The Stepstones, Cutthroat Isle
Whoosh—!
A terrifying howl of wind descended upon the island as the sky above Cutthroat Isle bruised into a deep, sickly purple. Under the manipulation of a singular, malevolent force, charcoal-gray clouds bled across the horizon like a heavy, suffocating shroud.
Boom... Rumble...
Low peals of thunder rolled in from the distance, sounding like the rhythmic, angry drumbeats of a vengeful god. The gale, now a maddened stallion let off its tether, shrieked across the landscape. On Cutthroat Isle, the ancient trees groaned and snapped; branches twisted and lashed against one another in a desperate, wooden struggle for survival.
"Skree—!"
Jon's falcon, perched upon its stand in his bedchamber, suddenly thrashed against its jesses. It beat its wings in a blind panic, as if sensing the approach of something fundamentally wrong with the world.
Grrrr...
At Jon's feet, the direwolf Ghost rose, his snow-white fur bristling like a thousand needles. A low, guttural vibration rumbled in his throat—a warning aimed at the very air itself.
"Hm?"
CRACK—BOOM!
A bolt of lightning tore through the ceiling of the world, hurtling directly toward the Pirate Fortress. The deafening roar that followed felt as though reality itself were being flayed open. Under the sheer sonic pressure, the massive glass windows of Jon's chamber shattered inward. Shards of glass, caught in a swirling eddy of unnatural force, launched toward Jon like a volley of crystalline arrows.
"ROAR—!"
In the split second before the glass could flay his skin, a draconic bellow echoed from a void behind him. From a dimension unseen, the titan-like image of the Dimensional Dragon breathed a torrent of Dragonfire.
The heat pierced the veil of space and time, creating a wall of superheated air in front of Jon.
Hiss—!
The shards of glass disintegrated fifty centimeters from his face, vaporized into fine dust by the invisible inferno.
Whoosh...
As the glass vanished, the gale-driven rain finally breached the room. Great, heavy droplets slammed into the heat haze before Jon, instantly boiling into thick plumes of white steam.
Jon stood amidst the mist, clad in black leather, his silver-grey cloak snapping like a whip in the wind. The golden dragon totem on his belt shimmered. He narrowed his eyes, looking northwest. Guided by the power of his draconic link, his consciousness piggybacked onto the vision of a distant seagull. Through its eyes, he saw the pirate fleet lurking like vipers behind the curtain of the storm.
"Interesting..."
He felt the seagull's life snuffed out as a stray arc of lightning reduced it to ash. Jon's brow furrowed. This was no ordinary raiding party. He looked at the looming, distorted shadow within the thunderheads and unconsciously crumpled the letter in his hand.
"My dear uncle," he whispered to the empty, steaming room. "I hope you can hold out a little longer. I have a few pests to exterminate first."
The crushing of the letter signaled his intent.
Knock! Knock! Knock! "Lord Jon!"
"Enter!"
The commotion had alerted the household. Frodo and the others burst through the doors, freezing at the sight of the wreckage. It was the second time they had found Jon's quarters destroyed, though this time the damage was localized to the massive, hollowed-out window frame.
"Pass the word," Jon commanded, his voice cold and level. "Everyone to their stations. The enemy is at our gates."
"Yes, Lord Jon!"
Despite their shock, they didn't linger. They offered a swift salute and sprinted for the halls.
Dong! Dong! Dong!
In the newly constructed clock tower of the Dock Market, a bell-ringer of the Chainbreakers pulled the heavy rope with all his might. The bronze tolling cut through the howling wind.
"Move it! You lazy pups! The enemy is knocking on your mother's door!"
The rain, carried by the storm, struck the earth like falling cannonballs. Splashing water turned the streets into a blurred mess, soaking the frantic pedestrians who had no time to seek cover. The wind shrieked through every alleyway of the nascent city; windows rattled in their frames, and debris from the streets—branches, trash, and loose timber—spiraled into the air in a chaotic dance.
Water cascaded down the stone walls in heavy sheets, forming rushing streams along the gutters. Amidst the chaos, the non-combatants huddled in their homes, terrified and helpless, praying to whatever gods they knew that the disaster would pass. As the black clouds choked out the sun, the city plunged into a premature night, seemingly on the verge of being swallowed by the gale.
"Move! Your training was for this day!" Garo's voice boomed like a second peal of thunder. He knew these storms came and went with terrifying speed. But if a fleet was riding the wake of this wind, they would strike the moment the surge subsided, bypassing the outer defenses.
Under the cover of such a storm, his usual tactic of sinking ships to block the harbor was impossible to execute. The sentries at the main inlet wouldn't be able to stop—or even report—the enemy's advance.
"We fight at the Dock Market!" Garo shouted. "There is no chance for a naval engagement now. This is the first city of the Chainbreakers! We will have a thousand more, but only if we hold this one! For freedom and the hope of the suffering—to your posts!"
"Hoo-hah!"
With a collective roar, the soldiers of the Chainbreakers fanned out, taking up their pre-rehearsed defensive positions. At the major intersections and key buildings of the wharf, they erected hasty barricades of timber and Cheval de frise. Behind these jagged wooden "deer-horns," archers formed disciplined squares, their bowstrings kept dry under oiled leather cloaks.
Boom...
As the Chainbreakers locked down the city, the coalition fleet drew closer.
Strangely, the weather at the fleet's rear was the polar opposite of the apocalypse hitting the island. The sea was calm, the sun shining. Salladhor Saan, perched on the stern of his ship, went as far as to pour himself a glass of golden Arbor wine. To an outsider, he looked like a man on a pleasant summer excursion.
"Is this truly the power of a god?" Stone Lock, Saan's gladiator guard, whispered as he watched the localized hurricane ahead. "I've heard the Red Priests say the Lord of Light can bring back the dead, but I never imagined a 'Black Goat' could conjure a storm like this."
"I've never had a taste for these things," Saan replied, sipping his wine. "The Summer Isles have a thousand gods, yet not one of them ever stopped a slaver's chain."
A man of the world, Salladhor Saan believed only in the power of coin. To him, the only supernatural threats worth worrying about were krakens and dragons—things that could actually sink a ship. He knew gods influenced the world, but only as a nudge to the natural order.
"Remember this, Stone Lock: Magic and life are like a sword without a hilt. You either cut your enemy, or you bleed yourself dry. If you want to stay sane, trust the steel in your hand, not the whispers in the wind."
In Saan's experience, neither gods nor magic were meant for common men to master. His best choice was to watch from a safe distance.
"Wait for the show," Saan mused. "The enemy won't sit idly by and wait for us to—"
"ROAR—!"
Saan's sentence was cut short by a draconic bellow so loud it vibrated the very hull of his ship.
Before their eyes, the raging magical storm ahead was suddenly, violently, torn apart from the center by an invisible, gargantuan force.