In the distance, Baia Infuocata rose like a colossus, stone walls kissed by red moss, as if the very blood of ancient tides had dried there. The red and gold banners fluttered in the wind, bearing the coat of arms of the Empire of Solterra – a golden solar explosion on a red field. That city was not made of iron and gunpowder… it was made of fire and pride.
When Victória approached the main gate, she saw muskets being raised on the battlements, pointed in her direction. The clinking of barrels, the tension… they weren't just soldiers following orders, they were also people, people who, surprisingly, showed fear, perhaps even dread of what was approaching.
– Stop where you are! – cried a hoarse voice, carried by the wind. – In the name of Lady Marina Ventarossa, Navigator of the Southern Winds, Duchess of Baia Infuocata, who dares approach the walls of this city without permission?
Lady Marina Ventarossa, Navigator of the Southern Winds, Duchess of Baia Infuocata, Victória recited mentally, with a hint of irony that nearly made her smile. The southern lords adore pomp. They think the sea belongs to them just because they sail it with colourful sails and stylised names. Pretty titles don't win battles, nor do they protect a city when fire comes from their desert.
An officer, in an immaculate uniform, raised his voice. His uniform bore more decorations than he could ever have earned on the battlefield.
– Your name, girl – he said, with the arrogance of one who believes himself owner of the world… or at least of that gate.
Victória straightened her back. If there was anything she had learned aboard the Caelestis, it was that pride could be as sharp as a sabre. Her voice rose, clear and firm, like the call of dawn:
– My name is Victória Navarca – she said, without looking down. – Sailor aboard the ship Caelestis, under the command of Her Majesty, Luna Caelestis, Queen of Isolara.
– You dare mention Luna Caelestis here – said the officer. – But you forgot the most important part. Why are you here? What is your purpose in Baia Infuocata?
– My Queen is dead – she said in a solemn tone that spread across the battlements like a thunderclap announcing the end of an era.
A cutting silence fell over the wall. Even the banners seemed to stop fluttering. The death of a sovereign was not a common piece of news. It was a wound in the body of an entire kingdom. And Victória, saying it in such a way, only gave greater power to such a short sentence.
The officer spoke again, but this time without bravado. There was incredulity, and a restrained fear in his voice.
– She's dead… how? – he asked. – How did Luna die?
– The sun of the Deserto Infuocato was too much for her – she murmured. – Not even the bravest of sailors could survive its burning embrace. Not even our sovereign… That is why I'm here. At her request and in the name of the Cult of the Eternal Sun, her body must be purified with the final rites… and buried in a consecrated church. That was her final wish.
The officer leaned a little further over the wall, his eyes narrowed by the sun and distrust.
– And how can we know this isn't a trap? – he asked, his voice as dry as the desert. – A trick to catch us by surprise? What if we open the gates and let an enemy in?
Other soldiers echoed him with uneasy murmurs, their fingers tense on the musket triggers. These were men and women accustomed to treachery, to pirates disguised as soldiers and letters with forged seals. The Solterrans did not trust easily, not even their own blood.
Victória took a deep breath. There, under that merciless sun, she felt as exposed as a lone sail in a stormy sea. But retreat? Never. Not now. Not while an oath still burned in her hands. She raised her eyes, fixing them on the officer and all the others on the battlements.
– I give you my word of honour – she said, with the firmness of one willing to die for it. – I do not seek war, nor deceit. Only the peace owed to the dead… and to my Queen. I only wish to fulfil my last duty to her – she hoped they would believe her, for she continued in a voice that almost seemed a plea. – I only wish to do what is right. And after… after I will return home. To Baia delle Perle, which I haven't seen in so many years. I can barely remember it.
The officer stood still. The wind blew, rustling the feathers of his worn hat. The young sailor before him did not seem like a spy, nor an assassin, nor a rebel or pirate with hidden motives. She seemed only… tired. Honest. And perhaps… perhaps she was telling the truth.
– Stay where you are – he said, in a commanding tone that befitted his bearing. – We will call Lady Ventarossa. If what you say is true… If Luna has indeed died… then this is not a matter for common soldiers.
Time dragged on like a condemned man in chains. Sweat ran down her neck, soaking into the fabric of her uniform until it became a sticky second skin. The heat made her temples throb, and irritation simmered in her soul.
If this keeps up, it won't be the Queen who needs burying, she thought, with dark humour. It'll be me. What a miserable way to treat a diplomatic envoy… they're more like pirates guarding a powder chest.
At last, the silence was broken by firm footsteps on the battlements. Not the quick steps of a messenger or the tense walk of an officer – this rhythm was different. It was measured. Deliberate. As if the wall itself had decided to walk.
Duchess Marina Ventarossa appeared on the parapet like a storm dressed in burning red and gold. Tall, slender, with scarlet hair tied in a bun that seemed to burn under the sun. She wore an open naval coat at the collar, with bronze embroidery in the shape of flames embracing black pearls. Her eyes were like the wind before a storm: grey, restless and always alert, even when her mouth smiled.
