The port reeked of scorched coal and cheap spirits. This entire "Great Fleet" looked like a herd of lumbering cast-iron irons. Sailors scurried across the decks, bickering over jammed winches. The Empire wasn't inspired—it was merely bristling like a beaten dog.
Eli stood at the very edge of the pier, as far as possible from the officers in their fresh, paint-scented uniforms. His own armor was heavy and awkward. It chafed his shoulders, and the blackened steel heated rapidly in the sun, turning the suit into a personal oven.
"Master Eli," the Admiral approached from behind, breathing heavily.
"We are waiting for the signal. The people want to see you lead us. You need to say something... you know, about revenge, about God, about Adel."
Eli didn't turn around. He stared at the oily water where debris drifted.
"Adel died because he was an idiot," he spat, and the Admiral choked on his breath. "And we are sailing there because we're too ashamed to admit it. Enough with the speeches. Just give the order to weigh anchor before I change my mind."
Eli spent the entire journey to the island in his cabin. He was sick from the swaying of the ship and the sight of the cannons being scrubbed daily by their crews. These men thought they were going to a war, but Eli knew better—they were heading for a slaughter where their opponent wouldn't even bother to break a sweat.
When the familiar white cliffs appeared on the horizon, Eli stepped onto the deck. The rage inside him didn't burn like a bonfire; it pressed against his temples with a dull ache. He hated this island for destroying his cozy illusion of handsome heroes and righteous battles.
"Load," he commanded as the flagship entered firing range.
"But we haven't reached our position yet..." the gunner began.
"I said: fire."
The first cannonball went wide, sending up a pillar of spray far from the shore. But Eli didn't care about accuracy. He just wanted that cursed castle to stop being so quiet. He wanted something—anything—there to break.
On a rocky ledge, just like last time, the youth sat. He wasn't tossing an apple or whittling wood. He simply watched the black ships with a sort of lazy curiosity, as if observing the scurry of ants in a disturbed anthill.
"Look at us," Eli whispered, clenching his fists until his knuckles cracked. "Come on, do something. Don't you dare ignore us again."
The youth on the cliff yawned, stood up, and leisurely walked toward the castle. He didn't even pick up his pace when the second cannonball slammed into the crag beneath his feet, showering the shore with stone splinters. That indifference struck Eli's pride harder than any halberd ever could.
"All batteries... fire," Eli breathed. "Tear this whole place to hell."
The island vanished behind a veil of smoke. The long, monotonous work of turning beauty into rubble began. Eli stood in a cloud of gunpowder soot and felt the void growing inside him. His wrath brought no relief. It simply made the world around him as ugly as he had become himself.