dark sisters's edge slipped through the air, bit into a rust-pocked helm, and the fragile skull beneath.
Shnk—hmm...
The feel of steel cleaving flesh and scraping bone was refined by the blade's impossible keenness into a low, clear metallic hum, like a plucked lute-string.
From start to finish there was almost no resistance; it slid as cleanly as slicing through firm butter.
Nice.
With a flick of his wrist Aegon shook the red-and-white drops from the tip and silently praised the sword.
He had only just claimed the legendary Valyrian Steel blade, and the warrior's itch to test a new treasure had grown too strong.
Instead of loosing Ghidorah for an efficient slaughter, he had led a hand-picked company of Bloodsworn to wipe out the last small pirate nest on the route.
It was as much a trial for dark sisters as a final sweep of these waters before turning home.
The fight was never in doubt; it felt more like an execution and a weapon test than a battle.
dark sisters's bite left ordinary steel far behind—crude leather, rusted mail, even iron helms might as well have been paper.
Back aboard the flagship The Quiet, Aegon stood at the prow, studying the chart with a faint frown.
Pirate nests were getting harder to find.
Like rats startled from their holes, the scattered bands had either vanished into hidden reefs or banded together into something far more dangerous.
Scouts reported large, converted war-fleets—nearly a thousand strong—loitering off the bigger isles to the northeast.
A ride on Ghidorah could scour them as easily as The Abyss of Torture, but simple massacre would not temper his growing army.
He needed hard, measured fights to forge discipline and pick the hardiest, not wholesale slaughter.
Besides, time was running short.
'Karl,' he called to his gaunt first mate, 'count every man, weapon and scrap of armour again—include the prisoners we just took.'
'Aye, Your Grace!' Karl vanished with typical speed.
Inside half an hour he was back, barely able to contain his excitement, a crude list in hand.
'It's tallied, my prince!' His voice cracked with elation.
'Seven hundred and eighty-seven blades that can stand in a line—all blooded, all proven!'
He unrolled the parchment like a treasure map: 'Five hundred suits of plate from The Abyss; most need oil and rivets, but the bones are sound.'
'Swords we have in plenty—over a thousand. Polish them and they'll kill.'
'And what we stripped from pirate dens and those tyroshi—' he jabbed the list.
'—gives us three or four hundred leather, studded and old mail hauberks. Not plate, but they'll turn a cut.'
'Shields are thinner: a hundred good kite and tower pieces, but with the patched ones every man can hide behind something.'
He drew a breath. 'Your Grace, we're armoured, shielded, armed to the teeth—every last man!'
'Set us before any Free City and we'd pass for a first-rate company. Stores are full; we can fight a hard campaign.'
Aegon listened, face unreadable, violet eyes busy with colder arithmetic.
Eight hundred fighters, mail or plate on every back, five hundred core suits, food enough.
A solid weight of iron and flesh settled in his chest.
The moment had come.
'Signal the fleet—make ready, gather every soul aboard.'
'Finish water and biscuit, then up anchor. Course: Lys.'
'Aye!' Karl slammed fist to breast, spun on his heel and strode away, footfalls ringing.
Sails filled; the line of ships cut the sapphire sea, turning for home and Lys.
The passage was calm.
Until the third afternoon, when the lookout's cry cracked across the water.
A small single-master, steering like a mad thing, limped straight for the centre of the fleet—straight for The Quiet.
'Hard a-port—clear her!' the watch officer roared.
The great galley groaned, timbers complaining as the helmsman hurled the rudder over.
The little craft scraped past the towering prow, a wave slapping her so hard she nearly rolled her masts out.
'Son of a—! Who's the blind bastard trying to kill us?' sailors screamed, still shaking.
The commotion brought Aegon on deck.
He stepped to the rail, violet gaze cold on the battered boat that had almost rammed them.
The small boat was a wreck; only two or three figures fought to steady her hull and patch the splintered planks.
Among them, the man clinging to the bow and straining to look up made Aegon's pupils contract a fraction.
