Chapter 108 — Victory That Tastes of Ash

  The night was a restless one—salt wind prowling through the stone alleys, lamps shivering on the parapets of Litus Solis.

  From the eastern wall, Lord Marcus Luceron could see the sea stretched like black iron, only the foam’s pale edge breaking against the tide wall. Below, the city lay still, breath held, every tavern closed, every ship silent. The bell towers had been ordered to keep quiet that night. No one was to break the silence until the signal came.

  Marcus stood with his gloved hands braced on the crenellation, the damp seeping into his sleeves. His eyes never left the horizon.

  Behind him, Captain Darius shifted uneasily. “No word yet, my lord. They were meant to light by the second hour past moonrise.”

  “They will,” Marcus said quietly. “The men will not fail, Dathren doesn't strike me as untrustworthy.”

  But his jaw was tight, and he had stopped believing his own words an hour ago.

  Below the wall, the portmaster’s men stood ready—thirty guards in city crimson and yellow, with another twenty pressed from the shipwrights’ guild, each armed with whatever would bite iron. They waited for his order, for the lanterns on Sea Island to flare—their cue to strike.

  If the plan failed, they would lose not just a knight but the city’s last chance to reclaim its harbor.

  Marcus glanced east again. He thought he saw movement on the dark sea—a flicker, faint as a dying star—then a second, brighter one—a spark.

  Then another.

  The signal.

  “By the Veils…” Darius breathed.

  Marcus turned sharply. “It’s done. Garran is dead, or dying. Send the portmaster. We strike now.”

  The captain bowed once, crisp and quick. “Aye, my lord.”

  The orders moved like fire through dry grass.

  Within moments, men were moving through the lower streets, boots hushed by damp stone, blades sheathed in oiled leather. The city watch advanced by alley and stair, slipping through shadow, guided by the pale lamps of the stewards who waited by the warehouse corners.

  Farther down, the harbor itself was a whispering maze of ropes and tar, ships at anchor creaking softly in the tide.

  There, among the moored vessels, one ship stood out—the Stormcrow’s sister, dark-hulled, her masts shrouded in tarpaulin. Carran’s pirates had made her their nest these past weeks, and the guards had watched her, day and night, biding time. Tonight, that patience ended.

  Marcus watched from the wall as the signalers swung their own lanterns in response—two slow, one fast—the code of the city watch.

  It began.

  In the lower ward, Captain Darius led the first squad himself.

  They slipped down the slope between the warehouses, the night wind heavy with tar and the stink of dried fish. The guardsmen crept to the edge of the quay, crouched behind stacked barrels. The only sound was the sea’s slow rhythm and the soft rattle of chains as ships rocked in their moorings.

  Then, from somewhere to the north, a gull cried—a single, sharp note—the signal to move.

  “Now,” Darius whispered.

  The watchmen surged from shadow to shadow, five men to a gangway. One crew scaled the boarding ladders, another climbed from the waterline, knives between their teeth. The pirates on watch—three of them, half-drunk and playing dice on the deck—had only time to shout before the first arrow struck.

  “City Guard! Lay down arms!”

  The cry was drowned in steel.

  The pirates rallied for a heartbeat, blades flashing in lamplight. Then the guards hit them like a hammer.

  The clash rang down the piers—iron on iron, the snap of ropes, the thud of boots on planks.

  A man screamed and went over the side.

  Another fell as Darius drove his sword through his chest, twisting free.

  “Clear the deck!” he barked, voice cutting through the chaos. “Drive them below!”

  The fight was short, vicious, and one-sided. Within minutes, the deck was theirs. Smoke curled from a lantern kicked over in the scuffle, and a small flame licked the side rail, but a sailor beat it out with a cloak before it could spread. The ship’s flag—black and torn—was cut down and trampled underfoot.

  When silence returned, only the groan of the tide remained.

  …

  From the east parapet, Marcus watched the city flare to life—the brief glint of steel under torchlight, the shouts muffled by the wind.

  It was done. The pirates’ vessel was taken. The Sea Island signal still burned faintly on the horizon.

  Two battles, two fronts—both won.

  He exhaled slowly, the weight of the decision settling on him.

  The dice had been cast. And the city, his father’s city, might yet stand.

  Captain Darius returned within the hour, blood on his vambrace and satisfaction in his eyes. “The ship is ours. Crew dead or captured. No losses worth counting.”

