Chapter 26

Day 3 of the Red Wolf Moon, Year 1164 (Fódlan Calendar)

"As you can see, this letter clearly refers to the Maritsa River as the western boundary of my land. The proposed orphanage site is therefore impeding on my rightful property," Lord Tornikios argued as he handed the aging parchment to the protonotarios. This woman briefly examined the letter and then passed it over to Sardar Stephanos.

Philemon sat with his wife Ariadne not far away. The Meteoran royal family presided over the tribunal at the Palace of the Basileus once or twice a week for special audiences. While real work was performed at the tribunal on other days, the sardar's presence usually drew in useless, fawning nobles. Most of them only came to visit with the sardar. Those with official business typically presented claims that were either outrageous or superfluous. They knew their wishes had no legal basis, so they placed all of their hopes in the sardar's charity. It was difficult to predict how Stephanos, Philemon's brother, would respond. His rulings varied daily depending on his temper. Listening to these petty nobles would have been agonizingly boring alone, but with Ariadne by his side, Philemon had someone to trade jokes with.

The protonotarios held up another document and asserted, "Lord Tornikios… it is documented here that your land's western boundary is defined by the Via Militaris. At the time of your letter's writing, it is true that the Maritsa River flowed adjacent to the Via Militaris. But per the official record, your land is not set by the Maritsa's shifting banks."

Stephanos tapped the arm of his chair as he considered the arguments. He finally decided, "Our records will not be updated, but I will order the orphanage project to be either cancelled or moved."

The protonotarios's eyes widened. She told him, "Your Excellency, if I may… Lord Tornikios has a weak claim. There's no reason to acquiesce to his assertion."

Stephanos shook his head. "He's annoying me, and if we don't give him what he wants, he will continue to do so. That's reason enough."

As Lord Tornikios profusely thanked the sardar and departed, Philemon leaned over to Ariadne and whispered, "It's probably for the best. The children will be better served if they grow up outside of earshot of this ass."

Ariadne smirked and proposed, "There's a hill just across the Maritsa from there, correct? Let's recommend for the project to be moved there. Even if not on his supposed land, he'll wake up to the sight of it every morning."

Both sniggered as the next visitor entered.

"Methodius Argyros," an attendant announced.

Philemon sat up in surprise. It was not often that someone as important as the coruler of Shomal visited. Methodius was a handsome man in his mid-twenties. Philemon remembered him as pampered and impetuous, but gossip suggested that he had matured after his marriage.

After greetings, Stephanos asked, "Methodius, my old friend… have you come to announce that Sardar Soraya is pregnant? I must say that it's been long overdue."

Methodius answered, "I'm afraid not, Your Excellency. Please recall Soraya's youth. She remains uncomfortable with consummation."

Stephanos was deeply confused by Methodius's logic. He said, "How old is she now? Seventeen? Eighteen? She's your wife, and there's no question that she's of age now. You must remind her of that. My wife has only just conceived after all these years. It's a mistake to delay producing heirs."

"I… will let Soraya know of your stance, Your Excellency," Methodius said diplomatically.

"As you should. You must take advantage of your good fortune. Had I not already been married, Soraya's beauty would have belonged to me. I understand now why the rest of Almyra continues to cling to their outdated beliefs- they're free to take in as many women as they so please," Stephanos joked.

Of course, Stephanos's wife Helena sat directly next to him. Her face twitched, but she subdued any other reaction. She had years of experience by this point.

Similarly, Ariadne had to ignore the sardar's emphasis on childbearing. She was barren, and due to her humbler birth, she was a particularly easy target for salacious stories regarding her inability to conceive. She was a dedicated Votary who Philemon met after regularly crossing paths at the basilica, but nothing her husband said ever seemed to clear the record on her character. Philemon loved Ariadne no less for it, but that could not cure all of the hurt inflicted by the stigma.

Philemon squirmed and sunk into his chair as his brother made a disgrace of his marriage. It was bad enough that Stephanos was talking about a girl less than half his age. Philemon said to Ariadne, "Stephanos's piety has taught him to not openly endorse adultery, but I suppose the holy texts never addressed the matter of tact."

Philemon had to speak in a particularly hushed voice that time, as the rest of the room was too quiet to provide any additional cover. Methodius stared at Stephanos in dumbfound silence before finally muttering, "I suppose that is true."

Stephanos made a waving motion and said, "But you've come to discuss other matters. What brings you home, Methodius?"

"It's the plague in Shomal, Your Excellency. I'm sure you've heard reports of it by now. We've been trying to contain it since it was first detected, but it continues to spread. It's only a matter of time before it reaches Meteora."

Philemon listened closely as Methodius detailed the extent of this new disease and how it ravaged the body. He was horrified, and he assumed his brother felt the same.

