The Blind Behemoth was not a tavern for honest men. Tucked away in the tangled streets of the Smuggler's District, it was a place where gold bought silence and the ale tasted like rust.
Tonight, however, the silence had been bought by a hurricane.
"More wine! And bring the whole cask this time, you one-eyed badger!"
Captain Vane sprawled across three chairs pushed together, looking like a king holding court in a pigsty. His red wyvern-leather coat was unbuttoned, revealing the gold chains tangled in his chest hair. On his lap sat a terrified barmaid whom he was feeding grapes with surprising gentleness, while his boots rested on a table stained with centuries of spilled grog.
His crew—a motley collection of sky-pirates with jagged teeth and magical tattoos—filled the rest of the tavern, singing a bawdy song about a mermaid and a kraken.
Vane took a swig from a jeweled goblet, bored out of his mind. The Festival hadn't started yet, and this "shore leave" was proving dull. No one here had the spine to challenge him.
The tavern door opened.
The noise of the room didn't stop, but the temperature seemed to drop ten degrees.
A figure in black robes glided in. He didn't walk like a pirate or a drunkard. He moved with the precision of a scalpel. The hood obscured his face, but the silver clasp at his throat caught the candlelight.
Lord Blake stopped in the center of the room. He looked at the chaos with mild distaste, like a man finding a stain on his boot.
"You," Vane pointed a lazy finger at the intruder. "You look like a crow at a wedding. Get out. You're ruining the vibe."
The pirates laughed, hands drifting to their daggers.
Blake didn't flinch. He slowly lowered his hood, revealing his pale, sharp features. His dark eyes locked onto Vane's, ignoring everyone else.
"I have a proposition for the Captain of The Obsidian Gallows," Blake said softly.
The room went dead silent.
Vane's smile vanished. He sat up, pushing the barmaid gently off his lap. His hand dropped to the massive cutlass leaning against the table.
"You know the name of my ship," Vane said, his voice dropping an octave into a dangerous growl. "That means you're either a spy... or suicidal."
"I am neither," Blake walked forward, stopping just out of sword reach. "I am a man who knows what you have been searching for. For three centuries."
Vane's eyes narrowed. He motioned with his head. "Everyone out. Now."
The pirates didn't argue. They scrambled for the door, dragging the confused tavern staff with them. Within seconds, the Blind Behemoth was empty, save for the Pirate and the Advisor.
Vane poured himself another drink, the tension in his shoulders coiled like a spring. "Talk fast, Crow. Before I decide to paint the walls with you."
"You seek the Heart of Ozyra," Blake stated calmly. "You hunt for the ultimate power to bring back to your Master."
Vane slammed the goblet down, shattering it. "Do not speak of Him. And yes, I hunt the Heart. Is it here? Is it under this floorboards?"
"The Heart is a myth," Blake lied smoothly. "A ghost story to keep children afraid of the dark. It was destroyed in the Great Betrayal."
Vane looked disappointed. He slumped back. "I knew it. A wild goose chase. Rask owes me ten gold pieces."
"But," Blake continued, stepping closer. "The stories are not entirely false. The Heart was destroyed... but its pieces remain."
Vane looked up. "Pieces?"
"Shards," Blake corrected. "Fragments of immense power. Aethelgard has one. It is buried deep beneath the castle, woven into the very foundations. It is what gives our soil life. It is what makes our walls unbreakable."
Blake leaned in, his voice becoming a conspiratorial whisper.
"It is a source of necromantic energy so potent, it rivals the Heart itself."
Vane licked his lips. "And why are you telling me this? You're the Queen's pet, aren't you? I saw your face on the coins."
"I am a man of vision," Blake sneered. "And I am tired of serving a child. I can give you the Shard, Captain. But I need a hammer to crack the vault."
"The vault being the castle," Vane surmised, grinning. "And the hammer being my ship."
"Precisely."
Vane stood up, pacing the room. The gears in his head were turning. He wasn't the smartest man, but he was greedy. And he was ambitious.
"If I bring this Shard to the Master..." Vane mused.
"Why bring it to Him?" Blake interrupted.
Vane froze. He turned slowly to look at Blake. "Careful, Crow. That sounds like treason."
"Is it treason to claim what you deserve?" Blake asked, planting the seed. "You are the 12th General. You roam the skies, doing the dirty work, living in the shadow of a being who sits on a throne of bone. With the Shard... you wouldn't be a servant, Vane. You would be a God."
Vane's eyes widened. The thought was intoxicating. He imagined it—ruling the skies not as an agent, but as the King of the World.
"And you?" Vane asked suspiciously. "What do you get out of this?"
"I get the throne of Aethelgard," Blake said simply. "You kill the Queen. You destroy the Guardian. I take the crown to 'restore order.' You fly away with the Shard. We both win."
Vane looked at Blake. He saw the cold, calculating evil in the man's eyes. It was different from his own chaotic violence. It was sharper.
Vane liked it.
"The Festival of Light," Vane grinned, revealing a gold tooth. "Two days from now. The sky will be full of fireworks."
"And your cannons," Blake nodded. He pulled the folded map from his pocket and placed it on the table. "This marks the blind spots in the aerial defense wards. And the exact location of the Royal Box."
Vane picked up the map. He laughed—a deep, booming sound that shook the dust from the rafters.
"You're a devil, Crow," Vane said admiringly.
"I am a pragmatist," Blake corrected, pulling his hood back up. "Do we have a deal?"
Vane poured two glasses of wine from the cask. He slid one to Blake.
"To the Queen," Vane toasted, his eyes dancing with malice. "May her reign end with a bang."
Blake took the glass. He didn't drink. He just smiled.
"To the new world order."