Chapter Four: Baron Wrake, Warlord of Iron
The Iron Leviathan tore through the sea like a black blade.
Its hull was plated in cursed metal, smelted in the forges of the drowned empire. Its figurehead—a rusted dragon chained in agony—screamed whenever the ship moved. Rows of harpoon cannons lined the flanks, manned by soldiers who no longer flinched at blood.
Below deck, the walls sweated heat from the engines.
And in the war room, at the center of it all, stood Baron Wrake—Sea Warlord of Iron, one of the Four Iron Seals, and an executioner of the old world.
He studied the soulglass recording of Flint Korran in silence.
The boy's grin. The defiant voice. The absurdity of it all.
Wrake's molten eyes narrowed, the flesh around them cracked like old earth. He turned to the wall where dozens of bounty posters hung—names crossed out in ash, faces burned away. Kings. Captains. Rebels.
Now Flint's crude sketch joined them, pinned with a rusted dagger.
"Just a child," Wrake said softly.
"But brave," offered Vorn. She stood behind him, her plated boots echoing on the steel floor.
Wrake didn't turn. "No. Not brave. Free."
He pressed a gauntlet to the map table. Metal tendrils slithered from his glove, coiling around the coordinates Nyra had unknowingly revealed during the broadcast. The Leviathan's navigation crystals flickered to life, humming with precision.
"I hate that word," Wrake whispered. "Freedom. The sea speaks it too often. Every fool who sails it believes they are untouchable."
His hand clenched. The map sparked.
"Let's remind the world what touchable feels like."
Elsewhere on the Leviathan
The soldiers prepared. These weren't common pirates or mercenaries—they were Forged Men, shaped in Wrake's foundries. Half-machine, half-flesh. Armor fused to skin. Memories burned out and replaced with commands.
Each one bore the Iron Seal, Wrake's mark of loyalty and control.
And leading them was Mourne, the Iron Leviathan's chief hunter.
Mourne wore no helmet. His face was carved with chains, eyes replaced with red optics that scanned wind pressure and soulflux. He'd killed a hundred captains, sunk cities, and dragged his own brother to Wrake's feet.
He watched Flint's broadcast again, expressionless.
"Permission to kill the girl?" he asked Vorn.
Vorn tilted her head. "Which girl?"
"The one with the map."
She smirked. "You assume she hasn't already betrayed him."
Mourne didn't answer. His jaw clicked as he turned and left.
Back on the Sea
Flint awoke to the smell of salt, smoke, and burning crab meat.
Nyra had caught breakfast using a bolt trap she'd hidden in her boot. She wasn't smiling, but her silence was softer than usual. Flint sat up, rubbing sleep from his neck, bones creaking slightly from another night curled around the mast.
He looked around.
"Where's the flag?"
Nyra raised a brow. "What flag?"
"Our pirate flag."
She pointed to the side of the skiff, where a crooked pole jutted from the wood. Hanging from it, badly stitched and fluttering in the sea wind, was a patchwork banner made from torn bandanas, rope, and the blood-stained shirt of a Brine-Jaw enforcer.
A skull drawn in charcoal grinned from the center.
Flint beamed. "Perfect."
Nyra muttered, "You're going to get us killed."
Deep beneath the waves, the Leviathan closed in.
The sky above was still clear. The sea was still calm.
But the wake behind them had begun to boil.
END OF CHAPTER FOUR