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---July 9, 1715---
The night was a masterpiece of quiet beauty. A nearly full moon was in the clear, black sky, casting a brilliant silver light over the Kenway Keep and the sleeping Pennsylvania countryside. From the high balcony of their master bedroom, the world seemed peaceful, a tranquil kingdom under a canopy of stars.
Kassandra stood by at the stone balustrade, her hands resting on the cool, smooth surface. She had just finished putting their son, Charles, to sleep in his crib in the adjoining nursery.
The simple, maternal act was still a source of profound, aching wonder for her. Every time she looked at his tiny, perfect face, a wave of love so fierce it was almost painful would wash over her. It was a feeling she had thought lost to her forever, buried with her first son, Elpidios, in the dust of ancient Greece. The regret of that long-ago loss, the centuries of believing she would never again know that bond, made these quiet moments with Charles all the more precious.
"The moon looks almost full," she sighed, her voice a soft murmur in the still night air. She wore a simple white sleeping gown, the fine linen doing little to hide the powerful, graceful curves of her body.
The war council with Penn and the others felt like a distant memory now. The talk of armies and blockades, of kings and empires, seemed trivial in the face of this quiet, immense peace.
"Enjoying the night?"
The voice, a low, familiar rumble, came from behind her. Kassandra turned, a warm smile instantly touching her lips.
Alaric stood in the open doorway of the balcony, a simple white poet shirt unlaced at the collar, his usual black trousers and boots completing the look. Even in such simple attire, he radiated an aura of royalty, a natural, commanding presence that the most finely dressed nobles could only dream of imitating. His features, his height, his domineering yet laid-back attitude… it was a combination that still, after all this time, made her heart skip a beat.
"Yes, agápi mou," Kassandra smiled as he walked towards her. "Finished with the meeting, I suppose?"
He stopped in front of her, the moonlight catching the platinum strands of his hair. He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he leaned down and captured her lips in a soft, lingering kiss. "Yep," he murmured against her mouth. "I came here immediately after."
"..." Kassandra stared up at him, getting lost in the deep, endless blue of his eyes. His gaze held a warmth, a tenderness that was reserved only for her, a stark, beautiful contrast to the cold, calculating power she knew he wielded.
The sight of her, bathed in moonlight, her amber eyes shining with an ancient wisdom and a new, maternal softness, was a sight that could make any man feral.
Alaric's own control, usually so absolute, wavered. He groaned softly, capturing her lips again, this time with a fierce, possessive hunger. He grabbed her by the ass, his hands easily lifting her from the floor, and placed her on the wide stone railing of the balustrade, her back against a sturdy pillar.
"A-Agápi mou," Kassandra gasped, her hands instinctively flying to his broad shoulders as he pressed his body against hers, his mouth moving to her neck, kissing and nipping at the sensitive skin. "C-Charles is sleeping."
"Let's just do it silently, then," Alaric smirked, his voice a low, wicked purr against her skin. He pulled his head back, his eyes blazing with a desire that mirrored her own. That was all it took. Any thought of quiet or restraint vanished.
She pulled his face back to hers, their lips crashing together in a deep, passionate French kiss, a silent, desperate conversation of need and love and a longing that time itself could not diminish.
The kiss deepened and Kassandra felt Alaric's dick getting hard as it was pressing on her undergarment. She could feel her breath getting hot while exhaling on her nose.
Sliding off the straps of Kassandra's sleeping gown and immediately started kissing her from neck to downwards, teasing the side of her nipples, making her moan softly.
Alaric then lifted the skirts of her dress and pulled down her undergarments. "Heh... you're dripping wet."
"S-Shut up," The misthios blushed, narrowing her eyes. It was a tease and it made her shy, but the tease did make her more wet. "Ah!"
Kassandra widened her eyes as Alaric played with her clit. Rubbing it softly in all directions. "S-Stop teasing me."
Alaric kissed her one more time before squatting down, position his face on her perfectly shaved pussy. Licking her folds first, then center, then the clitoris.
"M-Malakaa..." She cursed softly as she grabbed Alaric's hair with both hands, pressing his face more on her pussy. She started trembling, and little by little... "aaaAAAAHHHH!"
She came.
"Damn, that was so hot," Alaric licked her pussy one more time before standing up, unbuckling his belt and allowing his pants to fall down.
Kassandra widened her eyes slightly at the sight of his tower being so huge. Alaric positioned his dick at the entrance of her pussy, making her close her eyes, only to widen them as he teased her once more. He slid his dick at the surface of her pussy as the lower part of his dick is rubbing on her clit, making her moan again.
"I said stop teasing me..."
Alaric gazed at Kassandra's sexy blushing face. He locked his lips on hers one more time before sliding his dick inside her.
