The Tarnoclast swam silently beneath them, massive fins breaching the waves in slow rhythm, casting shifting shadows across the ocean. Lashed alongside it, the pirate ship creaked like a wounded animal bound to something far greater and stronger. No soldier dared cross the line Arthur had drawn around it with a single word. Quarantine was a law none cared to test.
On the upper deck of the Glaucus vessel, Admiral Flydart stood near the railing, his expression impassible as he studied the bound ship below. The creases of his frown deepened as footsteps sounded from behind, quick and sharp. Admiral Wade from the East Battalion approached, his chin lifted with its usual arrogance, bluish scales glinting faintly beneath the sunlight. He did not salute, barely bothering to pause as he spoke.
"Must we dance endlessly around White Wing's bruised pride?" Heron asked, voice edged with irritation. "You'd think we're hosting royalty, not pirates."
