sailors who'd learned that mercy was a luxury their enemies had never offered them.
Every treaty signed in those pleasant halls was written in invisible ink that only became legible when read by candlelight—the understanding that Masan's friendship lasted exactly as long as their interests aligned, and no longer. The coral rail grew warm beneath her palms, as if the stone itself approved of such honest clarity.