Kassandra's moan was a low, trembling thing as Alaric slid inside her, his cock stretching her with a slow, deliberate thrust that made her breath catch. Her hands gripped his shoulders, nails biting into his skin as she adjusted to the fullness, her body already sparking with need.
"Fuck," she gasped, her voice rough, head tipping back against the pillar as he began to move, each thrust deep and steady, building a rhythm that had her trembling.
Alaric grunted, his hands tight on her hips, guiding her against him as he picked up the pace, his movements turning rougher, more urgent.
The balustrade was cold and hard beneath her, but she didn't care, lost in the heat of him, the way he filled her, the friction sending jolts of pleasure through her core.
"Damn," he muttered, his voice low and strained, his lips brushing her neck as he thrust harder, the sound of their bodies meeting echoing faintly in the night air.
Kassandra's legs tightened around his waist, urging him deeper, her moans growing sharper as the tension coiled tight in her belly.
"Malaka," she cursed, her voice breaking as she rocked against him, chasing the edge. Her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling hard as the pleasure built, overwhelming, until it snapped. She came with a shuddering cry, her body clenching around him, waves of heat crashing through her.
Alaric's control broke at the feel of her, his thrusts growing erratic as he chased his own release.
"Shit," he growled, his grip bruising as he pushed deep, spilling inside her with a low, guttural groan. Kassandra's legs locked around him, pulling him even closer, her body trembling as his cock pressed deeper, drawing another sharp moan from her lips, louder than she meant it to be.
He didn't pull out. Instead, he started moving again, still hard, his thrusts slower but no less intense, each one reigniting the fire in her core. Kassandra's breath came in ragged gasps, her body oversensitive but craving more.
"Agápi mou," she panted, her voice a mix of plea and demand as he pounded into her, the rhythm relentless. He came again, a rough curse under his breath as he filled her once more, and when he finally pulled out, his cum dripped from her, warm and slick, pooling on the stone beneath her.
Kassandra was still catching her breath, her body buzzing, when Alaric grabbed her hips, turning her to face the balustrade. She braced her hands on the top rail, her legs shaky as he positioned her, bending her forward.
"Hold on," he said, voice rough with want, and then he was inside her again, thrusting deep, his hands gripping her ass. He slapped her once, hard, the sting pulling a sharp moan from her throat as her body clenched around him, a quick, shuddering orgasm ripping through her.
"Fuck!" she gasped, her voice trembling as he slapped her again, each smack sending a jolt of pleasure-pain that made her cum again, her knees buckling. Her eyes rolled back, body shaking as he kept pounding, relentless, his hand coming down again and again, each slap pushing her over the edge until she was a trembling mess, barely able to hold herself up.
"Malaka… Alaric…" she moaned, her voice breaking as another wave hit, her pussy clenching around him.
He came one last time, a low groan escaping as he spilled inside her, the excess dripping down her thighs as her oversensitive body twitched, unable to hold it all.
She was still trembling, panting, her hands gripping the rail for dear life, when a loud cry pierced the night... Charles, wailing from the nursery.
Kassandra's head snapped up, her mom mode kicking in like a switch. She pushed off the balustrade, legs wobbly but determined, dashing inside without a second thought.
"I'm here, baby… I'm here," she called softly, her voice instantly tender as she disappeared into the bedroom.
Alaric stood there, catching his breath, his cock still half-hard but spent. He chuckled, shaking his head as he tugged his trousers back up.
"Fucking hell," he muttered, a grin tugging at his lips as he followed her inside, the night air cooling the sweat on his skin.
---July 10, 1715, Morning - The Seas Near Jamaica---
The Caribbean morning was a deceptive blanket of thick, grey fog. It clung to the surface of the sea, muffling sound and reducing visibility to a few ship lengths. The Liberty's Wrath, Thulani's impossibly durable frigate, cut through the water like a silent predator, its dark, fuinjutsu-reinforced mokuton timbers making no sound as they sliced through the gentle swell.
On the quarterdeck, Thulani stood as a mountain of calm resolve, the greatsword Excalibur on his back. He stared into the dense fog, his enhanced senses reaching out into the oppressive quiet.
"Captain," his first mate, a former slave named Jabari whose loyalty was forged in the fires of their shared past, reported from beside him. "Lookouts confirm thirteen brigs surrounding the entrance to Jamaica. A full blockade."
Thulani nodded slowly, his gaze never leaving the unseen enemy. "They are confident," he rumbled, his deep voice carrying easily across the deck. "They believe the fog is their ally, hiding their numbers. They are wrong. It is ours."
He turned, his eyes sweeping over the two hundred and fifty members of his Vanguard company, who stood ready at their posts. They were not pirates or navy men. They were farmers, clerks, and former slaves, forged into an elite fighting force, their bodies and wills hardened by Alaric's impossible training. They were superhumans, and they knew it.
