The eleven days of grueling, salt-crusted ocean travel culminate in an atmosphere so heavy with bitterness that it feels as though the air itself might shatter.
Up on the sun-bleached forward deck of the flagship Julia, the sea breeze sweeps across the rough timber floorboards, whipping dark strands of hair across Lourdes' tight, pale face. She stands frozen at the starboard bow rail, her boots planted wide against the subtle rolling of the ocean. Her fingers dig into the splintered pine wood with such immense, trembling force that her knuckles turn stark white against the dark timber. Her chest heaves rhythmically beneath her sweat-stained brigandine, her sharp, angular jaw locked in an unyielding grimace. Her gaze stays fixed on the horizon, where the faint, distant outline of land looms through the pale sea haze.
Hearing the rhythmic, light thud of footsteps against the deck, Lourdes turns her head sharply.
Aldo walks past her, his small frame erect, his face entirely devoid of expression. He holds a heavy wooden navigation slate under his left arm, his right hand carefully cradling an brass compass. He does not slow his pace, nor does he glance toward the bow rail.
With a sudden, explosive pivot, Lourdes whirled around to face him. Her leather boots strike the deck planks with a hollow thud, her shadow stretching long and sharp across the timber in the harsh afternoon light.
"We are joining a colonial invasion force, aren't we?" Lourdes demands, her voice cutting through the quiet groan of the ship's rigging, dripping with pure, unadulterated venom. "We are sailing to help Ofliran subjugate a sovereign island! Refute it, Aldo. Tell me I'm wrong!"
Aldo stops dead in his tracks. He does not jump, nor does he flinch. Slowly, deliberately, he lowers the navigation slate to his side, his arm locking straight. He turns his head to face her, his dark eyes wide, flat, and unreadable beneath his high forehead. His face remains an impassive mask, as hard and unfeeling as polished granite.
"I cannot refute facts, Lourdes," Aldo says, his voice completely level, devoid of any pitch or emotional heat. "We are under contract with Ofliran. We are on their ships, eating their grain, using their powder. We do not have the military luxury to mutiny on the open sea."
Lourdes takes a quick, aggressive step forward, planting her body directly in his path. Her eyes burn with a fierce, hot fury, her nostrils flaring as she stares down at the smaller boy. Her hands curl into tight fists at her sides, the leather of her gloves groaning under the strain.
"Then work badly!" Lourdes snaps, leaning down slightly so her face is mere inches from his, her chest heaving as she spits the words into the space between them. "Sabotage the effort! Drag your feet! Make them fail!"
Aldo raises his chin slightly, locking his cold, unblinking eyes directly onto hers. His facial muscles do not twitch. His mouth sets into a thin, razor-sharp line.
"No," Aldo says coldly, his tone striking the deck like a dropped iron bar. "If I command poorly, it taints my legal identity and ruins the reputation of Heilop's Professional Central Army. I am building a state, Lourdes. A commander who betrays his own contract loses all credibility. I still have a legal identity to maintain alongside our revolution."
Lourdes glares down at him, her lips parting as a sharp gasp of disbelief escapes her throat. She stands frozen, her body trembling slightly as her mind frantically processes his ruthless, unyielding logic. Her gaze flickers over his impassive features—the steady pulse in his neck, the complete absence of doubt in his dark eyes, the clinical stillness of his stance.
She closes her eyes tightly for a single second, letting out a long, ragged exhale through her nose. When she opens them again, the raw, emotional heat in her eyes has hardened into the cold, sharp focus of a seasoned strategist. She takes a deep, grounding breath, expanding her lungs, forcing her posture to straighten.
"Fine," Lourdes says, her voice tight, clipped, and hard as iron. "If we must conquer them for Ofliran, you must demand that the people of Sapocitradansia receive maximum local autonomy. No total colonial enslavement."
Aldo stares at her for a long, silent moment. The wind rustles the high collar of his woolen coat, fluttering the edges of the navigation parchment tucked under his arm. Slowly, deliberately, he gives a single, firm nod of his head.
"Fair enough," Aldo replies flatly, his voice utterly dry. "Maximum local autonomy reduces post-war occupation friction, lowers garrison costs, and saves me administrative headaches anyway."