She looked down, analysing the exhausted figure of Victória with a cold expression. It was as if she were evaluating a torn sail: useful? Dangerous? Or simply disposable?
– You say the Queen is dead – Marina said bluntly, her clear voice cutting through the hot air like a sharp blade. – My guards swear that's what you said. That the false Queen of Isolara has finally fallen. Is it true?
Victória raised her eyes, and for a brief moment, saw not a leader but a vulture waiting to feed on the latest corpse to elevate her power. People like you are the ones who should be dead, she thought, bitterness rising like venom on her tongue. Not those who at least tried to rule with a semblance of honour.
But this was not the moment for vengeance. Nor for saying everything burning inside her. She breathed deeply, wiped the sweat from her brow with her sleeve and answered with the sobriety of someone carrying a world on their shoulders:
– It is true, Lady Duchess – she said with a voice as firm as a mast. – Queen Luna Caelestis is dead. And I am here to fulfil her final wishes.
– Dead… – Marina repeated, with a gleam of triumph in her eyes. – So it's true. Finally! The false Queen has fallen!
She made a sharp gesture to the officers and soldiers around her, like someone dismissing a slow servant or lord.
– Inform the allied houses at once – she said, already lost in thoughts of courtly halls. – King Eryx will be very pleased to hear that there are no longer any claimants to the throne of Isolara. And I will be the one to bring him this news. Me! Myself! – she added, with a smile that resembled a hidden blade.
Marina turned again to the battlements, looking down with the air of someone who had just won a battle.
– I want to witness this funeral with my own eyes. I wish to see the woman who called herself Queen laid into the earth. Bring her inside – she said, in a tone that allowed no reply as she pointed at Victória. – Bring the body and come in. We don't have all day!
Victória took a deep breath and made a short bow, something that was mandatory, but showing no true submission.
– I thank you for your hospitality, My Lady – she said, her voice controlled, the words marked by an almost mechanical respect as the city gates began to open.
May Solarius forgive me, she thought, looking up at the top of the walls, but this woman is more foolish than a sack of anchors. She wants to fly so high, so fast, that she'll burn before she reaches the stars. If she truly believes Eryx would reward her, she's even more foolish than I imagined.
The sailors approached beneath the gate, struggling under the weight of the barrel wrapped in blue and silver cloths – colours of Isolara, now stained by dust and the touch of relentless heat. Victória walked beside them, and around her, the Sailors of the Eternal Lighthouse, with their sun- and salt-burned faces, moved with a solemnity that contrasted with the suspicious looks of the population.
Baia Infuocata was a city as beautiful as it was brutal. Buildings of white limestone with richly carved balconies, windows of red-painted wood, and awnings that tried, in vain, to compete against the sun. But for every golden balcony, there was a dark alley. For every banner-filled tower, a street where eight people shared a blanket and a crust of bread. And there, on that scorching morning, the city came out onto the balconies, the markets, the stairways, even the church steps, to watch the Queen of Isolara's corpse pass by.
And the slaves… Oh, there were so many. Far too many. Faces burnt by the sun, eyes like stones worn by the sea. Some wore heavy chains on their wrists, others carried baskets, barrels, bricks, and even sacred water from the square's well, as if the heat demanded constant tribute. Children crawled between the legs of passers-by, and women with iron collars around their necks cast empty looks at the procession – not of mourning, but of eternal exhaustion.
For every free person watching the urn pass with distant respect, there were three slaves who did not even dare raise their heads.
Victória felt her body tense with every step. The city was alive, yes, but it was a sick organism. Putrid. A heart beating to the rhythm of gold and commerce, but rotten inside, like a ship eaten to dust by termites.
Luna… if you were seeing this…, thought Victória, bitterly. They call you a false Queen, but they are the ones who live under false light.
The march continued. The church, at the end of the main street, rose like a ship anchored to the land – with towers dark as masts, stained-glass windows like watching eyes, and a huge solar wheel carved at the top. It was one of the temples of the Cult of the Eternal Sun, where every sunrise was a ritual and every sunset a promise of rebirth. But, on that day, the sun offered no comfort.
The interior of the church smelled of old incense and stone dust. It was clear the temple had seen better days. The walls, once painted in vibrant shades of amber and gold, were now peeling, revealing thin cracks like dried veins. Here, not even Solarius dared remain.
At its centre, before the altar, stood Queen Luna's barrel. A priest, a tall man with an unkempt beard and faded ochre robes, approached the makeshift urn and raised his hands in a solemn gesture. Despite serving the Cult of the Eternal Sun, the light illuminating him was harsh, implacable, without warmth. He was there merely out of formality.
– May the eternal flame purify this body – he intoned, his voice monotonous, like someone reciting for the hundredth time something they no longer believed in. – May the Sun look upon the heart of this… daughter of the sea and receive her… in its justice.
