Lorelai leaned against the rail, her hair fluttering in the wind. The howls of an old Theri demon echoed across the deck, Tanner’s body screaming on the stretcher. But she didn’t turn. She had done what she needed to.

  “Stop stop.” The Minotaur cried. “No more… please.”

  “Shut it.” Serena whipped, “Or would rather bleed out.”

  Metal pressed skin, and Tanner blasted out another scream. Burned flesh, scorched wood, and blood soaking the blanket.

  And as Serena pulled back the hot iron, she plunged it back into the makeshift furnace. The new smoke cooked the loose skin, bubbled the blood to steam.

  Tanner croaked, just about gasping for air.

  “My hands…” he whimmered, waving his stumps “Where are my hands? Where are my hands?”

  Lore’s tail curled. She had thrown those overboard. He was not getting them back. Not ever. She gritted her fangs, clenching the bannister with her nails. Nobody groped her and got away with it.

  Then, lingering like a guilty conscience over her shoulder, Matthias cleared his throat.

  “You scare me sometimes”, he said, “I can’t tell if you’re friend or foe.”

  But she didn’t care what this large Batrakin, who never knew what she felt, thought. He might never see the context and be too good for his own good, but she didn’t plan on giving a shit. She’d do it again and again. He is lucky, the crew stopped her from taking more. But she did crush his manhood, before they pulled her away—a blissful pop sound if she remembered it right.

  She pressed her boot to the planks and just leaned further off the rail. Her new sword, attached to her hip. The Voidium mist below swirled in the endless sea. The curls of glitter, reaching up, phantoms brushing against the hull.

  “Well,” Matthias said. “If you need anything, I’m sure Serena or I can get it done,” he paused, standing a little straighter, “my crew is yours, Princess.”

  Lore didn’t flinch this time, but only continued watching the mist. Her blade held tight.

  “How far till we reach the port?” she asked.

  “Any moment, ma’am,” he said. “And did you want to go over the shares. There is a lot—”

  “You can keep the rest of the loot,” she said. She patted her glass sword, “I do not need vases, paintings or slaves.”

  Matthias shuddered at that, peering at the dozens of lifeless demons drooling on his deck.

  “We plan on... well, shooting them. Honestly, it's kinder.”

  Lore said nothing. What could she say? She couldn't save the dammed. Couldn’t ask them what they wanted.

  Then she heard boots march, his shoes specifically. Marshal creaked the deck, his Inquisitor weight flexing the wood like no ordinary demon would. His steps were not fast, but sure, heavy and exact. He knew where and how every move interacted with his surroundings, almost to a ghostly degree.

  This was the one man who didn’t yank her off, Tanner; no, she saw that fragment in his shadow. He wanted to pull that man apart himself.

  He strolled up beside her, calm, cool, and certainly hiding something.

  “So what is it now?” He asked. “Lorelai… or Princess?”

  She glowered at him, like she might push him off the railing with a stare.

  “Nether.” She said.

  He leaned on the metallic pipe, the wooden cushion creaking in protest, the distance between them like a steel wall. Iron and carbon stitched between every word, every twitch in her tail.

  Could she ask about his Fragment? Would he even tell her? Would he call her crazy? Would he deny what she felt? Deny that wrath.

  But the man just lingered, looking out in silence, and sighed. Lore also returned her nose to the gust of wind. Mist watching, they call it. Some say the gods lived down there. Some say monsters ate those gods.

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  It swirled around the ship, edged to the bolts like a magnet: the endless pit, an oasis of glitter, and nightmares.

  “What do you plan on doing with that sword?” Marshal asked.

  “What kingdom do you rule over?” she said.

  He frowned, still not facing her.

  “Will you… Kill the monarch of wrath?” he asked.

  She turned, growling, “No. Not before I kick the throne-stealing bastard off my seat. But what happens after, who knows?”

  Marshal just kept staring off, scanning the mist for something, maybe for the following words he chose to keep from her—secrets she was fed up of skirting around.

  So she stepped closer, her tail cracking the rail.

  “What?” Lore asked. “Will you inform the ruler I’m coming? Tell the wretched monarch of wrath his death is coming. How inevitable it will be.”

  The monarch grimaced, his jaw cherry-picking words like a fussy child.

  “I would think he knew this day would come.” He said.

  Lore stepped.

  “He?” she asked, “You know him, then?”

  “Well, you could say, I know him best,” Marshal muttered.

  She opened her fangs, hissing closer. She wanted to demand answers. Wanted to cut the truth out of him. But her breath caught on something—the way he watched the mist, like it knew him better than she did. Like she saw guilt in those eyes.

  But before she could press for more, claw out his stupid word play, she heard it before she saw it. Battle ships, cruisers, pods. All cracked the air. The vibration of the hull, the snap of the sound barrier.

  And the port of Wrath came into view.

  The cluster of ships, tightly packed in honeycomb docks, all arranged to fit inside an outer ring that circled the city—a border of titanium and glass, a shield to the unclaimed skys.

  No large cruiser could pass this point, as inside this behemoth lay the connected bridges and platforms. They hooked like hamoks between the ring and the centre dungeon complex. A pillar so massive it pierced through the top of the realm's rock and stretched endlessly to the infinite mist below.

  It was a miracle of engineering, a testament to the old kings. A city hung by threads of steel, towed in place by a web of wire. All it took was one rogue ship, a simple accident, to tear it all down.

  And that would explain why the knights glared at their pirate vessel, with glass guns burning hot.

  “Identify yourself,” one barked. “This is Wrath airspace — you are under our law.”

  “Well, I never expected a warm welcome,” Matthias muttered. He looked back. “Guess it’s your turn, princess.”

  Lore grumbled at that. She was still in her sooty dress up. The smear of crimson on her shirt. And she might have looked more like a murderer vagabond than a pirate, much less a noble princess returning home.

  But it was too late for a wardrobe change. Too late for second thoughts.

  She stepped onto a higher plinth, her rags floating in the breeze, the roar of ship traffic deafening to the silence that came next.

  Her tail squeezed, her breath halted, and her palms started to sweat. She closed her eyes, but her pulse refused to slow.

  One. Two. Three. Four. Five—

  “State yourself this instant!” screamed a knight.

  Six. Seven. Eight—

  Crystalline rifles clicked. Time stuttered, and their aim trained on her, her body refusing to obey her command. The Voidium curled up her thigh, the chill knitted between her fingers, and Ego’s whisper licked her earlobe.

  “Say it.” Ego purred. “Tell them. TELL THEM WHO YOU ARE!”

  Her lashes fluttered open.

  Nine.

  “My name is Amara Whitfield, Countess of Avaritia’s thirty-first province!” Lore announced.

  Ten.