"Prepare the forward cannons," Thulani commanded, his voice ringing with an authority that left no room for doubt. "Load the 'gifts' from Master Alaric."
A ripple of grim excitement went through the gun crews. They knew what that meant. The special cannonballs, the ones that hummed with a contained, terrifying power.
"We will use the fog as our cloak," Thulani continued, laying out his simple, brutal plan. "We approach from their blind spot. A single, devastating volley to sow chaos. Then, we board. We show them the meaning of wrath."
The Liberty's Wrath changed course, its movements impossibly silent for a ship of its size. It slipped through the fog like a ghost, positioning itself perfectly on the flank of the unsuspecting British fleet.
"Fire," Thulani said, his voice a low, deadly whisper.
The world erupted in a series of deafening roars. The explosive cannonballs tore through the fog, not with the familiar whistle of iron, but with a strange, high-pitched hum. They slammed into the hulls of two British brigs.
The explosions were catastrophic. It wasn't just splintering wood; it was a wave of pure, concussive force that ripped the ships apart from the inside out, sending fire, men, and debris flying in all directions. Chaos and terror instantly gripped the British fleet.
Before they could even begin to understand what had hit them, the Liberty's Wrath was upon them, its dark hull emerging from the fog like a sea monster. Grappling hooks flew, and Thulani led the charge, leaping from his own railing onto the deck of the nearest enemy brig, Excalibur already in his hand, its blade glowing with a faint, holy light.
The Vanguard followed, a wave of silent, deadly warriors. They moved with a speed and strength that was simply inhuman. A British soldier raised his musket, only to have his arm torn from its socket by a single, brutal blow from a former farmer. Another was sent flying overboard by a kick from a man who had once been a clerk.
Thulani was a whirlwind of destruction. Excalibur sang as it cleaved through men and steel with equal ease. He fought not with the rage of a berserker, but with the cold, focused fury of a man delivering justice.
The British sailors, caught completely off guard, their morale shattered by the initial, devastating attack, were overwhelmed. Just as Thulani's men were securing the first brig, another British ship maneuvered alongside, its crew pouring over the railings in a desperate counter-attack.
They thought they were trapping the boarders. Instead, they had just stepped into the slaughter. The Vanguard, now fighting on two fronts, simply turned, their movements were a blur of controlled violence, cutting down the reinforcements with contemptuous ease.
The British captain of a third brig, seeing the battle lost, made a desperate, ruthless decision. "Fire on the Sea Serpent!" he roared, pointing to the ship his own men were being slaughtered upon. "Sink them all!"
Cannons roared from the third ship, their iron balls aimed not at the Liberty's Wrath, but at their own sister ship. The Vanguard, sensing the shift, reacted instantly.
"Back to the Wrath!" Thulani bellowed.
With a series of impossible, gravity-defying leaps, his men abandoned the two captured brigs, springing back onto the deck of their own frigate just as the cannonballs slammed into the captured vessels, turning them into a splintered, sinking wreck.
The remaining British ships, their formation broken, their crews terrified, began to turn, their only thought to escape this impossible, demonic frigate and the supermen who crewed it.
---Same Time, Coast of New York---
Captain Alistair Finch of the HMS Vengeance, a proud 100-gun first-rate ship-of-the-line and the flagship of the Royal Navy's North American squadron, stood on his quarterdeck with an air of supreme confidence. The morning sun glinted off the polished brass of his spyglass as he surveyed the enemy fleet.
"Pathetic," he sneered, snapping the spyglass shut. He turned to the other generals and captains gathered around him, a dismissive smirk on his face. "A handful of frigates and brigs. Do they truly think this collection of merchant vessels can stand against the might of the Royal Navy?"
The other officers chuckled in agreement. They were veterans of the Spanish Succession, men who had faced the great fleets of France and Spain. This colonial rabble was nothing.
"We shall make short work of them, Captain," one of his generals affirmed. "A few broadsides, and they'll be begging for quarter. This rebellion will be over before it has truly begun."
Finch nodded, his gaze sweeping across his own formidable fleet. Ten ships-of-the-line, twenty frigates, and a screen of smaller brigs. It was overwhelming force, a hammer designed to crush a nut. "Signal the fleet," he commanded. "Advance in line of battle. We shall give them a proper naval salute."
As the British fleet began its majestic, inexorable advance, a lookout's cry suddenly echoed from the crow's nest of the Vengeance.
"Sail ho! To the south!"
Finch frowned, raising his spyglass again. He scanned the southern horizon, his confident smirk slowly dissolving, replaced by a look of confusion, then dawning alarm. It wasn't one sail. It was dozens. Man-o'-wars, their triple gun decks bristling with cannons, emerged from the morning haze, flanked by a swarm of frigates and brigs, all flying the unfamiliar flag of Pennmere. They were flanking them.
