The fires in the strait had burned for two days, but by the third morning the last of the black ships had slipped beneath the water, and the sea was calm again.
Lysander stood at the window of the war room, watching the harbour. The fire ships were back at their docks, their crews resting after the victory. The militia had returned to their posts. The settlement was quiet. But something had shifted in the air. The victory had been real—six enemy ships destroyed, the rest driven off—but no one was celebrating anymore. The Sea Peoples had come with knowledge they shouldn't have possessed. They had known the patrol schedules. They had been warned about the fire ships. And somewhere in the palace, a traitor was still breathing.
