"Where is he?"
The Warmaster's voice carries a razor's edge. The cluster of soldiers exchange uneasy glances and half shrugs.
"Find him."
They snap into action, nodding sharply before scattering across the ship like ants searching for a crumb. Every deck, every shadowed corner is combed until they finally find him in the dim recesses of the lower levels.
"By the goddess, he's drained more than half the firebrew," one soldier mutters, his tone drenched in disgust. He stands over the sprawled figure of Voryn, who lays slack-faced in the amber glow of a lantern, his body sprawled carelessly on the planked wood like a marionette whose strings had been cut.
One of them thrust a harsh kick into his side, eliciting nothing more than a lazy grumble. Voryn shifts slightly, turning onto his side, still lost in some drunken dream. Irritated, the soldier delivers another vicious kick to his back.
"Onto your feet!"
The only response is a soft snore that pushes the soldier's irritation into anger. They all surge at him, intent on yanking him upright, but Voryn moves with a sudden, drunken fury. His foot lashe out, catching one in the shin. In the same breath, he reaches for a nearby grog flask and smashes the hard shell against the jaw of the second, sending him reeling.
Still, the efforts cost him. He staggers to his full height, swaying as though the floor itself is tilting beneath him. A lazy, crooked smile spread across his face.
"You should—" a hiccup breaks his words, "—know better than to disturb a man while he sleeps."
"You're no man, savage," one spat. "Not even the king can change that."
They brace themselves, expecting another attack. Instead, Voryn erupts into a fit of laughter, his shoulders shaking with mirth. The laughter cracks into silence as he pitches forward, barely catching himself on the edge of a crate. It takes two soldiers to haul him upright, dragging his near-unconscious body back toward the main deck.
When they finally reach the Warmaster, he stands waiting, his expression a knotted weave of emotions—shame, frustration, and the faintest glint of heartbreak. Voryn's head lolls forward, hair still caked with the grime and filth of Blackspire. His body sags heavily between the soldiers, his drunken weight a burden they struggle to bear.
"Found him below," one soldier reports, his voice curt. "Wasting away with half a barrel of firebrew."
"I've heard of men who died after three tankards," another added grimly. "He nearly had the whole thing."
The Warmaster's sharp gaze remains fixed on Voryn, who sways gently like a ship at anchor.
"Take him to his cabin," the Warmaster orders, his voice even but low, reduced to a whisper. It still bears a voice that commands submission. "Watch him, so when he sobers. He's brought back to me."
The Blademarshal jerks his head at the soldiers, a silent command to follow orders. They obey, dragging Voryn away. His feet scuffs against the deck as the Warmaster watches him disappear into the ship's shadows, his jaw tightening as if holding back words he would never say.
His Blademarshel steps closer. "Why do you place your faith in that scum no less worthy to scrape the dung from our boots? Let alone preside over us."
"It is not for you to understand," he says with finality. "Only to accept that he is the only one who can do what none of us can."
The Blademarshal swallows his protest with a tight nod, his jaw clenching as the imperial ship cuts through the waters, bound for Nytheris.
***
The twilight bleeds into a deep indigo, painting the ocean with streaks of midnight amethyst. On the deck, tables are laden with food and drink, crewmen and soldiers murmuring low over their meals.
When Voryn emerges, the quiet swells into a palpable stillness. His appearance is a stark contrast to the grimy figure they had dragged aboard days prior—dark, clean garments cling to his frame, his unkempt hair now bound into a short plait, though his beard remains wild, bristling fur carpeting his mouth and jaw.
The Warmaster gestures toward the open seat across from him. Voryn dumps himself onto the chair carelessly, reaching without hesitation to serve himself a heaping bowl of stew. Hardtack soaks in the rich broth as he devours one bowl, then another with greedy hunger. By the third, the soldiers nearby exchange wary glances.
Ignoring the gazes fixed on him, Voryn grabs a tankard of gritstout and drinks deeply, the firebrew's raw bite burning down his throat.
"You've only just recovered," the Warmaster observes, his tone calm, though a thread of reproach lingers beneath.
Voryn wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "If this is the company I'm cursed to keep, then I'll need much more." He raises the tankard again, glaring at him from over its rim.
A younger soldier stiffens, his voice rising to defend the Warmaster. "Have care how you speak, savage. That is Warmaster Eulid you address."
Voryn turns to him, his gaze cold and cutting. "As one who wore that uniform before you, I know all I need to about Warmaster Eulid."
The air thickens with unease. Soldiers exchange alarmed looks, and even Eulid sits stone-still, his features unreadable.
Voryn's lips curl into a wolfish smile, savoring their discomfort. "Does your lot not know?" His voice is dangerously low. His attention settles on the new Blademarshal. "Here's a lesson for you, boy—from one predecessor to his successor. What serves the kingdom seldom spares the man."
