Some pirates, unable to bear the relentless pressure and fear, had already fled. The remaining ships, demoralized and leaderless, limped back into Tyrosh's harbor like whipped dogs with their tails between their legs.
Meanwhile, Gavin's mighty fleet had regrouped on a deserted island just beyond the city's reach. Including the recaptured longships, the force now numbered 113 warships—nearly half of them towering sailships that loomed like giants across the sea. Packed aboard were 13,000 warriors, including the surrendered soldiers led by Jorah.
On the Belleris, the flagship of the fleet, Gavin convened a war council. The captains and senior officers gathered on the broad deck beneath the stars, clustering around a massive, intricately detailed map of the Tyroshi coastline.
Gavin stood at the map's edge, holding the glowing blade Dawn, and pointed toward a bay southwest of Tyrosh.
"The Tyroshi fleet and the remnants of the pirate ships are holed up in this port," he declared, his voice crisp and commanding. "After our strikes over the past few days, they're down to fewer than fifty warships. None of them have dared to leave the safety of the harbor. Tyrosh doesn't yet realize our full fleet has arrived."
His blade slid across the map as he continued, highlighting coastal positions.
"Their fleet is trapped—and they've turned themselves into floating targets. We will use the range of our siege crossbows to lock them down inside the port. Once pinned, we'll sink every last one of them."
He paused, tapping the blade gently against the area closest to the coast.
"The challenge is that during the attack, our front-line ships will be within range of their shore catapults. So we strike at night. The darkness will hinder their aim, limiting the effectiveness of their artillery."
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the gathered captains. Gavin's gaze swept over them like a cold wind, eyes sharp and unreadable.
Then he turned to Jorah, his expression hardening.
"Jorah. Once we've destroyed the Tyroshi fleet, you'll lead your men to seize the Disputed Lands held by the enemy. Raid every coastal village and town. Bring back food. Bring back slaves. And especially—craftsmen from their shipyards. No one is to be left behind. If the wood can't be taken, burn it. I'll leave you enough ships to secure the coast and regroup at Mill Bay when the operation is complete."
Jorah bowed low, voice steady."Yes, sir!"
As soon as the meeting ended, the fleet sprang into motion.
Men scrambled into formation. Sailors double-checked every coil of rope, every bolt, every gear. The massive siege crossbows were tested, their thick bowstrings drawn back and locked into position. Heavy, barbed bolts the size of ballistae were laid in neat rows—gleaming in the torchlight.
The tension on board was palpable. No one spoke unless necessary. They moved with quiet urgency, the air thick with anticipation.
Night fell like a shroud of black velvet. The sea was still. Not even the stars dared to shine.
The fleet advanced through the gloom, slowly and silently, cloaked by the darkness and the hush of the deep. Above them, Syndor soared like a phantom. Gavin stood at the prow of the Belleris, the wind in his cloak. This time, he did not ride the dragon—he didn't need to.
Their minds were connected. Through sheer will, Gavin could command Syndor even from a distance.
He reserved the dragon for the decisive moment. Riding into the fray himself would be reckless. Not yet. Not tonight.
The soft breeze ruffled the sails but did little to ease the taut nerves strung across every deck. As the port of Tyrosh finally came into view, shimmering faintly beneath the moonlight, Gavin raised a hand.
"Crossbows—ready to fire."
The whisper carried through the ranks. Men sprang to action. The siege crossbows groaned as they turned, bolts set and aligned.
Just as the fleet reached optimal range, the first sentries at Tyrosh spotted the faint flicker of torchlight at sea.
"Enemy attack!" someone screamed from the shore.
Ding ding ding! The sharp clang of alarm bells rang out across the port. Lanterns flared to life, painting the enemy ships in garish gold—and exposing them as perfect targets.
"Fire!" Gavin roared.
In an instant, a hailstorm of massive bolts screamed through the sky, black streaks of death crashing down like thunderbolts onto the harbor.
The sound was deafening—wood splintered, sails tore, men screamed. One enemy oil lamp was shattered by a bolt; the flame spilled across the deck, igniting ropes and racing up the mast. Within moments, the fire had spread like a living thing, devouring one ship and then the next.
Several larger ships were hit squarely—craters blown through their hulls. They listed heavily, their decks caving inward, seawater rushing in as they began to sink.
On the Belleris, Gavin watched with cold precision.
"Reload."
His crew obeyed instantly, re-cranking the crossbows and loading fresh bolts. As they prepared the second volley, a barrage of enemy catapults and ballistae began to return fire.
But the night favored Gavin.
The defenders, blinded by darkness and panic, could barely distinguish where the fleet truly was. Most of their missiles splashed harmlessly into the sea. Only a few stones came close, sending plumes of water high into the air—but none found their mark.
After a third exchange, Gavin narrowed his eyes. Through instinct, intuition, and experience, he pinpointed the location of the enemy's artillery batteries.
He closed his eyes and whispered into the void.
"Syndor."
High above, the dragon heard the call.
With a sharp hiss, Syndor banked and dove like a falcon, plunging toward the coastline. As he dropped, the enemy spotted the crimson blur in the sky.
"Dragon! The dragon's coming!"
"Aim the dragon-hunters to the sky!"
Dozens of crossbow bolts launched upward in a deadly spray. But Syndor twisted through the hailstorm of metal, evading most with terrifying agility. The few that came close grazed harmlessly off his armored hide.
And then—
With a roar that split the heavens, Syndor unleashed a torrent of fire.
The nearest catapult vanished in a wall of flame, its operators turned to shadows against the blaze. Wood burst apart. Men screamed and fled, but there was no escape. The fire consumed everything.
Syndor surged upward once more, wings churning the smoke.
But the enemy had learned. Anticipating the next strike, they aimed all their dragon-hunting weapons toward the sky above their remaining catapults.
When Syndor swooped again, the air filled with deadly bolts.
The night, which had been his greatest cover, now betrayed him. The flashes of fire had revealed his position. Syndor tried to roll midair, but the volley was too dense.
One bolt found its mark.
It struck hard, slamming into his right wing with a sickening crack. The dragon shrieked in pain, his flight staggering. Smoke billowed from his maw, but the flame did not come.
Above the burning shore, Syndor struggled to regain altitude.