The Tempest

The night was barely a third gone when Erebus was jolted from restless contemplation by the thunderous rhythm of footsteps above. The heavy clamor spread across the deck like a drumbeat of panic, growing louder by the second. Inside the cramped quarters, refugees stirred, their unease turning into a storm of its own. Some whispered mantras of protection, others muttered prayers under their breath. One man, however, snapped under the pressure, his voice breaking through the chaos.

"We're all going to die! Do you hear me? We're doomed!"

His cry, sharp and raw, sliced through the cabin's tension. Another refugee silenced him with a clenched fist to his jaw, but the damage was done. Children wailed in terror, their sobs piercing. Women huddled together, their silent prayers soaked with despair.

Erebus clenched his jaw, the palpable dread gnawing at his composure. He turned to Nemesis, who stood grim and resolute beside him. "Find Luciana," he ordered, his voice taut with urgency.

Without waiting for a reply, Erebus rose from his seat and ascended the creaking steps leading to the deck. Rain lashed against his face, cold and unrelenting. The ship lurched violently, tossed about by a sea that seemed to revel in its fury. His long hair whipped around him, carried by winds that howled like mournful spirits.

The vessel clawed its way up the mountainous waves, only to plummet down the watery abyss on the other side. The fleet around them was a scattered convoy of ships fighting for survival, their silhouettes barely visible beneath the storm-blackened sky. Above, thunder growled and lightning shattered the darkness, illuminating fleeting glimpses of the chaos.

A thunderous explosion jolted him, pulling his attention to the horizon. A distant ship, its identity obscured by sheets of rain, had fired upon their fleet. The cannonball found its mark, obliterating the ship behind them. Half of it was reduced to debris, the other half claimed by the depths.

"Fire!" The shout came from the men manning their cannons, their voices barely audible over the storm's roar. A retaliatory blast echoed as their own ship answered the assault, the cannonballs arcing through the storm in desperate defiance.

The waves were relentless, hammering the ship's deck with brute force. Erebus braced himself, his boots slipping against the drenched planks. He moved to join the crew, their shouts blending into a cacophony of commands.

"Pull!"

"Set the sails!"

"Brace yourselves!"

The ship pitched violently, an incoming wave crashing against the deck with enough force to sweep several sailors overboard. Erebus seized a rope and pulled with every ounce of strength, the sharp burn in his muscles drowned out by the pounding of his heart.

The ocean stretched endlessly around them, indifferent to their plight. In its vastness, their ship was but a speck, tossed like driftwood in an unforgiving tide. Yet even this fury paled before what rose ahead.

A wall of water loomed, towering above them like a force of nature made manifest. It was colossal, a monstrous wave that seemed to scrape the heavens themselves. Erebus felt the breath leave his lungs as the ship climbed its impossible height, defying gravity, logic, and hope.

"This is it," he thought. The words echoed hollowly in his mind.

When the wave crashed, it consumed them entirely. The fleet vanished into the depths, swallowed whole by the merciless ocean. Only one ship survived, spared by distance and fate, its distant silhouette a faint blur on the horizon.

Erebus was no longer aboard the ship. He was in the water, his body battered by the cold and the ceaseless currents. The world around him was a chaotic swirl of foam and darkness. His strength faded with every passing second, his consciousness slipping away like grains of sand through an hourglass.

In the haze of his final moments, one word escaped his lips—a name, a plea, a final tether to hope.

"Luciana…"

And then, the sea claimed him.

------------------->

The camps....

The war camp was cloaked in an uneasy silence, broken only by the occasional crackle of torches and the rustling of tents in the wind. Inside the largest tent at its center, King Helios stirred awake with a jolt. His heart raced as the lingering fragments of a nightmare faded into the dim reality around him. Blinking away the haze, he scanned the room, ensuring he was still in his war tent.

Before he could fully orient himself, a voice called from outside.

"Your Majesty, may I enter?"

Helios straightened in his chair, brushing the weariness from his expression. "Enter."

A young squire stepped in, his face pale and his demeanor tense. He bowed quickly before speaking, his words heavy with urgency.

"My King, I bring grave news."

"Speak, lad," Helios commanded, his voice firm though his eyes betrayed unease.

The squire hesitated, his gaze dropping momentarily before delivering the message. "The demon army has taken Zhonghuo Republic. The city has fallen."

Helios froze, the weight of the loss settling on his shoulders. He exhaled slowly, rubbing his temples as he processed the implications. Zhonghuo had been a critical trading ally—its fall was not just a blow to the realm's economy but also to its morale.

"And?" Helios's sharp tone brought the squire back to attention. "You have more to report."

"Yes, Your Majesty," the young man continued, swallowing hard. "We've managed to reclaim the southeastern frontier from the demonic beasts. However, the casualties…" He faltered, his voice cracking. "The numbers are staggering, my King. The remaining citizens have been evacuated to the western regions, but the losses—"

Helios raised a hand, cutting him off. "Enough. I understand."

Before the squire could retreat, another voice, deeper and more commanding, called from outside the tent.

"Your Majesty, may I approach?"

Helios sighed and nodded toward the entrance. "Come in."

A seasoned lieutenant entered, his armor bearing fresh dents and scratches, a testament to recent battle. He saluted crisply before speaking.

"Sire, I bring urgent news from the northern front."

"Report, Lieutenant Julius."

"Four cities—Antioch, Luvavum, Turcica, and Capua—have been reduced to rubble by aerial bombings. Thousands are dead, hundreds more displaced and injured. Survivors are few."

Helios surged to his feet, his expression grim. "And the citizens? Have they been evacuated?"

"Some have fled on their own, but chaos reigns in the ruins. Many are still trapped beneath the debris."

Helios clenched his fists, frustration mingling with a deep, simmering rage. He paced for a moment before issuing his orders.

"Send reinforcements immediately. Evacuate the survivors and move the displaced to Aquileia. Mobilize search parties for those still missing. They need our aid."

"Yes, Your Majesty." Julius bowed but lingered, sensing the king had more to say.

Helios stopped pacing, his jaw set. "And prepare the army. Bring the new Grandmaster of the Tower. We attack tonight."

Julius's eyes widened, but he quickly saluted again, turning on his heel to carry out the orders.

As the lieutenant exited, Helios sat back down, his mind already racing through the strategy. The enemy was relentless, but he would meet them with equal ferocity. There was no room for despair—only determination.

The war was far from over.