Instead, Stephanos asked, "What would you have me do? Close all the roads into Meteora?"

"That would be a start, yes," Methodius replied nervously, realizing that the sardar was not convinced.

"Such an action would have graver consequences than this disease would. You are a Meteoran, Methodius. I hope you haven't been put up to try and ruin us," Stephanos accused. His eyes then brightened as if he had just conjured up a profound thought. He pointed out, "If this pestilence is so dangerous, why come here instead of hiding in your palace?"

"I hoped you would take our claims more seriously if I delivered them myself. Like you said, I am a fellow Meteoran. I'm not here to impede the lives and progress of my people. I'm here because I'm worried for them."

"As am I. That's why I am putting an end to this discussion. You've made everyone in this room uncomfortable." Stephanos sighed loudly. "Listen, my friend. Please remain in the palace, as I'd like us to dine together before your return to Astane. But no more talk of Shomal's problems. We have the grace of Nabataea on our side."

Methodius withdrew in defeat, but his story weighed on Philemon's mind for the rest of the tribunal. Afterwards, he caught up to his brother in an adjoining hallway.

"Stephanos! Stephanos, could you wait a minute?" Philemon requested as he ran up nearly out of breath.

"What is it, Philemon?" Stephanos asked as he waved his companions to continue on.

"I beg of you, brother… please reconsider what you said to Methodius. I see sick and dying outside of the basilica daily. They are true believers of Nabataea, but that did not spare them from disease. Remember that Helena is pregnant, Stephanos. We must be careful."

Stephanos put a hand on his brother's shoulder. "I may be called a sardar, but our people see me as a king. I understand that you are worried about me, but I won't live my life in fear. What kind of example would I be setting? It would bring chaos. But you, Philemon, are free to act as you see fit. I won't judge you for whatever you chose."

The sardar gave Philemon a final comforting pat before leaving. The younger brother stood alone helplessly until his wife approached and hugged him.

"I'm scared for our people, Ariadne," Philemon told her. "Countless will die unless he confronts this threat."

"Yes… if only we take precautions, we may be the only ones left to rule Meteora," she noted. When she felt Philemon shudder, Ariadne leaned away and inquired, "Is it such a terrible thought?"

"Why would I want to rule?" Philemon asked more aggressively than he intended. He then chuckled lightly. "I'd have to play friendly with my peers instead of getting to mock them all from the corner with you."

"The office is what the holder makes of it, Philemon. I know you don't want to be like your brother, but you wouldn't have to be. I hope it never comes to that, too, but if it does… I think you'd be great leader of our people. Don't you agree?"

Philemon released a deep breathe. "Perhaps. So long as you stay by my side."

Ariadne smiled as she put a hand on his cheek. "No matter what happens, I'll always believe in you. I promise, my love."

Interlude: A Hammer and a Knell – Day 11 of the Guardian Moon, Year 1186 (Fódlan Calendar)

Sardar Stephanos began the final chapter of his reign when he spurned Methodius's pleas. Philemon pleaded for the other lords and ministers of Meteora to take the precautions that his brother refused, but most were similarly stubborn, insisting that such actions would threaten their fortunes and influence. Philemon and Ariadne retreated to the privacy of their estate before the plague took Metanoiapolis, but many others were not so fortunate. Both the rich and the poor grieved in the months that followed.

After that, Philemon no longer found amusement in the folly of his peers… only anger. And after they stole Ariadne from him in hopes of a "superior" marriage, that anger turned to hatred.

When not forced to listen to other lords, Philemon used to walk the streets of the capital with Ariadne, learning about the lives of the commoners and hearing their requests in his own estate. He also possessed the only true benefits of the nobility- resources and an education.

In short, he was only man who could save Almyra from its destructive rulers.

The plague left Philemon regent to the sardar's orphaned twin children. Juliana grew up to be surprisingly decent. Justinian… well, he was undoubtedly an entitled prat, but Philemon still had some sympathy for his nephew. The child never stood much of a chance in life, having been pushed around by ministers, priests, and friends with their own individual agendas instead of being raised by decent parents.

After he dispensed judgment on Ariadne's murderers, Philemon was only able to consolidate so much authority in the ensuing power void without raising an uproar. To address that, he elevated the reach of the Sentinels of the Empyrean to act in his place. They funded orphanages and hospitals, and they helped police misbehavior of the elites. The Sentinels were not a perfect fit, of course, as they also had a radical streak. Philemon was unable to reign in their war against their Dékhomai, especially after Prince James was taken hostage.

Under Philemon's regency, the welfare of the average Meteoran had increased some. Their shrinking economy was often blamed on population decline after the plague, but Philemon's curtailing of cruel labor practices also should have been listed as a contributor.

