Under Raven's banner.
The general opened his mouth.
To scream. To curse. To beg.
Raven swung his hand.
The motion was small. A flick. The gesture of a man brushing away a fly.
The ship — the 'Iron Tide', the flagship, the pride of the Valdorian navy — split.
Not exploded. Not shattered. Split. Cleanly. Along the center line. From bow to stern. The deck separated. The hull separated. The keel separated. The two halves — the port side and the starboard side — fell away from each other. The ocean rushed in.
The general fell.
Between the halves. Into the water. Into the black, freezing, churning water. His body — the body of a man who had survived forty years at sea, who had won twelve battles, who had never been defeated — sank.
The flash.
The light. White. Blinding. From Raven's hand. The mana — concentrated, released — flashed. The flash consumed the wreckage. The ship. The bodies. The debris. Everything vanished. Consumed by the light. Erased.
The ocean was calm.