  Marcus nodded once. “And the city?”

  “Secure, my lord. The watch has the harbor sealed. Not even a gull will get out without your say.”

  For the first time in weeks, Marcus allowed himself a faint smile. “Then tonight, Captain, we have cut the rot from the bone.”

  He turned back to the sea, where the last of the signal fires on Sea Island guttered low, their glow fading into dawn’s first gray.

  “But the wound,” he murmured, “will take longer to heal.”

  …

  When the sun finally broke over the harbor, the citizens of Litus Solis woke to rumor and wonder.

  They heard of two battles—the one in the harbor, swift and bloody, and another beyond sight, out on the dark water where the pirates had gone to meet their end.

  By noon, the story had already grown: that Garran’s men would be paraded in chains through the city, that the Redhand himself had fallen to an Avalonian blade.

  Few knew how close it had come to failure. Fewer still knew that, from the wall that night, a young lord had gambled his city’s fate on a flicker of light across the waves.

  But as the port filled with smoke and morning cries, Marcus Luceron stood in the council hall, listening to the messengers bringing word from the docks.

  The city was his again—bleeding, shaken, but his.

  The council chamber smelled of damp ink and sleepless men. The young lord, Marcus Luceron, stood at the window overlooking the harbor — the masts of captured ships stabbing the dawn like spears left standing in a wound.

  Behind him, voices tangled like knotted rope.

  “We cannot keep them,” Steward Hadron insisted, his hands folded over his ledger as though it might shield him. “There are too many prisoners, and half of them are bleeding. The cells are already full beyond sense. Food is scarce. The apothecaries will not treat pirates for free.”

  Captain Darius slammed a gauntleted hand against the table, causing the inkwell to jump.

  “We hang them,” he spat. “Every man who boarded that ship did so to murder and steal. Let the gulls have the rest.”

  “That is not the law,” Hadron snapped sharply. “Not the law we are bound to!”

  Marcus turned then, jaw tight.

  “The law—?” he pressed. “Which one, Hadron? We are pressed between two realms. Name the law plainly.”

  Hadron rubbed at his temple.

  “Eastwatch statutes apply to sea-folk here, as they always have. They are… confused territory. Unless we can prove each individual willingly took part in piracy—”

  Darius cut him off with a barked laugh.

  “They’re pirates! They attacked a ship! They tried to kill us all!”

  “Yes,” Hadron admitted woodenly. “But under the Kingdom’s eye, we must treat them as suspected criminals — not proven. The grievance courts will fall to the White Priests. They will demand evidence.” His face soured further. “And they always— always —find a reason to spare sea-folk.”

  “Then they walk?” Marcus asked quietly.

  The room fell still.

  “Yes, my lord,” Hadron whispered bitterly. “Most of them.”

  Darius cursed so violently that three scribes performed warden motions.

  “And the ships?” Marcus asked, trying for steadiness he did not feel.

  Portmaster Jorvan cleared his throat.

  “Three seized,” he said. “Two from Sea Island, one in the harbor. But… we cannot keep them under Kingdom maritime law. Not when the captain who broke the peace was not on deck at the time of seizure. The ownership is… muddied.”

  Marcus stared.

  “So we defeat pirates… yet let them go?”

  “If we follow the King’s laws,” Jorvan said grimly, “yes.”

  A silence followed — thick as pitch.

  Dathran knocked on the tabletop.

  “In Avalon, we would keep them. Prize ships belong to the victor.”

  Hadron’s head snapped up.

  “This is Avalon. But we know that the laws of the kingdom and Eastwatch are to be followed. We do not have the authority to change that precedent.”

  Hadron hissed under his breath.

  “Our meddling will bring consequences we are not prepared to face.”

  Marcus felt the weight of all eyes turn to him — as though he should have answers, though he was barely more than a son in his father’s chair.

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  “We are expected to uphold the King’s tribute shortly,” Hadron reminded. “Kingdom officials — and a White Priest — will descend upon us within weeks. We must show obedience. Order. Peace.”

  “And instead,” Darius murmured, “we will release pirates from chains and victory we are not allowed to claim.”

  Marcus swallowed a curse.

  He imagined his father at Avalon — commanding, resolute, unbending.

  He imagined what strength felt like.

