The sea before Baía Infuocata seethed like a living creature, breathing smoke, salt, and promises of blood. The docks groaned under the weight of soaked timber and rusted chains, while wind-worn flags lashed against masts like standards of a kingdom weary of war.
There, still bound to her moorings like a beast waiting to be unleashed, lay the Lua Ardente.
The frigate rose imposing, her long, elegant hull carved from black oak, darkened not only by tar but by years of sea and battle, for which she had been conceived. Along the length of her sides, forty-four mouths of fire peered out from reinforced gunports, each encircled by forged steel rings – an innovation both rare and costly, reserved only for ships meant to survive where others would burn or splinter apart. The metal, polished yet scarred by grooves and visible rivets, gleamed with a cold hue in the fading light, as though the frigate wore armour.
The prow bore a carved figurehead: a crescent moon wrapped in sculpted flames, with aggressive, almost living contours, as if the fire were about to consume the very sky. The name Lua Ardente was engraved below, in deep letters painted a dark red, reminiscent of dried blood. The main mast rose tall and steady, supporting heavy sails of thick canvas, dyed an aged white, prepared to endure storms and prolonged pursuits.
The deck, still silent, smelled of freshly treated wood, hot iron and salt. Thick chains, also reinforced with steel, held the ship immobile, despite the hull seeming eager to cut through the waters of the bay. Every detail of the frigate spoke of inevitable war: the wide deck for swift manoeuvres, the raised quarterdeck for command and superior fire, the reinforced railings designed to withstand violent boarding actions.
And there, upon this stage of wood and metal, Victória stood aboard the ship – not as a guest, nor as an apprentice, but as the mistress of the Lua Ardente. The frigate still slept, but it was a restless sleep, like a sheathed blade.
Moments later, the ship's calm was broken by ordered chaos, as barrels of fresh water rolled across worn planks, sacks of flour and salt were hoisted by creaking pulleys, and crates of gunpowder – marked with warning symbols in charcoal – were passed from hand to hand with almost reverent care. The smell of sweat mingled with salt, tar and iron, creating a heavy air, typical of ships about to depart for war – or for something worse.
The new crew was a mosaic of broken pasts: former slaves from Torre del Vento and Baía Infuocata, men and women with calloused hands and watchful eyes, worked without whips or shouts, but with a silent urgency. Some bore old scars on wrists and backs; others carried in their eyes the distrust of those who had learned that freedom could be taken away as swiftly as it was granted. Even so, they moved with purpose, for each barrel stowed in the hold was a step further from the chains they had left behind.
Interspersed among them were some twenty Sailors of the Eternal Lighthouse, recognisable by their firm posture and precise gestures. They had learned the sea under the shadow of that immortal tower that guided Isolara, and they carried with them a cold, almost religious discipline. They watched their new companions with caution, but without disdain, for at sea, all bled the same colour.
At the heart of this commotion stood Matteo Perladoro. He was not the tallest man, nor the strongest, but there was a quiet solidity to him. His face was now marked by sun and wind, and he volunteered without hesitation to serve as Victória's right hand, as if destiny were merely another tide to accept.
Victória crossed the deck as all this unfolded around her. She felt the subtle sway of the frigate beneath her feet, even still bound to the docks, as if the Lua Ardente recognised her. She passed sailors laden with gunpowder, former slaves hoisting provisions, men who looked at her with curiosity, respect, or silent expectation. She did not divert her gaze from her destination, which was the ship's helm, the place entrusted to her.
When she laid her hand upon the smooth wood of the wheel, she felt a shiver run up her arm. It was not fear, but pride – contained, heavy, almost dangerous pride. Since she had been a flat-chested, painfully shy girl who accompanied Luna aboard the Caelestis, learning and absorbing all that Luna taught her, and now, half a year from her eighteenth spring, her Queen had given her the chance to prove everything she had learned, as commander of this frigate and of this crew made of survivors and believers.
Luna Caelestis ascended the gangplank of the Lua Ardente without announcing her arrival, for she had no need to do so. Her presence was felt like the turning of the tide. She wore a naval coat of austere cut, dark blue, fastened to the collar, with discreet silver embroidery recalling waning moons. Her hair, tied in a firm knot, left her face unobstructed – a face marked by responsibility. Luna's eyes swept the deck with calculated coldness, assessing everything: sailors, ropes, weapons and discipline.
She began with the supplies. She ordered barrels opened, plunged her hand into the flour, smelled the powder, rapped her knuckles against crates of shot, listening to the sound they returned. She asked short, direct questions, and repeated none. Where she found faults, her gaze hardened; where she saw competence, she merely tilted her head slightly, but offered no praise – she recorded everything mentally.
The sailors straightened at her passing. Some of the former slaves lowered their eyes; others held her gaze with effort. Luna neither ignored them nor reassured them. To her, upon that deck, all were equal: precious resources in a war that might be nearing its final stage.
Only after completing her inspection did she approach the helm and Victória, who stood there motionless, hands still resting on the wheel, as if already sailing open waters. Luna observed her for a moment longer than necessary, assessing not her posture, which was impeccable, but the invisible firmness beneath it.
– How do you feel? – she asked, in a low, almost intimate tone, lost amid the creaking of the ship and the flapping of loose sails.
– Ready to serve you, My Queen – Victória replied without hesitation. – As I always have.
The words were simple, but heavy with history, and Luna recognised it. A faint smile, brief as an eclipse, touched her lips as swiftly as it vanished. There was approval in her gaze – both sentimental and strategic, for she knew Victória did not speak merely to please; she spoke because she believed in Luna.
Luna stepped closer, resting her gloved hand on the railing beside the helm.
