How could they hope to fight him?He who was blessed by two gods?And them who had been deserted by their only one?

The Sea-God had forged his soul to withstand the steepest of storm, and the Fire granted him the power to become one.

He wasn’t built for the snaking words of courtiers or the subtle deceits of kings; for those, the Sea-God had provided him Cain. Blake was shaped to stand crimson upon the shattered remains of enemy fleets, breaking them with fire and serving the wreckage as a feast for his Ancestor’s table.

He looked down at the final prize of his private slaughter. He may have not been born with salt in his veins, but he was a son of the foam in spirit. To the Lord of Damas, he granted a kindness he would deny nearly every other soul on this vessel of sand that proved unworhty: a final, wet embrace in the domain of the Sea.

He had ensured Xerxe remained unconscious but alive. He wanted the boy to breathe in the God’s blood, the brine itself, for as long as his lungs could struggle. Take its strength, Blake thought in this mind. Become worthy of dining with the true sons of the spray.

Perhaps he would meet this Xerxe again in the halls beneath the waves. Or perhaps he would find his kin. He would remember the name: Xerxe, son of Uthai. He might even show mercy to the boy’s family if they bowed low enough. Their blood was clearly rough and potent; it might produce men worthy of serving him, or women worthy of his seed.

He had considered a wife, but his lip curled at the thought.

He could not lower himself to a bride of the sand. A bed-slave, perhaps. He thought of his first, the one who had led him to these shimmering shores. He might even make her the Lady of her ancestral home, if only for the pleasure of bedding a Lordess who remained his chattel.Maybe put in her some brood and see what came out.

He had taken her twice in quick succession before the drums began today; a man had to soften what was hard before he could step into battle.

He had spilt his seed into her womb with the same reckless abandon he now spilt blood upon the deck.

With the respect of the kill concluded, Blake planted a heavy boot on the gunwale and wrenched his stuck axe free from the oak with a triumphant splintering sound.

The blood was beginning to clot against his thigh. His mind was half-sated, the ecstasy of the fight beginning to settle into a dull, satisfied thrum. It hadn’t been the bloodiest work he’d ever done, but it had been honest.

He raised his eyes to the aft deck. The last of the Azanian crew had formed a desperate shield wall, their backs pressed against the very edge of the ship. In their eyes, Blake saw no hope for parley, only the cold realization that death was the only door left open. Even as their compatriots further forward dropped their steel and fell to their knees, these few stood fast.

Respect flickered in Blake’s chest like a guttering candle. They too shall go to the sea, he decided. It wasn’t their fault they were birthed on the sun-scorched sands, but they had earned the right to become salt.

He slammed his two axes together, the sound a death knell for the brave.

"WITNESS THEM!" he roared to his crew as he threw himself at the shield wall like a gale-force wind made flesh.

He was a storm invoked upon mortal men, furious in his assault and unyielding in his wrath. Blades, axes, and spears clattered against his plate, searching for a gap, a chink, or a prayer.

Blake gave them none, but the sweet release.

He was the Red Angel, and his wings were made of death and blood. He carved through the line, splashing tumble into the blue. His warriors followed close behind, inspired by the carnage, throwing themselves into the fray until the deck of the Azanian ship was silent, save for the lapping of the waves against the hull and the heavy, satisfied breathing of the victors.

He may had been dealing with two, three of four men at once, but what use were they when their steel clattered uselessly against his plate?He cut them down like grass in summer for horses.

His men turned upon the Sea that came from the sand with wroth.They died one by one honorable death, none of them shamed themselves asking for quarter, they all gone out with screams upon their lips and red foam bursting out their teeth.

The last that had died was dressed better than the other, not with plate or lamellar as lord Xerxe had been, but with mail. The only blow he gave cluttered uselessly against his pauldron as his head bursted open like a blooming flower with a axe’s blow.

He fell forward, his shoulder thudding against the wounded armored thigh of the Red Angel. He gave the man the respect he deserved ignoring the yellow urine that pooled at his feet and personally throwing the body at the sea before anyone could see what it had been of the last of those brave men.

No need to shame such a respect-worthy end.

"A grand victory, Admiral!" Tonitz barked, his grin splitting a face splattered with gore. He held a captured scimitar that gleamed like a bloody sunrise. "The boys are already looking for the ale."

"This was but a single ship. Don’t start counting the barrels before the—" Blake stopped, turning his gaze toward the horizon to see the error of his caution.

The Azanian fleet was shattering.

Despite having lost barely a quarter of their strength, the desert lords had lost their nerve. Their formation was a broken spine, sails unfurling in a frantic, white-winged flight toward the coast.

"Cowards," Blake sneered, spitting a glob of blood over the rail.In a few years time he would be given another unworthy battle. And while he would never shy away from a fight, he needed peace on his own backyard if he were to make true of his plans. "They have the sun in their eyes and ice in their veins."

"Do we pursue?" Tonitz asked, his hand tightening on his hilt. "The Roaring Axe could catch the tail of that line before they reach the shoals."

