CHAPTER ONE — THE RAID AT COASTFALL BAY (Page 1)
Dawn broke in soft gold over the fishing village of Coastfall Bay, a quiet place tucked between tidal cliffs and crooked wooden docks. Nets hung from posts. Smoke drifted from early cooking fires. Families stirred awake.
They didn't hear the Iron Wake's ship until it was almost touching the sand.
The hull of the Fellspine cut through the mist like a dark blade, silent and steady. Forty raiders stood ready—boots braced, weapons drawn, breath calm. Their captain, Brynjar "The Hollow", raised one hand, and the ship glided closer, oars pulling in unison.
Arin of Vasker stood at the bow, hand resting on his short sword, heart steady. Not fearful. Not hesitant. Simply ready—like the rest of them.
He felt Olan "Redtooth" bump his shoulder as he tightened a rope.
Redtooth: "Keep your eyes open, pup. First rush of the day always kicks the slow ones to the grave."
Arin: "I'm not slow."
Redtooth flashed a grin sharp as a dagger.
Redtooth: "Good. Then don't die."
The Fellspine grounded hard against the sand.
Captain Brynjar lowered his hand.
And the Iron Wake surged forward.
The Raid (Page 2)
Villagers screamed as the raiders hit the docks. But the Iron Wake cut through the panic with deliberate precision—quick, efficient, focused. Arin wasn't just standing behind them; he was in the front line beside Brynjar, moving with the same trained rhythm.
Kael and Kora leapt from crate to crate, axes flashing. Thalen "Saltjaw" bellowed orders, keeping the formation tight.
Only warriors who raised weapons were met with steel. Civilians fled untouched.
Sera Venn smashed open a locked storehouse with her hammer, shouting over her shoulder.
Sera: "Move fast! The guard will be here any second!"
She was right.
The ground trembled.
Down the western road came Commander Calder Graves, armored in iron-stitched leather, cloak snapping behind him. He rode at the front of one hundred and forty soldiers—shields raised, formation perfect.
By his side rode his lieutenant, and just behind him marched the city's newly-appointed Sub-Marshal, carrying a polearm etched with faint old sigils—one of those "slight magic" relics passed down through generations, believed more than understood.
Graves raised his sword.
Commander Graves: "IRON WAKE! LAY DOWN YOUR ARMS!"
Brynjar strolled forward through the smoke as if walking into a conversation.
Brynjar: "We're done here."
The commander's jaw tightened.
Commander Graves: "You will not leave with our supplies."
Brynjar's eyes didn't blink.
Brynjar: "Then come take them."
The clash exploded.
Shields slammed. Steel cracked. Sand erupted beneath boots. The Iron Wake, outnumbered more than three to one, moved like a single creature—every man covering the next. Arin stayed close to Redtooth, deflecting two strikes before cutting down a soldier who had nearly taken Kael's leg.
Jorren "Crow-Eye," perched atop a crate, fired arrows into weak points of Graves' formation.
Jorren: "Left side collapsing! Push through it!"
The Iron Wake didn't seek to kill—they sought to break the line.
And they did.
Within minutes, the disciplined formation faltered under the unpredictable, ruthless coordination of Brynjar's crew. Soldiers began to fall back. The lieutenant shouted for regrouping. The Sub-Marshal plunged his polearm into the sand, whispering a stabilizing charm—but even old relic magic could not turn the tide.
Brynjar saw the opening.
Brynjar: "Wake! FALL BACK TO THE SHIP!"
Arin and the others retreated in controlled formation, dragging their crates, carrying their wounded, never breaking rhythm. Arlen "Ash" Faer held a rope between his teeth while firing a crossbow at approaching troops.
The Fellspine's crew boarded one by one, breathless but alive.
Graves' forces stopped at the water's edge—unable to push further before losing more men.
As the Fellspine pulled away, Captain Brynjar watched the shrinking shoreline. His expression was unreadable, carved from storm-worn stone.
Nightfall (Page 3)
By the time the sun died, the air on deck had changed.
The tension of battle gave way to low roaring laughter, the scrape of mugs, the thump of boots on planks. Lanterns swung like small captive suns. Rum spilled, stories grew larger, and Redtooth started his usual bragging contest with the twins.
Someone shoved a mug into Arin's hand. He drank too fast.
Minutes later, he leaned over the rail, coughing and retching into the sea.
Thalen "Saltjaw" walked up, metal jaw glinting in the lantern light.
Saltjaw: "Easy, lad. Rum's for the living, not the dying."
Arin wiped his mouth, breathing hard.
Arin: "Feels like my stomach's making its own escape plan."
Saltjaw barked a deep laugh.
Saltjaw: "Then tell it to sign the damn roster before it jumps."
Arin tried to smile—but froze.
Out past the horizon, the dark ocean swelled… wrong.
A shape rising, not rolling.
Growing.
Arin's voice cracked.
Arin: "Saltjaw… what is that?"
Saltjaw squinted, laughter fading.
Saltjaw: "…Captain!"
The wave was a black mountain.
A wall of water risen from nowhere, roaring toward them like the sea itself had grown teeth.
Brynjar turned sharply. For the first time that night, his eyes widened.
Brynjar: "BRACE YOURSELVES!"
The wave hit.
Wood shattered. Barrels flew. Lanterns burst. Men were thrown like rag dolls. The Fellspine vanished under a tower of seawater that crushed every sound and breath—
—and the world went black.