Orashu sat at the edge of the weathered docks, the dawn's mist swirling around the ancient stone piers of Heldrall. With a soft purse of his lips, he let out a low, haunting whistle that lifted through the thick, salt-tinged air like an echo from a forgotten age. The melancholic tune was barely audible, a faint wisp dancing on the breeze, yet its presence was unmistakable. And that, in itself, made it a disastrous call.

  Cai's boots thudded heavily against the eroded pier as he approached, his single-sleeved coat clinging to him, damp with the briny sea spray. His jaw tightened; he breathed steady but slow. He condemned Orashu without words. The silence was tight—like a rope stretched almost to its breaking-point. Tension crackled in the air, daring him to speak. But when Orashu finally glanced over, there was no shame in his eyes, only an intrigued curiosity.

  "Do you have a death wish, or are you just an idiot?" Cai asked, his voice was low and harsh.

  Orashu grinned, the expression carved with amusement. "What, that?" He let the last note fade. "It’s only air."

  Cai’s jaw tensed. "Air that could see you judged before the high seats." His voice was sharper now; there was a warning beneath the words. "You should know the creed of this place by now: Forged by Kreat, Guided by Blariz. This is no place to test old ways. Keep that from slipping out again."

  Orashu’s heavy breaths escaped through parted lips as his golden eyes drifted to the towering halls beyond the harbor. Emerging like a mountain carved from time itself, Heldrall’s blackstone walls rose from the backdrop. The enormity held centuries of verdicts between its towering bastions stretching toward the sky, as if demanding entrance to Kreat’s domain. At the heart of this imposing citadel lay the Hyrat, where the condemned stood trial. And on this day, one such prisoner had arrived. Brought before its halls by their hands.

  "The woman aboard," Orashu murmured. "They’re taking her straight to judgment?"

  Cai nodded. "High Vice Veltren made the request himself. He claims she’s a danger to the Armada. To the seas themselves. ‘No need to prolong the obvious’ he says."

  Orashu’s gaze drifted back to the horizon, then snapped back. "And you believe it?"

  Cai glanced toward the Skylash, moored at the eastern wharf, its sleek hull glistening under the rising sun. "I believe she’s something not of this world. But belief doesn’t matter here. The laws do."

  A red light shot out from the higher terraces, a call that signaled the beginning of proceedings. The people stirred, their daily business momentarily abandoned as their attention turned toward the Hyrat. It was rare for the high seats to convene on such short notice. Even more for them to do so for a single prisoner.

  Orashu watched as the intense procession made its way along the wharf. The woman from the Skylash, her wrists shackled, was escorted by waveriders and led towards her judgment. Despite the rough shoves from her guards, she carried herself with an eerie, measured grace, her expression betraying no hint of the weight that burdened her fate. But it was her hands—bound in dull, unyielding iron—that spoke volumes. Her fingers curled tightly, muscles tensing, as if straining against an unseen force far greater than the simple metal restraints that confined her.

  He had more questions—dozens of them, all wound tight in the back of his mind. But questions had a way of unraveling things best left bound. Every answer would tug at another thread, another truth. That truth wasn’t always clarity—it was consequence. And he wasn’t sure if asking them was worth it.

  Cai sighed. "Come on. If she’s as dangerous as they claim, we should at least witness it."

  Orashu lingered for a moment longer, gaze still drifting on the sea. The horizon was empty now, but something in his bones told him it wouldn’t stay that way for long. With a final glance toward the waves, he turned and followed Cai up toward the halls of judgment. The steady thumping of their boots against the worn stone path filled the silence between them, but Orashu’s mind lingered on Cai’s words.

  The old ways.

  Orashu cast a sidelong glance at the harbormaster, his exposed, wrinkled arm, a glaring opposition to the pristine blue sleeve of Cai's jacket. The fabric billowed and fluttered in the coastal breeze with each step Orashu took, his own hem hovering between his elbow and mid-forearm. The rough, scarred skin of his bare arm told the story of a life spent at sea. "You spoke of the old ways," he said, his tone measured and even. "What did you mean by that?"

  Cai didn’t answer right away. He adjusted the belt at his hip, eyes forward as they passed under the arching bridge leading toward Hyrat. “Depends on how much of the past you want weighing on your shoulders,” he finally said. “The Cursed Age wasn’t just a time of war or ruin. It was a severance. One that the current powers wish to keep broken.”

  Orashu frowned. “Severance?”

