A week had passed since the taking of El Tiburón.

  Now, under pale autumn light, the Royale Nocturne cut through the quiet waters of the channel that led toward the Twin City — a city where the west and east touch. The morning wind bit cold against the crew’s faces, leeching color from their skin yet sharpening every breath. Lines were coiled, decks scrubbed, brass fittings polished until they caught the sun.

  Below the measured heartbeat of gears and the thump of machinery, however, behind the great double doors of the captain’s quarters, the world shifted to another pace.

  The room carried warmth like memory — a chamber made for reflection, not command. Mahogany panels drank the glow of several candles, their flame trembling gently in the draft that slipped through the curtained glass. The scent of salt and faint perfume lingered above the hum of the ship’s machinery beneath. An untouched electric lamp remained dormant on the ceiling, its brass switch glinting — a promise of modernity left unused. Alaric preferred the light of fire not out of practicality nor economics, but mood.

  “Why didn’t you wake me, sir?” Mila’s voice was even, controlled, but with a hint of frustration as she stood before the mirror fastening the corset’s hooks.

  Alaric looked up from his desk, coffee cup in hand. Steam drifted lazily through the candlelight.

  “You were sleeping so soundly, my dear,” he said. “I hadn’t the heart to wake you — anyway, I brought you coffee.”

  She paused briefly, her gaze lifting to meet his reflection in the mirror.

  “Serving you coffee is part of my duty, not the other way around, sir.”

  Her tone remained flat, but that glance lingered a heartbeat too long before she turned back to her laces.

  “Oh — one minor mistake,” Alaric said softly.

  “I don’t like it when I make a mistake, sir.”

  “But I like the way you apologize to me.” He smirked, leaning against the desk.

  “Remember last week? When we interrogated… what was his name again? Hanush?”

  “That was genuinely my mistake,” she replied without hesitation. “This is sabotage, sir.”

  “Oh?” Alaric set his cup aside, rising from his chair.

  “Then should I be the one to apologize?”

  He stepped behind her, voice lowering.

  “Here, let me help.”

  “I can do it myself.”

  “I know,” he murmured, reaching for the lace, “but I like tying your lace as much as untying it.”

  She didn’t answer. Only the faint pause of her breath betrayed her before she raised her arms just slightly for Alaric. The candlelight trembled across polished brass and the pale curve of her neck; beneath it all, the hum of the Nocturne pulsed like a distant heartbeat.

  “There. Done.”

  Alaric’s voice was quiet as he finished tying the last knot of Mila’s corset. But his hands lingered at her hips, resting lightly against the fabric.

  “You know,” he murmured, leaning closer, “give me one good reason not to untie these laces again.”

  “But we are about to dock, sir,” Mila said softly, but she did not step away. Instead, her hand reached out, hesitating only a moment before her fingers found his, resting against her hips — guiding, not stopping him.

  Alaric’s breath brushed her skin as he smiled, unhurried.

  “I know,” he murmured. “But we could still be quick.”

  He bent forward, lips just brushing the air near her neck;

  Mila rested her head back against his shoulder, eyes closing, her body yielding just enough to invite the moment, but then—

  The door burst open.

  “Sir, we—” Darian’s voice stopped dead. His eyes widened as the scene registered.

  “Oh, fuck!”

  He recoiled instantly, slamming the door shut with enough force to rattle the candles.

  “How many times do I need to tell you to knock!” Alaric shouted, his voice sharp like a crack of a whip.

  “I—uhm—the door wasn’t locked!” came Darian’s muffled reply.

  “Just because the door isn’t locked doesn’t mean you can waltz in here like you own the place!”

  “I… I’m sorry, Alaric! It’s just—uhm—we’re about to dock!”

  Alaric exhaled, rubbing the bridge of his nose. A brief silence followed, broken only by the ship’s low hum and the faint creak of the deck above. Then, from the corner of his eye, he noticed the smallest thing — a curve at the edge of Mila’s lips, the ghost of a smile.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  “Very well,” he said, his tone softening. “Wait for me outside.”

  “It seems our private time will have to wait, my dear.”

  “It seems so, sir.”

  Alaric slipped into his coat, the faint scent of salt and coffee still clinging to the air. Mila, tentative as ever, adjusted his collar before following him out. The brass hinges of the door creaked softly as they stepped into the light.

  The cold hit immediately. The morning wind swept across the deck, sharp and clean, carrying with it the mingled scents of coal, tar, and distant incense. Autumn’s chill had stripped the color from the men’s faces, but not their focus. Every rope was taut, every line checked.

  Ahead, the Twin City unveiled itself through the morning mist — two continents bound by fleets of ferry.

  The flag of the Nocturne unfurled — deep midnight blue with a silver crow sigil — and for a brief moment it caught the full breath of the wind, snapping proudly against the pale sky.

  The channel narrowed between them like a blade’s edge, and the Nocturne glided through it with quiet authority. On one shore, white spires and domes caught the dawn; on the other, foundries belched smoke that coiled heavenward like dark banners.

  Brass minarets rose above the skyline, their tips catching the light like spearpoints. Between them, airships drifted lazily, their hulls painted with royal insignias and foreign crests. Steam ferries crisscrossed the strait, their chimneys puffing as their paddlewheels turned.