– Then tell me – she continued – what should our next step be?
The silence that followed Luna Caelestis's question weighed more heavily than the sound of the waves gently striking the hull of the Lua Ardente. Victória did not answer at once. She released the wheel slowly, like one stepping away from a blade still hot, and looked back towards the harbour – to the docks, to the frenzy of the sailors, to the city that still smelled of smoke and salvation.
She thought of the Solterran fleet scattered across the sea like an invisible plague. She thought of ships that flew no honest flags, of holds reeking of chains, of ports that still screamed in terror at night.
– Most of the Solterran fleet is still out there – said Victória. – They must have spread out searching for remnants of the Marellian fleet and the Caelestis, and they are possibly preparing some trap. But now that we have taken Torre del Vento and Baía Infuocata, everything has changed. We have a solid base, a point from which we can expand, reinforce ourselves, and free more slaves in other coastal cities, and the Caelestis has a safe harbour. For the first time in months, we are not just fleeing; we are building. In my view, there are two options – she said, finally turning to Luna.
She raised a finger.
– The first is to patrol these waters and hunt the Solterran fleet, one ship at a time. But even if we find them… – she hesitated, choosing her words carefully – … it will be a hard fight. We would have only the Caelestis and the Lua Ardente. Two ships against a dispersed, experienced, and well-led fleet. We could win several battles, but while we are distracted at sea, we could lose what has been gained on land.
She raised another finger.
– The second option is to support Senator Sofia Perladoro and help her carry out her plans. If we can bring the Maritime Republic of Marellia back into the war, we could tip the scales, for we would not have to fight alone. We would have numbers, allied ports, safe routes, and others willing to fight alongside us and follow us into danger.
Luna did not speak immediately. She walked a few steps along the deck of the Lua Ardente, observing the darkening harbour, the people working, and the shadows growing between ropes and masts. When she turned to Victória, her face was serene – the kind of serenity that precedes decisions that cost lives.
– These are the worst of options – she said, bluntly. – And yet, I had already thought of them before you mentioned them – her voice was firm, yet laden with an old weariness, inherited from years of secrecy and political intrigue, both in Isolara and in the courts of other kingdoms. – Patrolling the waters looking for the Solterran fleet and forcing them to react… that would take time, time that, unfortunately, we do not have, knowing we are surrounded on all sides by enemies and by those who would just as easily kill us as take us to Eryx for our weight in gold – Luna rested her hand on the railing, feeling the subtle vibration of the ship, as if the Lua Ardente listened to every word. – And bringing the Maritime Republic back into the war would be… desirable, but it is not realistic, not now. Their fleet is decimated and scattered, and overland, their army would have to march for weeks through unstable and desolate territories and along roads not currently fit for an army on the move. They would arrive tired, fragmented, and would still have to besiege Setaguarda before even reaching the heart of the kingdom, and, even if they succeeded, they would still have to cross the Deserto Infuocato to reach us.
She paused briefly, but the weight of it hung heavy. The wind blew stronger, making the steel embedded in the hull creak. Luna straightened and turned fully to Victória. Her eyes fixed on her, holes like stone washed by salt.
– I do not like your first plan – she admitted. – But it is the only one that allows immediate action.
– If we agree on the plan… – said Victória cautiously – … we could head north and try to take Porto del Sole?
– No – the word was short, definitive. On Luna's face there was only the sign of someone calculating, always thinking two steps ahead, never underestimating the enemy. – Taking Porto del Sole would take too long. Sieges are prolonged, and cities always resist, especially if they see us coming – she made a vague gesture with her hand, as if dismissing a useless thought. – And time is something we do not have. Every day we spend there would be a day given to the Solterran fleet to reorganise, to attack us from the rear, and to reclaim what is now ours. No, we will not go after smaller walls – she approached Victória, lowering her voice slightly, as if the sea itself might be listening. – We are going after the heart of Solterra. The target of my fleet and army will be Arenosa, the capital, the centre of this inhuman empire. If we cut off Emperor Solário Ignifer's head, the remaining cities and fortresses will fall on their own. We cut off the head of the empire and the body goes into convulsion.
– My Queen… will that be… sensible? – asked Victória, apprehensively. – We have an enormous numerical disadvantage. Arenosa is not a defenceless city. Even if we manage to enter, we will be outnumbered, surrounded by walls, soldiers, and blind loyalties to a dying empire.
– That is precisely why it is sensible – replied Luna, with the calm of someone who has already accepted and understood all the consequences. – They will not suspect such an attack. They expect us to be cautious, defensive, they expect small battles, perhaps sieges of smaller cities and fortresses. No one could imagine that so few ships and soldiers would be bold enough to strike the capital directly. And once we are inside the city, our numbers will no longer matter, for Arenosa lives on slaves, breathes slaves, and was built by slaves.
» We free them, arm them, and give them a choice they never had. Every slave who joins us is another soldier fighting against the Empire. Every chain broken will generate chaos: fires, blocked streets, orders that reach nowhere – Luna breathed deeply, as if inhaling the very idea. Victória's eyes followed the reasoning, step by step, to the inevitable end. It was not a clean plan, nor fair, but it was brutally effective. – The numerical disadvantage exists only while we fight head-on. The moment the enslaved people rise, the Empire begins to bleed from within.
There was concern in Victória's chest, along with fear, but she was not naive, for she knew what it meant to enter an enemy capital with few soldiers and many hopes. Still, she thought that, with some luck, her queen's plan could be feasible.
– If we can evade the Solterran fleet… – said Victória – … then perhaps we can reach Arenosa without being stopped and strike the first blow. It will not be easy, but this is my queen's will, and it will be my hands that see it fulfilled.