Unfortunately, Philemon's days in power were numbered. Not only was his health starting to falter, but Justinian was showing more initiative to act without his uncle's authorization. And in all of those years as the head of Meteora, Philemon had failed to extend his influence to the rest of Almyra in any meaningful way.

It was not too late for his story to make a drastic turn, however.

Ghalib had made an interesting proffer shortly after Khalid's return from Fódlan. If Meteora were to support the mirza in an upcoming power struggle, Ghalib promised to officially grant the sardar of Meteora the title of "king" again as motivation, even if that title had little extra value.

More importantly to Philemon, Ghalib would promote the Votaries of Nabataea as an official religion of Almyra after victory was obtained and his government was stabilized. King Ghalib would establish an office called the Protector of the Votaries, which would have broad power to promote welfare and virtue across all of Almyra. The position would be appointed by the king, and Philemon would be his first choice. The regressive lords of Saba, the arrogant subjugators of Elam, the decadent merchants of Shomal… he could bring all of them to heel. He would even have enough clout to finally put the Sentinels in check. Faruq would never match that generous bargain.

The assassination attempt in the Mikdash had caught Philemon by surprise, as Ghalib had not given him any forewarning. The mirza's decision to strike had likely been made on short notice. After all, Faruq had just cited Ghalib as his ideal heir, and infiltrating the dark forests on the Tabarzin border was an easier task than the Dunya. There would never be a better opportunity.

Even if he understood Ghalib's logic, Philemon had needed more time to reorganize the Meteoran army, as he could only move so fast without raising suspicions. The premature start had set them back at Sous River, and they were continuing to pay the price for it.

If they could achieve victory in the Channel of Eirene, though, all of that would be forgiven.

Philemon frowned as he watched the first line of Meteoran ships approach Shomal's fleet. He had hoped that Khalid would finally cower once the prospect of battle became a reality, but the enemy navy showed no signs of surrender.

Xanthippe reminded him, "It's not too late to call it off. We can starve them out at no risk to us."

Philemon contested, "You saw how desperate they were to wrestle their way out of this mess. They can't put up a legitimate fight, and they know it. We'll take Khalid hostage, hand him off to Ghalib, and end this war today. The risk we face is here is less than the risk of dragging this war out."

"That's not why you're doing it. You're doing it because he angered you."

Xanthippe was about to become the latest recipient of his wrath if she continued to subvert his directives. Khalid may have been correct about her aspirations for power.

"I value your input, Master Xanthippe, but you've already made yourself heard. If you and your order do not wish to participate in this battle, the shore is within swimming distance. Of course, you'll have to explain your decision to my nephew."

Xanthippe's pride was wounded, but she still shrank from the threat.

The first wave soon made contact. The shouts of the dueling men and women could barely be heard from that distance, but the roar of cannons reverberated like thunder under a clear sky. The sound was punctuated at first, but it grew to a near-steady rumble as more Meteoran vessels pulled parallel to Shomal's frigates. It was difficult to determine how the battle was progressing. They did not have the correct angle to watch the exchange of cannon, and the scene was now blanketed by smoke.

There was a large blast and a plume of fire that erupted into the air at one point, and given that the Meteoran line of battle appeared uninterrupted, it was likely that one of the enemy ships had exploded.

"That's almost as big as the fires we had in my village during Scarlet Wednesday," Callinicus observed. He was an elderly man who had served as the helmsman for the Meteora flagship for many years, despite his tendency for exaggerated stories.

Xanthippe glanced at Callinicus with a frown. "Scarlet Wednesday is a pagan tradition from Elam. Why were you celebrating that?"

Callinicus shrugged. "Because we got to jump over bonfires. Why wouldn't we want to do that?"

To Xanthippe's horror, Philemon could not help but laugh. The former regent told her, "If you expect the full piety of the people, you'll need to devise better festivals. The best the Votaries have come up with revolve around fasting. Considering the commoners are accustomed to empty stomachs, that's not going to procure much excitement."

The first Meteoran line of battle was about to reach the coast of Pyli Kyma. A wyvern scout would be sent back from one of the leading two-deckers to report the results of the initial wave, and any strategic adjustments could be made at that time.

Just then, however, the scene near Pyli Kyma was bathed in golden light. More smoke rose, but it billowed darker than that of the gunpowder.

Philemon studied the source as best as he could with the spyglass. It was difficult to see much, especially since the wind was blowing all of the smoke from the battle in that direction, but licks of fire penetrated the haze. Several ships appeared to be aflame, but not only wood and cloth were burning. The sea itself appeared to be combusting.

"Nabataea's Wrath?" Philemon pondered. He then handed the spyglass to Xanthippe.

"Perhaps a cheap imitation," Xanthippe conceded as she analyzed the situation.

"Call it cheap if you like, but it appears to be effective."

