Thunder rolled over Hiddleston.
The sound crossed the harbor and shook through the sleeping town. Rain followed at once, falling in hard, cold sheets from the black sky. It struck the dock, the roofs of the warehouses, the dark water below, and the deck of the Valmorian ship.
The fire at the broken ram fought against the rain.
Flames still climbed over the splintered wood and twisted metal where the figurehead had been cut away. Smoke rose from the prow in thick black clouds. Water hissed against burning timber, but the fire had not yet gone out.
Ulrich stood above it.
His crimson hair was soaked within seconds. Rain ran down his face and over the blood still marking his skin. His white shirt clung to his body, darkened by water, mud, and the wounds beneath it. The black anti-magic sword rested in his right hand.
"You…"
Valdris stared at him, speechless.
Ulrich looked at him.
Then he jumped.
He landed on the deck.
The impact made the wet wood shake beneath his boots.