Lourdes lets out a low, bitter breath through her teeth, her shoulders dropping an inch. She turns her face back toward the open sea, her jaw set tight, refusing to offer another word as Aldo steps around her and continues his precise, unhurried walk toward the quarterdeck stairs.
On the twelfth day—two full days ahead of the original navigation schedule—the heavy morning sea fog fractures under the glare of the rising sun.
Rising out of the shimmering ocean haze like a massive, emerald mountain, an uncharted, completely uninhabited island emerges from the blue depths. Towering sea cliffs of dark volcanic stone jut out from the roaring white surf, crowned by dense, primeval tropical canopy that sways gently in the offshore breeze. Tall, broad-leafed ferns and ancient hardwood trees blanket the rolling hills, while bright streams of clear freshwater cascade down grey stone faces, glittering like liquid silver in the morning light.
The four galleons—the Julia, the Cealina, the Maria, and the Amelia—drop their heavy, iron-bound hemp anchors into the calm, turquoise waters of a sheltered natural bay. The massive chains rattle through the hawseholes with deafening, metallic roars, sending flocks of bright, long-tailed tropical birds screaming out from the dense treeline ashore.
Landing longboats are swung out over the bulwarks on thick wooden booms and lowered into the water with sharp, rhythmic splashes. Armed scouting parties of earthlings and mercenaries row frantically toward the virgin shore, their wooden oars dipping into the crystal-clear water where schools of silver fish dart through submerged coral reefs.
The boots of the first landing party splash through the shallow surf, crunching heavily onto the soft, white sand beach. There are no paved roads, no stone watchtowers, and no signs of human habitation—only dense, pristine wilderness stretching as far as the eye can see.
Groups of earthling slave-soldiers move cautiously along the treeline, their eyes wide with awe as they take in the lush, untamed landscape. The ground beneath their boots is thick with soft moss, fallen leaves, and sprawling vines of wild berries. Young soldiers kneel in the damp earth, their calloused hands gathering woven reeds and wooden baskets, filling them to the brim with familiar, plump red berries, tart wild apples, and sweet tropical fruits that hang low from the heavy branches overhead.
Further inland, along the edge of a wide, sunlit meadow, small teams of Wanghai hunters creep silently through the high grass, their heavy crossbows raised and loaded. Through the dense foliage, they spot wild, un-domesticated cousins of mainland farm animals—massive, shaggy wild boars with curved ivory tusks rooting through the damp soil, and long-legged, broad-horned wild cattle grazing peacefully near the freshwater streams, completely unbothered by the sudden appearance of men.
Standing on the crest of a grassy ridge overlooking the bay, the female captain of the Julia plant her heavy boots into the soil. She wears her sword at her hip, her broad face flushed red with pride and exertion. She holds a long, thick wooden flagpole carved from seasoned oak, bearing the bold, blue-and-gold lion banner of the Republic of Ofliran.
With a heavy, grunt of exertion, she drives the sharpened butt of the flagpole deep into the soft earth of the ridge.
BANG!
She stomps her boot against the base of the pole, securing it into the soil. The heavy fabric of the Ofliran flag catches the ocean wind, snapping sharply over the virgin island.
"By order of the Doge!" the captain bellows, her booming voice echoing down the grassy slope toward the beach below, "this land is claimed as an official territory of the Republic of Ofliran!"
A few dozen yards further up the ridge, near a cluster of ancient, grey boulders, a fierce, explosive argument breaks out.
Aldo and Adelberd stand on opposite sides of a flat, sun-warmed rock where a thick, parchment map of the region is spread out, held down at the corners by heavy iron compasses and smooth river stones. Both boys are gesturing aggressively at the map, their faces flushed, their gestures sharp and frantic as their voices rise in heated, furious debate over island geopolitics.
"It makes no sense!" Adelberd yells, his strict Prussian discipline completely giving way to sheer, unbridled frustration. He slams his open palm down onto the flat rock, making the iron compasses rattle against the stone. "Sapocitradansia is an island nation! Why do they lack an extensive naval fleet? This uninhabited island sits right on their very doorstep, yet they haven't even established a single watchtower or wooden palisade here!"