"No. Let them run," Blake said, watching the retreating silhouettes. "Let them scatter across the dunes and spread the tales of their new King’s wrath. There is a use even for beings who cease to be men. Livestock exists for a reason, don’t they?"

Tonitz nodded, though his eyes lingered on the distance. "Some of our captains are pursuing anyway. The Sea-Bitch and the Iron Maiden are already giving chase."

"Let them. Every man is the king of his own deck; let no other intrude upon his domain. If they wish to claim more glory or a lonely grave, that is their prerogative. When they realize they are hunting alone, they will either turn back or prove themselves worthy of their own legends."

Blake unclasped his heavy, salt-crusted helmet. He let it thud onto the deck, closing his eyes as the biting, cold wind of the sea kissed his damp skin. The air tasted of brine, iron, and victory. He felt, for the first time in months, entirely at home.

"And the prisoners, Admiral?"

"Kill them. Throw their bodies to the sand," Blake commanded, his voice devoid of heat, his eyes still closed for that cold embrace with the wind. "They chose their grave by clinging to the air and the land. As for the dead who fought well, give them to the Sea. They earned their seat at the banquet. If our God accepts them, they’ll never resurface. If they wash up on the banks in three days’ time, we’ll know the waves have spurned them, and we shall let the worms finish what the fishes refused."

He turned, surveying the carnage of the deck. "Find the banners. I want the one with the black snake, the lord’s mark. He was a true man, that Xerxe. I’ll keep his colors as a memory of a fight worth having. Tell the men: we toast to the Lord of Damas tonight."

The Free Men of the Isles had two great loves: spilling blood and drowning the memory of it in ale. Tonight would be a riot.

Tonitz lingered, his eyes gleaming with a hunger that wasn’t for drink. Blake noticed it immediately. He might not have Cain’s serpent-tongue or his ability to read a man’s secret shames, but he knew the look of a wolf who wanted a bigger territory.

"We took many prizes today," Blake tempted, watching the pirate’s reaction.

Tonitz’s gaze sharpened. "We did, Admiral."

"How would you like this one for your own? ’’ He slapped the rail’’She’s sturdy, fast, and the wood has already been seasoned with the right kind of liquid."

Tonitz let out a breath he seemed to have been holding for years. "I would like it as much as I’ll like the foam in my throat when the Sea-God finally calls me home. Give me the wheel, Admiral. Let me break the waves beside you once more."

Years ago, Tonitz had commanded his own vessel. He hadn’t lost it through incompetence or cowardice; his ship had been the one they’d stuffed with hay, pitch, and oil, a fire-ship sent screaming into the heart of the Romelian armada during the siege of Harmway. He had sacrificed his command to burn an empire’s overreach, and today, Blake was paying the debt.

"She’s yours," He said, clapping a heavy hand on his friend’s shoulder.He had earned this ship like many others, it was his to do as he wished. "Wash the sand off her decks. I want her smelling of salt and victory by moonrise. She will be reborn as Damas’s lady."

Blake’s mood lightened as the memory of the Romelian campaign washed over him, sweet as a draft of stolen honey. He had never imagined that spilling Romelian blood could taste so divine.

His eldest brother, Hadrin, may the Sea-God keep him in a deep, crushing embrace, would have wept with joy to see what those proud Romelians had become. To think it was his youngest brother who had finally avenged the massacres at Rock Bottom, Koros, and Merek would have laughed at the notion. Blake looked toward the distant horizon, his lip curling in a sneer.

Land-dwellers. Lapdogs of dogs. If someone had told him years ago that the mighty Romelians would debase themselves by treating with a Prince of Yarzat, he would have asked what kind of Azanian spice they’d been smoking.

His thoughts soured slightly at the mention of Yarzat. He’d intended to make a voyage there with Kroll, to see if the rumors of their wealth were true, but Azania had proven too plump a target to ignore.

He was far too busy carving a kingdom out of sun and salt to fret over the squabbles of a little prince. Perhaps once the Sands were firmly wedded to the Isles, he’d pay the South a visit, hurt them a little, make off with their gold, and see if their women lived up to the tales.

He knew, of course, that there wasn’t truly a "Prince" of Yarzat. The one who actually wore the authority was a Princess. Bowing to a woman... now that was a queer notion. Yet, if the tavern songs were to be believed, her beauty was so sharp it had driven her husband to destroy an entire princedom just to set a second crown upon her head and get the one hid under her skirt.

Now, wasn’t that a story worth a few verses?

The South had changed, it seemed, just as Romelia had. The old world was rotting away, replaced by something stranger and more violent.Not that he would complain, wasn’t he after all making his own trace in this one?

Blake felt a rare itch of curiosity; he would have liked to meet them both, the "Prince of War" and the Princess whose face was worth two thrones.One in battle the other in bed.

But such meetings were for a future written in different blood. He had no time to plan raids on distant shores today. He was currently occupied with a far more delicate craft than simple piracy.

He would bring the oldest fear mankind ever held in his heart.

He was, after all, laying the groundwork for a civil war.