  Cai drew in a labored breath. “Before the Curse, sound wasn’t just speech. It carried power. A thing called music existed—songs that could bind, break, and command. The people of that time wielded it like another limb. Then, something… happened. I don’t quite remember the stories, but Kreat cast judgment from the sky, and the world fell silent.”

  Orashu listened carefully, feeling the words settle in his chest like stones. “And this woman? You think she’s connected with… music?”

  Cai’s expression darkened. “I don’t know. But I know she can’t truly be. That time was forever ago. Longer than these damn stairs were built.”

  They climbed higher toward Hyrat.

  Cai continued with slight laboring to his breathing. “Those who hold the storm in their eyes are bound to walk the line between destruction and salvation.”

  The fortress-like structure loomed ahead, its pillars etched with the tenets of Blariz, the goddess of justice. Forged by Kreat, Guided by Blariz. The words were carved deep into the threshold, a reminder that no soul left Hyrat unchanged post-judgement.

  Cai slowed his pace and turned to Orashu, his tone shifting. “You of all people should understand the weight of this place.”

  Orashu eyes met his, sharp and unwavering. “Because I am Cree?”

  “Yes, and because one day, you will know what that truly means to be,” Cai placed a hand on Orashu’s shoulder while the other spread across his body to the sky. “You are Skyblessed. Kreat be praised, you’ll stay that way.”

  Orashu nodded as he turned away. “Why do I have to wait to know? Can’t you just tell me now?”

  Cai remained silent. The halls of judgment ahead, and whatever fate awaited the prisoner inside, they would soon witness.

  ….

  The chamber of judgment, Hyat, was carved from the bones of Heldrall itself, its large, tiered rows rising in a great arc around the central floor where the accused now stood. The space was designed so that no voice needed to be raised—every whisper could carry with the slightest push riding on the breath to make it. High above, the ceiling arched like the hollow of a great shell, allowing sound to spiral and linger before vanishing into silence.

  Twelve figures sat in their carved black-marble stone chairs, their billowing sleeves unfurling like banners of authority. As they shifted, the fabric caught the light, refracting it into a shimmering rainbow that danced across the chamber’s ceiling. The air felt thick with their presence, heavy with the weight of their judgment.

  A tang of blood hung in the atmosphere, the faint scent of power radiating from their forms. The taste of anticipation lingered on the tongue; a palpable tension that made every breath feel laden. These were the High Sovereigns, each ruling over one of the Twelve Seas with an iron fist and an unyielding will. Their very existence demanded reverence and submission.

  Fires burned in sconces along the chamber’s walls, casting rageful shadows over the assembled figures. At the lowest level, in the heart of the chamber, the woman stood.

  The woman's wrists were shackled in dull, stiff iron, yet her bearing suggested a judgment to her captors, not resignation. She carried herself with an unnatural poise—not the slumped defeat of a prisoner, but the upright defiance of one who had been summoned to confront them. Elevated, undaunted.

  Orashu lingered in the shadows beneath the Sovereigns’ chairs, arms crossed tight against his chest. His gaze never left her. Beside him, Cai shifted, fingers bending and releasing at his sides, his breath just a little too quick. Orashu didn’t need to hear a word to know his unease. It mirrored the weight coiled in his own gut.

  One of the Sovereigns rose—a man of thin features and large eyes, High Sovereign Othrain of the Shattered Wells. His voice, deep as shifting tides, rolled through the chamber.

  “We do not recognize your title. So, you will be considered bannerless...” He cleared his throat and spoke with more certainty than he did before. “Nessira of no house or banner, you are brought before the Twelve for judgment.” His eyes were like aged meat, cold and dry. “You were brought aboard the Skylash, bound and gagged. Even in chains, your captors feared you.” He tilted his head. “Why is that?”

  The room listened.

  Nessira did not speak.

  A buzz passed through the assembled array from High Vices to Waveriders to common folk in attendance. The fires roared in their sconces, their glow doing little to push back the weight of so many eyes.

  Another voice joined the first—High Sovereign Yrsel of the Brimstone Coast. A woman known for her ruthless dealings at sea. “Are you a Siren?” she asked, voice smooth but laced with venom.

  Still, no answer.

  The air in the chamber changed.

  A third Sovereign scoffed, drumming his fingers against the stone arm of his chair. “She says nothing because she knows what she is.”

  “She says nothing because she is guilty,” another added.

  A current of unease rippled through the chamber, like a growing tide.

  Then, a new voice—a measured one.

  “Speak, or be judged in silence.”

