The sea was littered with wreckage and corpses, the remnants of the brutal clash between Damien's fleet and the Ironclad Alliance. The scent of salt and blood filled the air, mingling with the smoke from burning warships.
The Black Falcon rocked gently on the waves, its deck slick with blood. Soldiers moved through the wreckage, tossing enemy bodies overboard and tending to the wounded. The cries of the injured echoed across the sea, a grim reminder that this battle had come at a cost.
Damien stood at the helm, his steel-gray eyes locked on the horizon. The Ironclad fleet had retreated, but this wasn't a victory.
It was a warning.
The enemy was testing them, probing for weaknesses.
And soon, they would come back stronger.
---
Carys approached, her armor still stained with battle. "We lost four ships. Over a hundred men. If the Ironclad Alliance had sent their full fleet, we would've been overwhelmed."