Return of the General's Daughter

Far from the Aegis Palace, across the restless seas, the black-flagged galleons of the Surienste fleet swayed like predators at rest. In the captain's quarters, the air was thick with salt, smoke, and menace.

A messenger knelt before the pirate captain—a scarred man whose reputation alone could silence harbors. His name was Blackhawk, Captain of the Surienste and the most feared name on the Eastern Sea.

The messenger's voice shook. "Baron Gabor has been taken. Imprisoned by order of the Norse brothers. They say he was dragged to the dungeons like a common criminal."

For a moment, silence hung over the chamber. Then Blackhawk laughed. A low, guttural sound that sent shivers through the crew listening outside.

"Fools," he spat, slamming his cup of rum onto the map-strewn table. "Do they think their kingdoms thrive on their crowns? Their salt runs because of him. Their sea lanes are safe because of us."

His first mate, a man with a hook on his right hand instead of fingers, leaned in. "Father, if Uncle Gabor rots, Estalis loses its shield. Without us, their fleets are blind lambs, ripe for slaughter."

Blackhawk grin widened, teeth yellowed by years of plunder. "Exactly, my son. Your uncle, the baron, was more than a partner. He was a bridge between land and sea. Break that bridge… and we break their kingdom."

The crew erupted in agreement, pounding tables, snarling for blood. Already, torches flared on the decks above as word spread.

Blackhawk rose, planting a dagger into the map, the blade piercing Estalis' southeast coast. "They dared to chain one of ours. So we'll chain their shores in fire. Their villages, their trade routes, their salt. We'll strip it all until Estalis begs us for mercy."

A silver-braided woman smirked. "And when the people starve, their nobles will turn on one another. All we need is chaos."

Blackhawk raised his cup again, his voice carrying like a war drum. "Ready the ship. By tomorrow, Estalis will burn. And every crown in the region will remember why they feared the Pirates of Surienste."

Then he turned to the man with a hook in his hand. "My son, you will handle the raid on Estalis' southeast coast."

"Yes, Father. I, Hook, will make you proud."

Above deck, the galleons roared to life—anchors pulled, sails unfurled, and the horizon darkened with the promise of war.

...

On the day that the Phoenix Legion withdrew from the capital to return to Calma, the people of southeast coast woke to the sound of gulls and waves that morning—unaware their peace was about to be shattered.

Fishermen hauled nets heavy with silver-scaled catch, traders loaded sacks of salt onto wooden carts, and children chased each other barefoot along the docks.

Then came the horns.

Not Estalis horns, but the low, bone-deep blast of pirate war horns.

On the horizon, sails rose like black wings. At first, the villagers thought it was a storm cloud—until the crests of skulls and serpents against the black flag caught the light of dawn. The ship of Surienste had come, blotting out the sun with their galleons.

The first strike was merciless. Flaming pitch rained from catapults, hissing as it struck wooden homes and storehouses. Within moments, the air filled with smoke and screams. Armed raiders surged ashore in longboats, blades glinting, war cries tearing through the morning calm.

Estalis soldiers rushed to meet them, but the pirates fought with feral precision. Every clash of steel was answered by another scream.

A mother clutched her child, sprinting toward the safety of the hills—only to stumble as a fireball split the street ahead. Salt warehouses exploded like tinder, the wealth of Estalis turning into choking plumes of ash.

From his flagship, Hook watched the chaos unfold with satisfaction. The southeast coast burned bright against the pale horizon, a beacon of his wrath. He raised his spyglass, surveying the cowering villagers herded into the square.

"Leave survivors," he barked to his lieutenants. "Let them carry tales north—of how Estalis bleeds when Gabor is touched. Fear is sharper than steel."

And so, while half the town was reduced to embers, the pirates spared enough to spread the horror. Broken men and weeping women staggered toward the inland roads, their stories already dripping with terror.

By nightfall, the pirates' fleet had melted back into the sea, leaving only ruin in their wake—ships heavy with plunder, prisoners, and salt that once fueled Estalis's wealth.

But the message was clear: Estalis was being attacked.

And somewhere in the smoke, whispers began—if the pirates could burn the coast so easily, what would stop them from marching inland?

The pirates did not stop with the southeast coast. While the ashes of the first attack still smoldered, the Skull and her sister ships struck again—this time on the east coast.

The town of Azul slept peacefully under a crescent moon, its lantern-lit streets lined with salt traders' wagons and river barges heavy with goods. The night watch had grown complacent; they believed pirates feared to venture the dock of the east coast, protected by the natural sand barriers.

They were wrong.

Silent as shadows, the pirates waded through the shallow waters. By the time the alarm bell tolled, the raiders were already scaling the docks, knives flashing in the moonlight.

A sudden explosion shattered the night—Blackhawk's men had loaded barrels of pitch into one of the barges and set it aflame. The current carried the blazing vessel into the docks, turning the shore into a wall of fire.

Trapped between flame and blade, the guards faltered. Pirates surged through the narrow streets, cutting down resistance with brutal efficiency. Homes were looted, taverns torn apart, and those who resisted were dragged into the square.

Blackhawk himself strode into the heart of the chaos, his coat lined with sea-salted leather, his voice carrying above the screams.

"Tell your king what becomes of Estalis without Baron Gabor! Tell him we will take his salt, his ships, and his crown if he does not bow!"

His men drove captives to their knees, binding them with coarse ropes. Those too weak to walk were left behind in the burning streets. Children cried, clutching the ashes of toys, their faces streaked with soot and fear.

By dawn, Azul was a ruin. Smoke coiled into the sky like a signal fire, visible for miles. Half the town's salt stores were gone, stolen onto pirate ships; the rest was scattered, blackened, or thrown back into the sea.

The devastation spread with a rhythm—hit, vanish, then strike again. The pirates did not seek conquest. They sought terror, and they wielded it with surgical precision.

And through it all, Blackhawk's laughter echoed across the waters, a sound villagers swore would haunt them until their dying days.