  “I want Father home,” he admitted quietly. “The city needs him. I need him.”

  It was then that the young lord voiced the truth, clawing through them all:

  “We are ruled by laws that protect our enemies. And bound by a king who sends priests instead of soldiers.”

  No one disagreed.

  Darius stood straighter.

  “Then tell us what to do, my lord,” he said — the first hint of loyalty in his eyes since the battle.

  Marcus stared at the harbor again — at the bent masts, the salt drying on the decks, the gulls circling above the city like white-cowled judges.

  “We wait,” he said hollowly. “For what? I do not yet know.”

  He clenched his fists behind his back — nails biting palm. But his voice remained level.

  “Release none without my word. Treat the wounded. Bind the rest.”

  He turned.

  “And be ready.”

  And somewhere in the back of his mind, the thought returned like a chill:

  If this is what victory costs, what will peace demand?

  …

  The early morning sun had just climbed above the city walls when the first messenger reached the Merchant’s House of Bargiani. His tunic was stained with salt and smoke, and the echo of the harbor bells still trembled through the streets when he arrived.

  Inside, two women waited.

  Alessa stood at the tall arched window of her office, its panes thrown wide to the sea breeze, though her hands were tight on the sill. Across from her, Tamsen sat at the ledger table, restless, drumming her fingers on the wood. Neither had slept.

  When the bells had sounded before dawn—harbor bells, followed by the clash of steel and the shouting of men—Alessa had felt her stomach fall to stone. She had imagined the worst: her house raided, her goods seized, her name tangled in whatever madness had seized the city. She had sent servants for news, but none had dared venture far.

  So when the messenger bowed in the doorway, panting, she barely breathed the words:

  “Speak.”

  The young man bowed low.

  “All is secure, my lady. The salt is accounted for. The pirates are either slain or bound—and all those of your company who took part in this endeavor… unharmed.”

  Alessa exhaled slowly, her hand rising to her breast. “The Veils be praised.”

  “Or,” said Tamsen, leaning back in her chair, “the Veils have simply decided to favor fools this day—and the wild plans of men.”

  Alessa turned, a spark of laughter breaking through her relief. “So it seems. And tell me, Mistress Tamsen, does this change your opinion of Ser Dathren? He’s done more than polish that sword of his, by all accounts.”

  Tamsen snorted. “Aye, well. Even a rooster finds a fox on occasion. But I’ll grant, the man can swing his blade as well as he swings his pride.”

  Alessa smirked, tilting her head. “That almost sounds like praise.”

  “Careful,” Tamsen said dryly, rising from her seat. “Too much of that and the world might crack in half.” She tugged her coat straight, already shifting from relief to resolve. “No, my lady, we’ve no time for boasting. Men may have made a mess of things last night—but it’ll be up to women to clean it up before they all start tripping over their own glory.”

  Alessa’s laughter followed her as she crossed the room. “And how do you propose we begin?”

  Tamsen paused at the door, giving a wicked grin. “With tea. And a long list of what they’ve promised to us and most likely already forgotten.”

  …

  The gates of Litus Solis opened just after midmorning, and the city was summoned to witness its own deliverance.

  From the eastern road came the city guard, their Red-and-yellow cloaks torn and stained with battle. Behind them, bound in chains, stumbled the prisoners—what was left of Garran’s crew.

  They were a ragged line of men, limping, bleeding, their clothes shredded from battle and flame. The crowd pressed close as they passed, spitting curses, hurling stones, shouting for vengeance.

  “Pirates!” cried a woman from a stall. “See how the sea spits them out at last!”

  A baker shouted over her, “By the Veils, the guard has done something right for once!”

  The guards ignored the noise and kept their pace.

  The prisoners were being marched to the stockade near the southern yard—iron cages built for smugglers and debtors, never for this many men.

  And among the bound and beaten, one figure drew every eye.

  The red-haired body slung across a guard’s pole still gleamed in the sunlight. Garran’s famed mane now hung limp, caked in soot and blood. But even dead, he was unmistakable. The monster of the coast, the scourge.

  A murmur rippled through the crowd like a breeze before a storm.

  “He’s dead.”

  “The Redhand’s done for.”

  “A knight struck him down, they say—one from Avalon heartland.”

  …

  By noon, every corner of the city hummed with stories.