Adelberd's face is bright red, his jaw working furiously as he leans over the map, pointing a stiff, gloved finger at the unmarked coastline.
"Because their political leadership is completely fragmented!" Aldo shouts back, his usually quiet, deadpan voice cracking with rare, volatile intensity. He grips a small wooden pencil in his hand, tapping the tip furiously against the parchment with such force that the graphite point snaps off, leaving a dark smudge on the paper. "They rely entirely on land-based fortifications, heavy wall artillery, and regional trade agreements! An island without a navy is an open invitation for conquest!"
Adelberd's eyes widen in outrage, his hands curling into fists as he steps around the rock, closing the distance between them.
"A state that ignores its own maritime security is run by fools!" Adelberd roars, stepping directly into Aldo's space, his chest pressed against the smaller boy's shoulder.
"Which is precisely why Ofliran is going to crush them!" Aldo shouts right back, his dark eyes wide and wild, his face inches from Adelberd's.
Before the fierce verbal clash can turn into a physical brawl, Lourdes and a small squad of her French mercenaries—hardened revolutionaries disguised as simple soldiers of fortune—step quickly between the two teenage strategists.
Lourdes grabs Adelberd by his shoulder straps, her strong hands shoving him backward, while two broad-shouldered French mercenaries grab Aldo under his arms, lifting the smaller boy a few inches off the ground and pulling him back from the map.
"Alright, alright! That's enough, you two grand strategists!" Lourdes says, a forced, theatrical laugh bursting from her chest as she places herself between them, her hands raised defensively. "Save some of that lovely military passion for the enemy tomorrow! We don't need our two brightest minds murdering each other over island real estate before we even see a castle wall!"
The French mercenaries chuckle loudly, patting Aldo on his back as they set him back down onto his feet. Aldo shakes his arms free, adjusting his wrinkled collar with a sharp, furious jerk of his hands, his mouth set in a tight, sullen pout. Adelberd snorts loudly, smoothing his coat down with stiff, trembling fingers, his glare still fixed on the map.
As dusk falls over the wild, untamed island, the blazing tropical sun dips below the western horizon, painting the sky in brilliant streaks of deep crimson, burnt orange, and bruised violet. The shadows lengthen across the white sand, and the ocean breeze turns cold, carrying the sharp scent of damp forest earth and roasting meat.
Down on the broad beach, massive bonfires are lit in a long, straight line, their golden flames roaring high into the twilight air, sending thick columns of gray wood smoke drifting over the dark water of the bay.
The female captain of the Julia steps up onto an overturned wooden supply crate at the center of the beach. She stands tall, her leather coat open, the firelight dancing across her scarred face and broad shoulders. She raises her arm, gesturing broadly to the massive crowd assembled before her.
All eight hundred and twenty men are gathered on the shore. Three hundred and twenty earthling slave-soldiers stand shoulder-to-shoulder alongside five hundred battle-hardened mercenaries—Ofliran veterans, Wanghai crossbowmen, and free-company pikemen. Their polished iron cuirasses, steel helmets, and long pike-tips catch the dying orange light of the sun, gleaming like a sea of dark fire along the water's edge.
The captain takes a deep, barrel-chested breath, her voice booming across the quiet, echoing bay with the authority of an ocean storm.
"Listen up!" the captain bellow, her rough, gravelly voice commanding absolute silence across the assembled rows of men. "We rest on this shore tonight! Rest your legs, sharpen your steel, and check your powder!"
She pauses, her dark eyes sweeping across the hundreds of pale, determined faces staring up at her in the firelight. She reaches to her belt, pulls out her long brass telescope with a sharp, metallic click, and extends it toward the sea.
She points the long brass tube across the dark, swelling waters of the bay, aiming directly toward the western horizon, where the faint, massive silhouette of a towering, mountainous landmass sits waiting in the deepening twilight.
"At dawn," she roars, her voice dropping to a low, lethal register that vibrates through the very ground beneath their boots, "we strike Sapocitradansia!"
A cold, collective silence grips the beach for a fleeting second, followed by the synchronous, metallic click of eight hundred men checking the locks of their weapons.