The Blademarshal stiffens, his shoulders squaring as he fires back, his voice laced with fervent conviction. "It is not for man to be spared. For king and kingdom, there is no cost too great. Only a coward would dare lament its price. Duty isn't about oneself." He leans forward, eyes narrowing with disdain. "Which is why your very presence stains every law and belief we hold sacred."
The words hang in the air, the tension taut as a drawn bowstring. Voryn leans back, his expression an inscrutable mask, but the gleam in his eyes reveals a man both amused and indifferent to their judgment, unfazed by his self-righteousness rebuke.
"Your place is where the animals relieve themselves."
The soldier rises with a jolt as he leans over the table, a snarl twisting his features before a glob of spit lands squarely in his tankard.
A fellow comrade shoots to his feet, grabbing the man's arm in an attempt to quell the brewing conflict. Murmurs ripple through the onlookers, their eyes darting to Voryn, whose expression remains an ominous mystery. But then his lips curve—a dark, sinister smile that chills more than the evening air. Without breaking eye contact, Voryn picks up the tainted tankard, then he raises it, tilting his head back to take a deliberate, unbroken draw. The liquid vanishes with a gulp, and he slams the tankard down on the table. The soldiers gape, their disbelief palpable, while the offending man's sneer falters.
Voryn moans with exaggerated pleasure. "Would you prefer a more direct approach?" he mocks, opening his mouth teasingly wide as stifled laughter erupts among the soldiers and sailors alike.
"Rolin, sit down," Eulid commands, his tone cold and clipped.
But Rolin shakes off the restraining hand on his arm. "No, with respect, Warmaster, this scum doesn't deserve to breathe the same air as Her Holiness, let alone stand at her side! It should be me, which is why I challenge him—to fight to the death for the privilege to protect."
"Rolin, I said—"
"I accept."
Voryn's voice cuts through the tension like a blade, his eyes never leaving Rolin's.
Eulid's jaw tightens, but after a measured pause, he nods. "Clear the deck," he orders.
The soldiers move swiftly, dragging tables and chairs to the sides of the main deck, creating an open space. Anticipation hums in the air as the crew gathers along the edges, their eyes fixed on the unfolding spectacle.
Eulid inspects a blade himself, running his thumb along the edge before handing it to Voryn. For a fleeting moment, Voryn's fingers close around the hilt, and a faint, almost imperceptible sense of relief washes over him. The sword isn't his, but its weight is reassuring enough.
"Fear not," Rolin jeers as he unsheathes his own blade, his confidence brimming with arrogance. "I know it's been a long time since you held a sword. I'll make this quick."
Voryn doesn't respond. No retort, no mocking smile, no visible sign of agitation. Instead, he shifts his stance, feet planting firmly on the deck. Muscle memory awakens, flowing through him like a familiar current. Every movement is precise, measured, and sharp.
The deck falls silent, save for the creak of the ship and the gentle lap of waves. Two figures stand poised for violence. Rolin lunges forward, his blade flashing in a series of quick, precise strikes. Each movement is clean, efficient, a testament to hours of disciplined training. Voryn doesn't flinch, his eyes narrowing as he observes the soldier's technique. Rudimentary. The kind of skill honed by repetition, not the crucible of real battle. Advanced but not adequate.
With a swift, calculated motion, Voryn twists his blade to meet Rolin's. Steel screams against steel before Voryn flicks his wrist, sending Rolin's sword spinning from his grip. It clatters to the deck, skidding out of reach.
Rolin doesn't hesitate. Snarling, he charges at Voryn barehanded. To their shock, Voryn tosses his own sword aside. His expression remains impassive, save for the faintest flicker of amusement.
Rolin's fists connect—one solid blow to Voryn's jaw, another to his gut. But Voryn absorbs the hits like a mountain weathering a storm. His retaliation is sudden and overwhelming. With a single, brutal maneuver, he uses his sheer strength to bring Rolin crashing to the deck.
Pinning the soldier beneath him, Voryn unleashes a savage onslaught. His fists hammer down mercilessly. Blood sprays from Rolin's nose, but Voryn doesn't stop. His knuckles split, his breaths come ragged, yet he pounds down with mindless brutality.
The flicker of a smile curls his lips—a dark, unsettling gleam of satisfaction in his eyes as he eviscerates Rolin blow by blow.
"Enough!"
Eulid's voice booms above the chaos, and his hands clap sharply. Soldiers rush forward, seizing Voryn by the arms and dragging him off. Voryn doesn't resist, his chest heaving as he lets out a low, unhinged chuckle.
Rolin lies sprawled on the deck, battered and bloodied, his breath shallow, his limbs twitching like a squashed bug.
"It seems I've broken your blade," Voryn laughs.