  In the fishmongers’ quarter, they swore the Avalonian knight had fought Garran in single combat—blade against axe—until the pirate’s own strength betrayed him.

  In the taverns, they said Garran had been bewitched, his eyes frozen in terror by some strange magic from the north.

  And in the market square, a madman cried that the Veils themselves had sent the knight to punish sin and greed, that the city’s repentance had drawn heavenly mercy.

  The more practical men said simpler things:

  “At least trade will flow again.”

  “Maybe now ships won’t vanish by the cape.”

  “About time the guard cleaned house.”

  The crowd was giddy with relief.

  One danger was gone. One name—long whispered with fear—was now only a corpse on a pole.

  Yet beneath the laughter, others muttered darker thoughts.

  “The Pirate Lord won’t let this pass.”

  “There’ll be blood for blood. The seapeoples remember.”

  As the prisoners were herded through the Old Harbor Gate, the procession grew.

  Children ran alongside the wagons. Sailors cheered. Vendors dragged out tables to sell ale to the spectators.

  And there—near the head of the line—rode Ser Dathren, his gambeson torn, one arm bound in linen. His face was pale, his eyes unreadable.

  He rode neither proud nor meek, but with the quiet poise of a man who knew victory’s cost.

  Some in the crowd fell silent as he passed. Others shouted praise.

  “Long live the Knight of Avalon!” someone cried.

  Another shouted, “Show us the blade that killed the Redhand!”

  Dathren did not answer. His horse plodded forward, hooves ringing against the cobbles, the air thick with smoke and salt.

  While the common folk filled the streets, the city’s wealthy and merchants gathered in their shaded halls, whispering behind heavy drapes and jeweled goblets.

  At a house of a merchant, they lifted a glass and said with forced calm, “Perhaps now our ships can sail without paying tribute to thieves.”

  At the Guild of Chandlers, a woman murmured, “If this holds, we’ll have profit by spring. The trade alone could double.”

  And in the Merchant Council, another voice—silken and cautious—said, “We owe thanks to the Lord’s son and to this knight of Avalon. Though…”

  She leaned closer. “…who is he, truly? This Avalonian keeps strange company. And no one has seen his seal.”

  That question—Who is the Knight of Avalon?—swept through every parlor and council hall by evening.

  Rumor painted him as a noble exile, a sellsword from the northern passes, even a Veiled Magus in mortal guise.

  Whatever the truth, one thing united them all:

  This victory was an opportunity.

  By dusk, the Governor’s Hall was filled with voices—merchants, guildmasters, the portmaster, and the young lord himself.

  “The people demand we mark this,” said one. “Let the city see strength, not fear.”

  “Indeed,” said another. “A feast. A gathering of all great houses. Let them meet the knight, reward him, and remind all of Avalon that Litus Solis honors its own.”

  The young lord hesitated. “The noble knight doesn't demand a price for his deed.” Secretly known that the knight has already refused to state his lord.

  “We must pay some reward even if it is only the honor of the party,” said the portmaster, smiling thinly.

  And so, by the time the lamps were lit along the harbor wall, word spread again—this time by official decree.

  Three nights hence, the Governor’s Hall would open its doors.

  All noble and merchant houses were invited.

  The city would celebrate the fall of Redhand and the valor of the Knight of Avalon.

  The bells rang once more, but this time they rang for joy.

  …

  Tamsen had just finished triumphantly scratching off “two large anvils” into the wax tablet when Alessa—still flushed from the morning’s victories—clapped her hands with a bright, entirely too-cheerful declaration:

  “Oh! And we have to buy you a new dress.”

  Tamsen froze.

  Slowly… very slowly… she lifted her gaze. One eyebrow arched upward with enough disdain to curdle fresh milk.

  “And why,” she said, each word as heavy as a hammer blow, “would I need a new dress?”

  Alessa, merchant of poise and negotiation, folded her hands primly.

  “Because,” she said in a tone one might use explaining weather to a doorpost, “you must go to the celebration. The victory must be marked—and you will attend.”

  Tamsen stared at her, horrified.

  “A party? With them? Cloying nobles and preening merchants—like wine-soaked peacocks with coins for feathers? Absolutely not.”

  Alessa’s smile only widened.

  “Oh, no, Tamsen. You must go. You must support your knight.”

  Tamsen’s expression soured.

