The ship's deck had become a slaughterhouse. Pirates swarmed over the rails, boarding Abigail's ship while the surrounding pirate ships bombarded other Elsemer vessels with relentless cannons.
Pirates stormed the captain's cabin where they found Abigail.
Her bodyguard, Knyyt Yorke — a scythe-wielding Runecaster — raised his weapon while orbs of fire manifested around them. The heat of which warmed Abigail's skin.
The first wave of pirates balked at these levitating flames.
Knyyt Yorke seized that moment to attack first. He carved through the first wave with a swing of his scythe.
More enemies rushed.
Half his fiery orbs shot at these men, blasting them along with the door and wall in explosive flurry.
Abigail coughed from the smoke itching her throat. The other half of the fiery orbs still hovered around her like protective sentries.
With the cabin's entrance now a gaping, smoldering hole, it wasnt safe there anymore.
Yorke and his conjured flames defended her as they hurried across the deck.
Every attack shook her — yet none touched her yet.
The last of the orbs blasted away a pirate who lunged at her from behind.
That moment Knyyt Yorke stopped to conjure more orbs, she heard the sudden whistle under all the shouting and clashing of blades.
A boarding axe hurled across — took his casting hand.
Blood spattered her face.
Yorke roared in agony, staggering back as the glow of his activating Runestrings flickered and died.
Abigail paralysed on her feet.
A hand grabbed her suddenly.
It was the young Sealbearer. He pulled her down the companionway.
Then into the cramped corridors below deck.
"My guard—" Abigail stopped.
"Your majesty I'm not a combatant." he gasped, his breath in ragged hitches. "Our only hope is hiding!"
The door at the end of the hall splintered. A pirate stinking of sour ale — burst in with a jagged cutlass.
The Sealbearer threw himself forward, grappling with the intruder in a desperate, clumsy struggle.
"Run!" the boy strained, his face purple as he tried to keep the blade from his throat.
Abigail didn't run. She snatched a heavy, iron-bound ledger from a side table and swung it. The corner caught the pirate behind the ear, felling him unconscious.
"Combatant or not — we do not cower like prey." She said, chest heaving. "Knyyt Yorke is wounded. We shall go retrieve him."
They rushed back to the chaos of the upper deck. Her bodyguard was on one knee, blood slicking his arm as he fended off three attackers with a broken blade.
Then and there, a pirate lunged at Abigail's throat—
Thwip!
An arrow whistled through the fray, burying itself in that pirate's eye. He was dead before he hit the deck.
Then came a rain of arrows. Each shot precise, felling only the pirate invaders.
On the horizon, a fleet of sleek, fast-moving vessels bore down on the skirmish.
Outnumbered and surrounded, the pirates dropped their weapons as the Kaine army in their red leathers — boarded all ships.
Frederich Kaine strode aboard the Royal flagship, his longcoat billowing like a cape, his golden-hilt saber sheathed at his hip — somehow looking more like another jewelry on him than a weapon. His presence radiated elegance.
It's the Kaine sect!
The Gallant Beast!
We are saved!
Crewmen muttered.
Abigail was on her knees beside her bodyguard. He had suffered so many cuts. Finally, the light in his eyes died out as his hand went limp in her grip.
She shut her eyes in mournful silence, whispering a prayer.
Fredderich Kaine's steps halted behind her. Seeing her praying, he didn't interrupt. He turned to his men instead. "Have our physicians tend to the wounded." He commanded.
He turned his gaze to the captured pirates. "Answer me, scum," he called. "Why incur the wrath of Elsem?"
"Elsem?" A pirate spat, bitter even in defeat. "Word's out. The Master of Conjuration is cold meat. Yer shield's gone. Yer small, self-important nation is done for. So, what wrath of Elsem?"
Abigail rose, her height seeming to double as she stood before the knelt captive. "Leonhart's legacy was not built of one man's breath," she said, her voice carrying across the quieted ships. "He built the largest army of Runecasters ever assembled under one rule. That… is the wrath of Elsem!"
Black Batch Hideout
Miles away, in a hollowed-out hideout beyond the reach of sunlight, a cult of rowdy, ragged people with faces painted in ink — were gathered. Air was thick with the smell of cheap tallow while light crystals coupled with lanterns illuminated the space.
A messenger arrived, battered and caked in road-grime. "It's true!" he bellowed, his voice echoing off the vaulted stone. "Leonhart is dead!"
The hideout exploded in jubilation. Iron mugs slammed onto stone tables. Dice flew, coin changed hands, and men clapped their blades together.
They shouted Leonhart's name like a curse they had finally cast off, chanting "So rises the Black Batch! So rises the Black Batch! So rises the Black Batch!" until dust shook from the ceiling.
One by one, they silenced when their leader stepped out of the gloom. His hands were raw, the skin split from hours of brutal training. A rune seal etched on his bulging Adam's apple. He didn't smile. He didn't cheer. He let the silence stretch until it was painful.
"The age of kings is over," he announced. Faint puff of red flame escaped his breath as he spoke. "No more crowns. No more Sects. It is time for the old Elsem to fall."
He mounted atop a stone table. Sweeping gaze across his attentive cult, rallying every soul in the chamber even with his silence.
"We return to Elsem… as a reckoning!"
His cult didn't cheer this time. They pounded their fists to their chests in collective, repeating rhythm. He joined them at it.