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  High Sovereign Lycred Karrowe.

  Orashu's eyes were drawn to the man sitting above him. The Sovereign's gaze was sharp and piercing, his expression akin to a predatory hawk surveying its domain. His sleeve was tailored to the wrist, then flared out dramatically, the vibrant blue and gold fabric almost blinding in the sunlight that streamed behind him. There was an air of keen awareness that seemed to pierce through Orashu and settle over the gathered crowd.

  Nessira remained motionless.

  Then, Othrain spoke again, and this time, the words carried true hostility.

  “You are a Siren.”

  It was like striking a match.

  Nessira’s calm snapped. Her head lifted sharply, her gaze locking onto Othrain with such force it felt like the air itself recoiled.

  Her voice, when it came, was steady. Deadly.

  “I am no Siren.”

  The chamber seemed to shrink around them.

  Even Orashu—who had no stake in her fate—felt the pull of those words, the sheer force of her certainty. The buzz that had weaved through the room before now vanished, leaving a silence so thick it pressed against the ribs.

  Nessira’s eyes swept the assembled Sovereigns, the Harbormasters, the Waveriders. Measuring them. Calculating… something.

  Then, she took a breath.

  And spoke a single word.

  “Sleep.”

  The sound did not echo. It did not need to.

  The command slithered through the chamber like a tide rolling in—inevitable, inescapable.

  The first to fall were the Harbormasters standing at the chamber’s edge. Then the Waveriders, their hands falling from their weapons as their knees buckled. The Sovereigns, one by one, collapsed in their seats. The attendants, the scribes, the guards—all of them crumpled where they stood, pulled into a deep, unnatural slumber.

  Only three remained standing.

  Orashu’s breath came hard. He could feel it—the pressure of her voice, like a tide battering against him, but it did not drag him under.

  Cai still stood, his hand tight on the hilt of his sword, though he did not draw it.

  And above them, Lycred Karrowe sat unmoved, his dark gaze locked on Nessira.

  For a heartbeat, the chamber was still.

  Then, Nessira raised her shackled hands. The iron bindings trembled. With a sharp pull, the chains snapped.

  The metal links clattered to the stone floor.

  And then she turned and ran.

  Cai reacted first, lunging forward, but Nessira was already moving—her steps like water rushing downhill.

  Orashu hesitated only a breath before pushing off after her.

  She had freed herself.

  ….

  Nessira moved like a mist through Heldrall’s winding streets, her steps light against the worn stone. She had always known she would come here one day—the Land of Judgment, the authority of it pressing down like a tide waiting to pull her under.

  But she would not drown here.

  Behind her, the sounds of pursuit had already begun.

  She took the first narrow alley on her left, slipping between the towering edges of weathered stone. The city sloped upward toward the sky, its paths twisting and intricate, built to confuse outsiders. But Nessira was no stranger to places that wished to keep people in.

  A figure stepped into her path—a Waverider, his sword half-drawn, eyes wide with shock. He had seen faces of beauty, but not ones so close to danger.

  "Hold there!" he barked, shaking off the last vestiges of awe.

  Nessira didn’t break stride. She breathed in—felt the power coil in her throat like a gathering wave—and spoke.

  "Still."

  The word struck him like a chain to all his limbs. His feet rooted to the ground, muscles seizing. His breath came short, his body at rest, even as his mind fought against it. His fingers twitched on the hilt of his blade, but he could not lift it.

  She did not stop to watch. She was already past him, slipping into the shadows.

  The city stirred to life, a flurry of activity in the thick mist. A long, sweeping beam of yellow light circled the towering spotlights, followed by three rapid pulses of red. Distant shouts echoed through the winding streets as torches flared to life atop the watchtowers. They were coming for her now—no, she realized with dread, they were already hunting.

  She pressed forward, weaving through the tight corridors, ducking under market stalls, leaping over a low stone wall. The streets twisted in ways only locals understood, but she did not need a map—she needed only the sea.

  The air carried its salt, its promise. She followed it.

  Ahead, a trio of tidemen blocked her path, forming a line in the street. Behind her, bootfalls closed in. No choice but to go forward.

  The attacker charged at her, spear leveled high. With lightning reflexes, she turned aside, seizing his wrist in a vice-like grip. She wrenched his arm, eliciting a howl of pain as the spear clattered to the ground. Capitalizing on his vulnerability, she surged forward, driving her knee with brutal force into his ribcage. The impact buckled him, and he crumpled at her feet, the breath driven from his lungs.