  “My knight?” she scoffed.

  “I barely tolerate the man. He’s only useful because he swings a sword without cutting his own foot off.”

  “The Captain of the Guard said your presence is expected,” Alessa replied in a sing-song voice that made Tamsen want to hurl the wax tablet at her.

  “He specifically asked that you represent your… patron.”

  Tamsen sputtered.

  “Patron!? He is a headache with a plan.”

  Alessa’s eyes sparkled.

  “Be that as it may,” she countered, “the city believes you are important. You helped in orchestrating the trap. The people must see the face of strategy behind the swords.”

  “That was just common sense!” Tamsen protested.

  “Anyone with an ounce of wit could’ve told them where they were stupid!”

  “Yes,” Alessa said sweetly, “and yet only you said it.”

  Tamsen groaned dramatically, dropping her forehead to the table.

  “Veils save me from men and their catastrophes,” she muttered. “They kill a pirate, we have to smile and clap like trained geese.”

  Alessa reached over and patted Tamsen’s head—carefully, as one would soothe a growling cat.

  “On the bright side,” she said, “you will look marvelous.”

  Tamsen peeked up with narrowed eyes.

  “If you put me in lace,” she warned, “I will drown you in your own wine cellar.”

  Alessa laughed.

  “No lace. But color, silk, and a bodice that says ‘I can negotiate a treaty or stab you with a hairpin.’”

  Tamsen sat up a little straighter at that.

  “Well…” she considered, “…the stabbing option does sound practical.”

  “Good!” Alessa declared, rising and clapping again.

  “We’ll make a lady of you yet.”

  Tamsen stood with a sigh that could sink ships.

  “I was a perfectly fine lady without dresses and parties getting involved.” Then, under her breath: “Stupid celebrations… stupid pirates… stupid knights…”

  But even as she grumbled, she gathered her courage—and followed the merchant toward the tailoring quarter.

  Because someone had to clean up after the men.

  And apparently, that someone was her.

  …

  Outside, Dathran had just finished tightening the strap on his sword belt when Tamsen stormed into the courtyard—skirts in hand, eyes blazing like a storm-touched forge.

  He blinked. “Tamsen—your fitting went—”

  “Don’t you Tamsen me,” she snapped, jabbing a finger into the air. “Why are you still here?”

  The knight took a step back, startled. “The captain requested—”

  “The captain requested you drink wine and smile like a painted fool,” she cut in. “But your orders come from someone far more important.”

  Dathran stiffened, jaw tightening.

  “I gave my word to help secure the city—”

  “Help?” Tamsen all but barked a laugh.

  “You helped. Well done. Now—your actual job. Your duty.”

  She shoved a sealed parchment into his hands.

  “Ride. Now. This goes to him. And I expect an answer back. Tonight, if possible.”

  Dathran held the parchment like it might burn him.

  “You speak of him so lightly,” he muttered. “You cannot possibly grasp—”

  Tamsen was suddenly nose-to-nose with him.

  “I grasp this,” she hissed, “He asks. We do. We survive. The only reason we are here is because he set a plan in motion—through you, through me.”

  Dathran swallowed hard. The words struck as hammer blows.

  He opened his mouth—uncertain, perhaps ready to admit something—but Tamsen spun away, already done with the entire conversation.

  “Grow up, Sir Knight. You are not a boy swinging sticks in your uncle’s yard anymore.”

  Dathran’s pride flared, but before he could answer, she was pointing at the gate with the imperiousness of a war general.

  “Mount your horse. Ride. Deliver the message. Bring back instructions. Do your job!”

  She practically shoved him toward the waiting stallion.

  Dathran stared at her—a mix of indignation, reluctant respect… and something else brewing beneath the surface.

  Then he swung into the saddle.

  “As you command,” he said coldly.

  Tamsen gave him a flat look.

  “Not my command but His.”

  He pressed his heels to the horse’s sides and shot out the gate like an arrow loosed from a bow.

  Alessa, who had witnessed the entire outburst from the doorway, exhaled slowly.

  “Was that really necessary?” she asked, half-amused, half-appalled.

  Tamsen brushed dust from her skirts and glared after the disappearing knight.

  “He’s a knight,” she said, voice sharpening to a blade’s edge. “He’s used to following orders.”

  Alessa folded her arms, lips twitching.