"By the devil," a general beside him breathed, his face paling. "Where did they come from?"
"All hands!" Finch roared, his earlier confidence shattered, replaced by the frantic urgency of a commander caught in a trap. "Change formation! Bring us about! Gunners, to your stations!"
But it was too late. The battle began not with a stately exchange of broadsides, but with a brutal, chaotic melee. The Pennmere ships, built by Alaric, were impossibly durable. British cannonballs, which should have torn through oak hulls like paper, simply bounced off the strange, dark wood of the colonial vessels with a dull thud, leaving barely a scratch.
"What in God's name are those ships made of!?" Finch screamed, watching in horror as one of his frigates was systematically dismantled by a Pennmere man-o'-war that seemed to shrug off every cannonball fired at it.
The battle turned into a gruesome, close-quarters slaughter. The Pennmere fleet, superior in number and seemingly invulnerable, closed the distance. Grappling hooks flew, and the colonial soldiers, a mix of hardened militia and what looked like trained assassins, swarmed onto the decks of the British ships.
From his flagship, Finch watched in horror as the battle line collapsed. He saw the HMS Dauntless overwhelmed, its decks running red with the blood of its crew. He saw the HMS Triton erupt in flames as a boarding party fought their way to its powder magazine.
Then, his own nightmare began. Two Pennmere man-o'-wars, their hulls impossibly pristine despite the battle, broke through the chaos, one on either side of the Vengeance. Grappling hooks slammed into his railings, and the colonial soldiers, their faces grim and determined, began to pour onto his deck.
Finch drew his sword, his heart pounding with a mixture of fury and despair. "For the King!" he roared, leading his marines in a desperate charge.
The fighting on the deck of the Vengeance was brutal, a chaotic mess of clashing steel, pistol shots, and the screams of dying men. But the colonials were relentless, their strength and ferocity seemingly endless. Finch fought like a cornered lion, his blade was a blur, but for every man he cut down, two more seemed to take his place.
He was pushed back, and back, until he and the last of his surviving crew were cornered on the quarterdeck, surrounded by a sea of grim-faced colonial soldiers. The deck was slick with the blood of his men. The proud flag of the Royal Navy lay trampled underfoot.
The colonial captain, a tall, imposing man with the cold, hard eyes of a veteran, stepped forward, his sword resting easily in his hand. He looked at Finch, at the handful of surviving officers, and then at the shattered remains of their fleet.
Finch looked at the faces of his men, at their fear, their exhaustion, their defeat. He looked at his own blood-stained sword. And then, with a heavy, soul-crushing sigh, he let it fall from his nerveless fingers, the blade clattering onto the bloody deck.
He slowly, reluctantly, raised his hands in surrender.
---Kenway Keep, Lunch Time---
It was a peaceful afternoon at Kenway Keep. The war might be raging on the seas hundreds of miles away, but here, in the heart of Pennmere, an air of calm prevailed.
In the grand dining hall, Alaric sat beside Kassandra, leisurely enjoying a late lunch. The chefs had outdone themselves, a spread of roasted meats, fresh bread, and colorful vegetables covering the long table.
"Ah, taste this, it's delicious," Alaric murmured, using his own spoon to offer Kassandra a bite of a savory meat pie. She accepted it with a warm smile, her eyes sparkling.
The domestic tranquility of the scene was abruptly interrupted by a pointed throat-clearing from the end of the table. William Penn sat there, a stack of dispatches and maps before him, his expression a mixture of patience and profound exasperation.
"Lad," Penn said, his voice tight with restrained urgency. "The Chesapeake Bay."
Alaric stopped, his spoon halfway to Kassandra's mouth again. He looked at Penn, then at Kassandra, who gave a small, understanding sigh. "Will you come with us?" Alaric asked her. "A maid's taking care of Charles for now, anyway."
"Sure," Kassandra nodded, taking a sip of water. "I already fed Charles some milk before we started eating."
"..." Penn remained silent, but his expression was a perfect and eloquent "bruh."
"Well, let's go then," Alaric smiled, pushing his chair back. He and Kassandra stood, and Alaric walked over to Penn, taking the older man's hand. He then took Kassandra's. With a subtle pulse of chakra, he inscribed a temporary floating seal on both of them. "You won't be able to fly on your own," he explained casually, "but if I allow it, you'll float."
He then led the two of them, one a legendary demigod, the other the de facto king of a new nation, towards a set of large glass doors that opened onto a wide, second-story balcony overlooking the estate. He slid the door open, a cool breeze rustling the papers on Penn's distant desk.
"Let's go for a fly."
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