The words seemed carefully chosen. Every mention of royalty or sovereignty was avoided as if it were poison. No 'Queen of Isolara' nor 'Luna Caelestis' was heard, only 'daughter of the sea'. Anonymous. Reduced. Her identity being erased right there, before the altar.
Victória and the Sailors of the Eternal Lighthouse stood firm in a semicircle around the barrel. Some had their hands on the hilt of their sabres; others discreetly observed the windows and doors. The ceremony felt interminable, and every second carried the weight of a stone about to fall.
Luna, rise!, Victória thought. Give us the signal. Let this play end.
Further back, resting on a cushioned bench as if she were attending a theatrical performance, sat the Duchess. Her attire was even more extravagant than when she had appeared on the walls. Her eyes nearly shone, as if she could not contain her excitement.
– How wonderful… – Marina murmured, lightly waving a fan of red feathers, her lips curved into a smile as if already picturing the court celebrating the news. – I never thought I'd see this day…
It was a day of mourning, yet she seemed to be enjoying a festival, Victória thought. She doesn't even pretend, nor tries to hide the pleasure she takes in seeing a Queen dead. If there is any justice in this world, Marina Ventarossa will be the next to fall.
The priest continued, indifferent to the growing tension around him. His words seemed to disguise a ritual echoing centuries of tradition, but there it felt as empty as a chalice without wine.
– May the light embrace the flame that returns to the earth – he concluded, tracing a circle over the barrel. – May the Sun judge and purify.
The moment the final murmur of prayer echoed beneath the church's worn arches, the barrel – poor substitute for a royal coffin – trembled. The lid shifted with a dry creak, as if the wood itself complained of holding so much power. Luna Caelestis rose from the world of the dead, and the priest, his hands still raised in ritual supplication, had no time to step back.
Luna's eyes, once hidden under funeral veils, now shone with the promise of steel and vengeance. The silence was shattered by a shout – not of terror, but of shock. The Duchess, still drunk with dreams of political ascent, dropped the crimson fan she held, her mouth opening in a futile protest.
It was in that exact moment that Victória moved. She crossed the space between herself and the Duchess with the speed of a falcon diving through the air. The blade of her sword pressed against the Duchess's throat, while her other hand pointed a pistol directly at her heart, like an irrefutable decree.
Around the altar, chaos burst. The Sailors of the Eternal Lighthouse, who until then had appeared as mere mourners, let the veil of the ruse fall. Swords were freed from their scabbards, concealed bayonets clicked into rifles with crisp snaps. The Duchess's guards, little more than ornaments in that ceremony, had barely enough time to raise their weapons before they were run through. Blood began splattering the cold stones as screams and steel clashed in a brief and deadly dance.
– Free the slaves – ordered Luna. – And arm them with what's inside the chest – inside, swords, daggers and bayonets could be seen; enough weaponry to spark a revolt. – Today, this city will have a new sunset. One that will not fall under chains.
And, with the order given, they left the church. Luna walked, calm and implacable, through the city's narrow corridors, Victória and the Sailors of the Eternal Lighthouse guarding her closely. The Duchess was dragged unwillingly in the midst of the procession.
When they reached the city's main gates and opened them, a rising roar was heard, from a silent crowd: the city's slaves, now brandishing steel, rose like an unbreakable wave.
The fear that once bent their backs, wavering between submission and resignation, had turned into raging fury, almost palpable, burning like the sun. Every arm scarred by whips and lashes, every shoulder hunched from years of forced labour, now straightened with resolve, raising blades that glinted in the sunlight. They were small and large hands, thin and muscular bodies, faces once invisible to the eyes of the rich, but now the last thing those eyes would ever see.
The shock of the first clashes echoed through the streets like thunder: city guards, unprepared and caught by surprise, fell under swift blows. Screams of pain mixed with the triumphant roars of slaves seeking their own freedom. The streets, once only stained with dust and scraps of food, were quickly tinted red. The entire city seemed to tremble with the sudden violence – the old world being torn apart by those who had silently sustained it for centuries.
At the city gates, after Luna's army had joined the slaves' uprising to free the city, the Queen approached Victória. Each of her steps exuded authority, as if every blood-soaked stone recognised that the true sovereign was walking there.
– Victória, send a messenger to Livia. Tell her to bring the Caelestis here, and that this city has just become a safe harbour – Luna looked upon the city, still tense, still smoking with destruction and victory. The echo of the last screams of resistance mingled with the sound of blades being sheathed and chains finally being broken. The chaos still vibrated in the air, but she did not stray from her plan. – A city like this… well, it's seen better days, but it must have at least one warship to defend it. If we are to keep what we've gained, I'll need skilled and loyal hands to help me.
She paused, a barely perceptible smile emerging in the corners of her lips.
– Are you ready to be captain of your own ship?