The iron deck of the Iron Duke sloped six degrees to port, listing where her double bottom had pinned itself against the submerged granite shelf of Cape Mercy.
Around her, twenty-four dreadnoughts lay trapped in the shallows. Some were down by the bow, their grey hulls taking on sea water through ruptured plates, while others rested high on the mud flats, their iron rams pointing uselessly toward the cloudy sky.
The heavy sea gale had dropped into a steady, freezing drizzle. The only sound across the bay was the low hiss of cooling boilers and the rhythmic slosh of black water against the stranded hulls.
Prince Bastian stood near the shattered aft barbette of the flagship, his lever-action rifle held loosely in his right hand. His dark wool coat was dark with sea spray, his dark eyes scanning the dozens of disarmed mercenary sailors sitting in disciplined rows along the starboard deck.