  The second assailant lunged forward, his short blade glinting in the light as he struck. But Nessira was ready. She caught his outstretched arm, using his own momentum against him. With a sharp twist, she drove her elbow hard into his exposed throat. The man let out a strangled gasp as the blow landed, his blade clattering to the ground. He stumbled forward, hands clutching at his neck as he fell choking to the floor.

  The third hesitated.

  She looked at him, held his gaze.

  "Kneel."

  His body collapsed beneath him, knees hitting the stone as if the strings of his will had been severed. His own breath caught in his throat, his hands pressing against the ground as though the weight of the world had fallen on him.

  She left them behind, running.

  She took the next turn sharply, emerging onto a wider street, only to halt.

  Another squad of waveriders blocked her path—this time, five men, weapons fully-drawn. They hesitated at the sight of her, just long enough for her to breathe in.

  She let her voice roll over them like a tide. “Be still.”

  Two of them stiffened, bodies locking in place. The others staggered, shaking their heads, trying to resist the invisible weight pressing against them.

  One succeeded.

  Nessira reacted swiftly as her opponent lunged forward, sword outstretched. She ducked beneath the descending blade, stepping in close. Gripping his wrist, she twisted roughly, forcing the sword from his grasp. In one fluid motion, Nessira thrusted the heel of her palm into the bridge of his nose. Her strike landed with a sickening crunch, and he make contact with the ground, head first.

  The others fought against her command, one managing to break his feet into motion. He reached for her—she let him.

  Then whispered: “Sleep.”

  He collapsed like a marionette with cut strings.

  Behind her, more shouts. More footsteps.

  Orashu and Cai turned the corner just in time to see her standing over the fallen waveriders. Orashu's breath caught. The way she moved—fluid, effortless, untouched by indecision—was unlike anything he'd seen before.

  She turned. Their eyes met.

  Then she ran.

  Orashu didn’t wait for Cai’s word—he bolted after her.

  She wove through the streets, darting between carts and barrels, vaulting over a low stone wall. They followed, close, but not close enough.

  “She’s heading for the docks,” Cai said between breaths.

  Orashu already knew. “She’s fast.”

  “She’s more than that.”

  Orashu narrowed his eyes.

  “What in the storm’s name happened back there?” he asked.

  Cai didn’t look away from the path ahead. His jaw tightened. “She spoke.”

  Orashu frowned. “And?”

  Cai’s voice was grim. “And they fell.”

  Pounding footsteps echoed down the winding, sloping paths of the lower district, the briny tang of the nearby sea thick in the air. The city blurred past in a disorienting rush, the only constant her fleeting form—a flash of light hair and the pure white cloth of her dress billowing in the wind.

  Nessira could see it now—the Skylash. The ship loomed at the far pier, sails drawn but ready, the tide shifting in its favor.

  A line of waveriders blocked the dock’s entrance. Twelve this time.

  She did not slow.

  The Skylash was only yards away, its gangplank lowered, but a wall of waveriders stood between her and freedom.

  The first two came at her recklessly, their weapons raised high. Sloppy. She flowed between them. With a rotation of movement, her heel cracked one’s knee sideways before she pivoted and slammed the hilt of a stolen blade into the other's temple. He fell instantly. The first clutched his ruined leg, howling, until she silenced him with a short, efficient thrust to the throat.

  The next wave was smarter—four men closing in together, flanking her on both sides. She adjusted, shifting low as one lunged. Their blades whooshed through the air, a deadly merger of steel and wind. She countered a downward strike, spinning the weapon from her attacker’s grip and driving her elbow into his side. He stumbled. Another surged forward—she turned his momentum against him, redirecting his force and sending him sprawling into the water with a splash. The remaining two pressed her hard, one slashing while the other aimed a precise thrust for her stomach. She barely moved in time, feeling the serration of metal carved into her skin—a thin line across her ribs.

  Pain flared, but she didn’t slow. She caught one’s wrist, hurled a knee into his gut before flipping him over her shoulder. His skull met the dock with a crack. The last man hesitated. A mistake. She lunged, her palm striking his throat. He choked, staggered back—she caught his falling dagger and buried it in his chest.

  Then the next three came. More disciplined. More brutal.

  One struck first, his blade catching her shoulder, cutting deep. Nessira gritted her teeth, pulling away, but the second was already there, slamming the pommel of his sword into the side of her head. Her vision blurred. A boot caught her in the ribs, making her collapse. The docks spun around her. She rolled, barely avoiding the downward plunge of a cutlass, and lashed out with her voice.