  As the Twin City opened before them, the contrast sharpened: temples beside bazaars, palaces beside barracks, homes beside warehouses. Every stone gleamed with devotion, every gear turned for gold.

  The waters were alive with sound — the low drone of engines, the clatter of chains, the distant call to prayer distorted by fog.

  Below them, the Nocturne’s hull cut through the water like an obsidian blade, its reflection fractured by ripples. Dockyard bells rang across the strait, answered by horns from the fortresses on either side — a call and response that spoke of ceremony, not welcome.

  Alaric rested his gloved hands on the rail, gaze steady.

  “Ah, the Twin City — where West meets East, where the old touches the new. Charming as always.”

  Mila stood beside him, eyes scanning the skyline.

  “It appears… the Sultan put your money to good use, sir.”

  He smiled faintly.

  “Oh, he’d better have. I spent quite a fortune modernizing this place.”

  Then they entered a waterway, and the Nocturne began to slow. Steam hissed from her valves as signal flags rippled along the masts. Ahead, the private docks came into view — a reserved enclave carved between the city’s older fort walls, guarded by cranes, customs towers, and the clank of chains.

  The El Tiburón followed in the Nocturne’s wake, her patched hull still bearing the scars of her capture. Smoke from her funnel trailed in uneven plumes, and her colors — freshly changed to Alaric’s own — fluttered beneath the morning wind.

  Rows of warehouses stretched along the wharf, their slate roofs gleaming with dew. Each one bore the insignia of a crow balanced upon a merchant’s scale, and beneath it, in bold gilt letters, the name: “Van Aerden Trade Company.”

  Dockworkers and clerks had gathered to watch the approach, their silhouettes dark against the mist. Some wore the company’s crest, others the Sultanate’s naval colors. Orders were shouted in multiple tongues, whistles trilled, and ropes unfurled in graceful arcs toward the waiting pier.

  “Engines stop,” Darian commanded from the quarterdeck. “Drop the gangway!”

  The machinery obeyed with a hiss of steam and a grind of metal. The gangplank descended slowly, its brass joints gleaming.

  The Nocturne’s hull kissed the dock with a heavy groan. Fenders creaked. Lines tightened. The deck shuddered once, then stilled.

  Alaric took in the sight with quiet satisfaction. To others, this was a dockyard. To him, it was proof of reach — power woven into commerce, weapon gilded in gold.

  The El Tiburón began her own mooring beside them, her crew subdued under the supervision of Alaric’s men. Diego’s voice rose over the sound of engines and gulls, barking orders to his helmsman as ropes flew and anchors splashed.

  “Easy now! Mind the wind!”

  The two ships finally rested side by side — predator and prey reborn under the same flag. The air filled with the scent of oil and wet rope, the faint sweetness of spices wafting from the warehouses beyond.

  As the gangway settled into place, the dockmaster approached with a small retinue of clerks and guards. He bowed stiffly.

  “Welcome home, Captain Van Aerden. The Sultan’s office has been informed of your arrival.”

  Alaric inclined his head slightly.

  “Then let us not keep him waiting.”

  “Darian,” he said, not turning.

  “Sir?”

  “Go to the office and find me a new quartermaster. Replenish our men while you’re at it.”

  “Any particular criteria you’re looking for?”

  “Not really. As long as we have one.”

  Darian gave a curt nod.

  “If you say so.”

  “In the meantime,” Alaric continued, “you’re in charge of restocking our supplies.”

  “Aye-aye, Captain.”

  Darian moved off toward the dock offices, his heavy steps fading beneath the rumble of carts and cranes.

  A familiar voice rose behind him.

  “Ah, Mr. Del Mar,” Alaric said with a faint smirk as Diego approached, his coat flapping in the wind. “Congratulations — you’ve finished your first job.”

  “With pleasure, boss,” Diego chuckled, his grin as rough-edged as the sea itself.

  “Anything to report about the ship?”

  “Well, she needs a new rudder, but that you already know.” Diego smirked.

  “I think she also needs a new boiler — it’s a bit leaky, maybe because we ran it past redline.”

  “Oh, I wonder why,” Alaric sighed.

  “I wonder why, indeed.”

  “Then you and your men may leave. My dockhands will handle it from here.”

  Alaric gestured to Mila, who stepped forward and handed him a small leather pouch. He tossed it lightly toward Diego.

  “For your trouble. I trust it’s enough to buy you passage home.”

  Diego caught it, feeling the weight before looking up.

  “I thought we’d have to hijack a ship to get home,” he said, half-joking.

  “Oh please,” Alaric replied, eyes narrowing in amusement.

  “I’m a fair man. I always pay a man what he’s due.”

  Diego nodded, tucking the pouch away.

  “Then thank you — and farewell, Se?or Van Aerden.”

  “Gracias, Capitan Del Mar. May we meet again.”

  “Oh, I hope not,” Diego laughed.

  Alaric’s smirk deepened.

  “Then may we meet again in better circumstances.”

  Diego shrugged.

  “Hmm. Maybe.”

  The two men exchanged a last look — a brief flash of mutual respect — before Diego turned to join his crew, their laughter echoing faintly over the water as they disappeared into the city’s haze.