Though his face was streaked with soot and blood, his hair matted with brine and sweat, his clothes in tatters, Aegon still recognized him.
He was the gaunt, middle-aged steward who had stood in the warehouse district of Lys, quietly overseeing Luciana Hain's underground affairs.
What was he doing here—and in such a state?
"Drop a ladder. Let him aboard," Aegon ordered, a faint, grim note in his voice.
The rope ladder was flung over the side.
The man had clearly spent his last ounce of strength; with help from a companion he clawed his way up rung by rung.
The instant his feet touched The Quiet's solid deck his legs buckled, nearly spilling him, yet he forced himself upright, gaze darting frantically until it locked on the black-armored, silver-haired figure at the rail.
He stumbled forward, half-crawling, and dropped to his knees a few paces from Aegon, oblivious to the Bloodsworn blades that flashed half out of their sheaths around him.
His forehead struck the cold planks with a dull thud.
"My lord! Lord Lotte, please! Save our lady—save Lady Luciana!" He lifted a face streaked with tears, blood, and snot, eyes raw with despair.
"The Hain line… she's its last shoot left alive! I beg you, for the sake of—of past kindness, help her! Only you can!"
Aegon's brows snapped together, a sudden weight sinking in his chest.
He flicked a hand, motioning the over-eager guards back a step, yet his stare stayed icy. "Speak plainly—what happened?"
The man clutched at the straw as it drifted past, words tumbling over themselves: "The plan… everything was going to plan!"
"My lady… my lady received a secret invitation from the Roagar Family—final terms, they said, a banquet to settle them. She went, took a few trusted men… and never came back!"
A sob tore from his throat. "Next thing we knew, Lys locked its gates, soldiers poured into the streets, arrests everywhere!"
"The Roagar mansion was surrounded, our safehouses rooted out one by one! Brothers dead or scattered… I fought free, stole this leaking tub, and—and ran…"
The scheme had been blown?
That single thought flashed through Aegon's mind, sharp and cold.
Hard on its heels came a surge of anger laced with bitter disappointment.
Useless when it matters—always too late to save, too quick to ruin.
He turned away, already heading for the cabin, voice flat: "Your troubles are none of mine."
"My lord! Please—don't go!" The man shrieked, frantic, and tried to fling himself at Aegon's boots, but two Bloodsworn pinned his arms.
He thrashed, shouting hoarsely, "Hear me out—hear me!"
"Your… your name! My lady—she sealed every whisper; only us few at the core knew!"
"She never breathed a syllable of you to the Roagars—never! I swear it by the honor of the Hain ancestors!"
Aegon's stride checked, almost imperceptibly.
The steward clung to that flicker of hesitation, gasping: "Right now… the Magister of Lys thinks the revolt is crushed! Their vigilance is lowest! Troops are spread thin across the city!"
"If you strike Lys now—one sudden blow—they'll never expect it! No need for insiders; just hit! You can pull her out! Please—our only chance!"
Slowly Aegon faced him again, violet eyes depthless as they measured the wreck of a man burning with desperate hope.
"No one knows?" he echoed, tone unreadable.
"There were plenty in that warehouse. Can you swear every one of them will keep silent under torture?"
The man shuddered; anguish warred in his eyes, then gave way to a fanatic resolve.
He met Aegon's frigid stare and croaked, "No… I couldn't swear, so…"
He swallowed blood-thick saliva and forced the words out like broken glass: "Before I saw the trap and fled… I… I served them wine laced with poison—all who'd been there, all who knew you'd come."
"They… they're asleep now… forever."
A hush fell across the deck so complete the wind in the rigging sounded like mourning.
Aegon said nothing; he simply studied the man who, to guard a secret and leave his mistress one last hope, had murdered every comrade who shared that knowledge.
His gaze was a cold abyss, weighing truth against lie, measuring the colossal risk—and the narrow, fleeting window of opportunity.
At length Aegon spoke, calm as still water: "Inside."
He turned and walked into the cabin first.
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