  “Fall.”

  The command sent one crashing to his knees, but the other two fought through it. She was too weak—too wounded for the full force of her voice to hold them. One grabbed her arm, curling it behind her back. Pain burned piercing and blinding. She snarled, throwing her head back, feeling the crunch of bone as her skull met his nose. He barely loosened his grip, and that was enough. She hammered her arm into his throat, then ripped his own dagger free from his belt and dragged it across his neck. It was a smooth, swift, singular motion.

  Blood sprayed warm against her skin.

  The last of them, veterans, closed in, their movements methodical. No fear. No hesitation. She had seconds, maybe less.

  A deep breath. A shift of stance.

  They struck together. She dodged, narrowly, but the second caught her side with a shallow cut. Not fatal. She let herself fall, landing hard, falling onto her back just as they moved in for the kill. Then she spoke, voice low, edged with finality.

  “Drown.”

  The nearest veteran stiffened. Without a word, without a sound, he turned and walked straight off the dock. The ocean swallowed him whole.

  The second-to-last one hesitated. A fraction of a second. Enough.

  She lunged. Her fingers curled around the hilt of his fallen comrade’s sword, and she drove it up—straight through his gut, turning it until she felt the steel grind against his spine. He exhaled shallowly, eyes wide, and she watched the life drain from them as she loosened her grip on the blade. He collapsed, lifeless.

  She staggered, breath ragged, wounds screaming.

  That was when she saw them, again.

  Cai and Orashu, standing at the edge of the blood-soaked docks. They had arrived in time to witness the end—the violence, the bodies, the undeniable power of what she was.

  She turned back to the last waverider.

  The salt air is thick with the scent of iron, seafoam, and blood. The bodies of his fallen comrades lay sprawled across the planks—some broken, others still twitching in their final moments. The last three had been a few of the best, seasoned killers of the Azure Armada, but they had not been enough.

  And now, only one remains.

  He staggered back, panting, his cutlass trembling in his grip. His face was painted in sweat and horror. He had endured countless battles, braved sieges, weathered relentless storms, and crushed mutinies beneath this same trembling blade. But nothing had prepared him for her.

  Nessira took a slow step forward, her breath unsteady but her eyes fixed. Her body screamed from the wounds she had taken—slashes across her arms, a deep gash in her side, bruises that throbbed with every move. But pain was an old companion.

  The waverider swallowed hard. "What are you?"

  She didn't answer. Instead, she lifted her bloodied hands, fingers curling like a wave before the final crash against the rocks.

  He charged desperately, swinging his cutlass in a wild arc. She sidestepped, fluid as the tide, and let his momentum carry him forward. Her hand shot out, fingers pressing against his throat.

  "Kneel."

  The command vibrated through the marrow of his world. His knees crashed to the docks with a force that splintered wood. His mouth worked soundlessly, his breath hitching as his body gave him his last betrayal.

  She crouched beside him, her own breath still ragged. "You should’ve run."

  The waverider’s eyes widened as she pressed her hand against his chest, her fingers trailing over the emblem stitched into his uniform. Then, with slow deliberation, she gripped the hilt of his own dagger—still sheathed at his belt—and drove it up beneath his ribs.

  He convulsed, gasping, blood bubbling at his lips. She held him there, watching as the light drained from his gaze, before finally letting the blade free and allowing him to collapse onto the dock.

  The dock was quiet again.

  Then—

  "Nessira!"

  She turned, her body tensing even as her strength waned. At the edge of the carnage stood Cai and Orashu. Orashu had started forward, his hand on his weapon, but Cai’s grip on his arm held him back.

  Orashu’s expression was unreadable—shock, fury, something else beneath the surface. His breath was heavy, his stance tense, ready to move. "Step away from the Skylash."

  Nessira wiped the blood from her mouth and tilted her head, considering them both. Then she smiled.

  "I don't take orders," she said. She looked at Cai as if he said the words.

  She stepped onto the boarding plank of the Skylash. Orashu surged forward, but Cai yanked him back.

  "Let her go." Cai’s voice was quiet but firm.

  Orashu’s head snapped toward him. "She just—"

  "Let. Her. Go."

  Nessira met Orashu’s gaze one last time, noting his fury-filled golden eyes, then turned and disappeared onto the ship. Moments later, the Skylash pulled from the docks, its sails catching the wind, vanishing into the dark.