Return of the General's Daughter

The Aegis Palace lay cloaked in an unnatural stillness in the fragile hours after dawn. The great halls, usually alive with murmured debates and clattering footsteps, now held only the hushed scratch of quills and the muted shuffle of parchment.

Scribes bent low over their desks, transcribing coded reports with quick, nervous strokes. Courtiers lingered in silence, their gazes downcast, while guards stood immovable along the marble pillars, steel flashing cold in the pale morning light. At the head of the council table sat King Aragon—broad-shouldered, his face carved in grim lines, eyes as unyielding as granite.

The silence shattered like glass when the doors thundered open.

A scout staggered into the chamber, soot-streaked and ash-stained, his tunic torn nearly to rags. Each breath came ragged, his chest heaving as though he had outrun death itself. The council froze mid-motion, every gaze snapping toward the intruder.

"Your Majesty—" he rasped, bowing with trembling limbs before collapsing to one knee. "Blackhawk… the pirates… they struck the southeast coast. The docks… burned to the waterline."

A ripple of dread spread through the chamber, cold and contagious.

Prince Vaskar's voice cut through the air, sharp as drawn steel. "Explain clearly."

The scout's words tumbled out in fragments: barges set ablaze and steered into harbor, pirates scaling the seawalls like dark phantoms, civilians dragged into squares under threat of the swords. He spoke of smoke rising high enough to choke the stars—and of Blackhawk himself, the infamous captain whose name trembled on his lips like a curse.

General Galahad, silent and unmoving at the side of the table, absorbed every word with a soldier's ear. His expression darkened as he pieced together the threads of devastation. These were not random raids. This was a strategy—systematic, precise, a slow strangling of Estalis from the coast inward.

Gabor's words rang into his ears. His words were not mere threats. Indeed he has connections with the pirates.

Before the scout had even finished, the doors groaned again. Another messenger stumbled forward, pale and shaken, clutching a sealed parchment as though it might burn him.

The scribe took it and handed it to King Aragon, who tore it open. His eyes, already hard, grew darker still as he read aloud: "The second raid is confirmed. Eastern fishing village destroyed. Survivors fleeing north. The coastal villages are in panic."

The council erupted. Voices overlapped in a rising storm—ministers cursing the pirates, advisors whispering of shortages of salt and fish that could starve the kingdom, scribes scribbling frantically to record the mounting losses.

One minister rose above the chaos, his voice measured but urgent. "This is no longer about Baron Gabor. The pirates are sending a message. Without him, Estalis is exposed. They seek to strangle our salt trade, starve our people, and force the crown to its knees."

The king's fist slammed down upon the oak table, the crack reverberating through the chamber. "Then they will learn the cost of raising fire against Estalis."

The ministers searched his face for hesitation, for the shadow of doubt—but they found none. King Aragon's composure held, his presence as immovable as the walls around them. Yet the truth lingered like a blade at the throat: the pirates had struck twice in less than two days, each time sharper, swifter. Could a kingdom weary from two wars truly weather this storm?

The king's gaze lingered on the maps unfurled before him. He traced the coastlines with a finger, the lifeblood of rivers and trade routes, fragile arteries now under threat. This was no longer the hunt for transgressors at sea. This was war. And the pirates had already spilled the first blood.

Outside the council, Galahad wasted no time. He dispatched a message by pigeon to Prince Alaric and his father, urging them to march at once for Zaraga, a bustling seaport further south. If his instincts proved true, that was where Blackhawk would strike next.

Far to the west, the Phoenix Legion, commanded by Prince Alaric and General Odin, was already threading its way through the jagged passes of Mount Roca when the pigeon descended. They read the words, their expressions hardening. Without hesitation, they turned back.

But Zaraga lay a full day's march away. It was too long. By the time their boots reached the town's shoreline, the harbor might already be reduced to ash.

Alaric and Odin made their choice swiftly. The Eagle Team would travel ahead. Asael and Gideon were summoned, to lead the Eagle Team. Lara insisted on joining them, and so did Logan, Nicolas, and a band of seasoned archers who volunteered to follow.

They did not take the road. Instead, they unfurled the great air balloon—the same vessel that had carried them from Calma to Savadra. Its canvas swelled against the mountain winds, creaking like the breath of some slumbering giant. As the ropes loosened and the balloon lifted into the gray sky, the team ascended toward Zaraga, racing against time and hoping that they would not be too late.

After a few hours, they arrived at Zaraga where the sky bled with smoke.

From the air balloon's vantage, Prince Alaric and his companions saw chaos already blooming across the harbor. Flames licked the wooden piers where fishing vessels and merchant ships had once stood proud. Smoke curled upward in black plumes, staining the heavens. Screams carried on the wind, mingling with the harsh clang of steel and the guttural roars of pirates drunk on slaughter.

Black sails, tattered but terrible, crowded the bay. The pirate fleet lay like carrion birds upon the water, disgorging raiders who poured into the streets with axes and torches.

"We're too late," muttered Gideon, fists white-knuckled around the rail.

"No," Alaric snapped, his eyes burning. "Not too late. Not while there are still people alive to save."

The air balloon dipped lower, Asael steering against the currents with practiced precision. Arrows whistled upward from the streets, black-feathered shafts loosed by pirates who had spotted the craft. One struck the balloon's wicker frame with a sharp crack.

Then an arrow was shot and it was flying toward them.