The Red Sea shimmered like a blade under the morning sun—beautiful, deceptive.
Khisa stood at the prow of his ship, eyes locked on the Ottoman vessel and its two escorts slicing steadily through the water. Far to starboard, Tesfaye's ship was fanning out in silence, sails angled to create a pincer. The plan was simple: trap, board, extract, survive.
But the plan didn't account for how damn big the Ottoman warship was.
"Close enough for cannon range," warned Simba, gripping the railing beside him. "They'll fire soon."
Khisa nodded, his eyes never leaving the enemy's deck. It bristled with soldiers—at least eighty, some armed with matchlocks, others preparing to roll heavy cannons into place.
"Wait for the signal," Khisa muttered.
A flaming arrow from Tesfaye's direction streaked into the sky—now.
"ALL SHIPS—FORWARD!"