Nabataea's Wrath was an incendiary chemical invented by the Meteorans. It gained fame centuries prior when it was used to annihilate a fleet led by Saba that had assembled to overthrow Metanoiapolis. In the age of sails and cannons, though, it became too ineffectual to implement widely. Ineffectual outside of very specific circumstances, that is.

The recipe for Nabataea's Wrath was a closely-guarded state secret, but the other lands of Almyra had made efforts to replicate it. Given the wide resources available to Shomal from their extensive trade networks, it was not surprising if they had developed the most effective imitation yet.

"Even if they replicated the formula, we haven't seen any mounted projectors on their ships," one of the ship's officers observed.

He was right. Nabataea's Wrath floated and burned on water and could stick to wooden hulls, but it was historically projected directly at enemy ships for maximum impact using a complex system of pumps. In this case, it seemed likely that Shomal's fleet had applied it directly onto the ocean. And since the chemical would dilute quickly, that meant that their ships had sailed over that spot just recently.

"Some of their ships must have broken formation to dump that," Xanthippe said, having come to the same conclusion. "They'll be pinned between our first wave and the blockade to the east."

"Either that or…" Philemon muttered.

He ripped the spyglass from Xanthippe's hand so he could use it again. As he watched, bowsprits began to reach out from the smoke towards him. Entire ships were soon visible along the coast of Pyli Kyma.

"Their ships are headed west. It's their transports."

"West? That's against the wind. They can't escape like that."

Philemon lowered the spyglass. "They don't need the wind. Their sails are furled. They're being driven by oars. Dozens per ship."

"Some kind of ancient galleys?" Xanthippe asked.

"No. They're something different."

These ships were far too fast to be basic transports. Could they be some kind of specialized warships? Philemon had done his research; the Mirgissan Free Company did not specialize in warships. Maybe they were willing to make an exception if Elam sold off the Dunya or something, but it did not seem likely.

Philemon realized at that moment that they had fallen into a trap. These ships never came from the Mirgissan Free Company.

"Do you know what ships built in Brigid look like, Callinicus?" Philemon asked as he handed over the spyglass.

Callinicus's aging eyes struggled with the apparatus. He eventually settled, "I haven't seen one in forty years, but they may have looked like that. And here I thought I was the oldest thing in sight. Those ships look like they've been pulled from four hundred years ago."

"And in those four hundred years, we've forgotten how to deal with them," Philemon muttered.

"Why Brigid?" Xanthippe asked, having missed out on his deductions.

"These ships don't look Dagdan, and there weren't many other possible destinations based on the direction Shomal's fleet was headed. I'd wager Khalid and Dimitri met a friend from Brigid at their 'exclusive' academy in Fódlan."

"Dimitri?"

"Khalid's retainer," Philemon explained. "The Tempest of Fódlan is one of our most dangerous opponents. You might want to learn his name, Master Xanthippe."

Philemon was not in a mood for politeness. He was ashamed at how badly they had been played for fools. They had tracked Shomal's fleet diverting west of Fódlan over a month ago but decided against following them deeper. The fear was that if the enemy discovered any stalking Meteoran scouts, they would realize their Mirgissan plan was exposed and take actions evade the trap that Philemon had set up in the Strait of Albinea. That cautiousness had been turned against the Meteorans, as they had missed an opportunity to uncover the collusion with Brigid much earlier.

Xanthippe was still looking for reasons to not take the enemy seriously. She noted, "These ships are fast, but they won't run the blockade."

That was true, which meant that Brigid's ships almost certainly had a different goal in mind. The vessels were still hugging the rocks of Pyli Kyma, which could have been interpreted as an attempt to stay out of firing range of the blockade line. Perhaps more critically, it kept them out of range of Philemon's contingent on the opposite coast. Once Brigid's ships had rowed farther west, however, what would keep them from pivoting across the channel upwind of the Meteoran advance columns? The Meteoran two-deckers did not have stern cannons. If they had dropped their main anchors, they at least could have briefly fired upon their enemies while turning downwind. That was not an option as they had instead dropped aft stream anchors so they could take off on shorter notice. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, but the decision now left them completely vulnerable from an attack behind them from the west.

"Cut the anchors loose! And signal the others to do the same!" Philemon ordered. He wanted to sound firm, but he likely came across as panicked.

The signaller's eyes widened. "But, Your Excel-."

"Do it!"

Cutting and running was embarrassing and expensive, but they had little choice. Even with the benefit of the shallow channel floor, there was no hope that they could weigh anchor before Brigid's navy would be right on their heels.

Just as he expected, Brigid's fleet made a hard turn to starboard after slipping upwind of the advance columns. Their speed astonished even Philemon. There appeared to be activity on the ships composing the western blockade as they debated coming to the aid of their comrades. Regardless of their decision, they could never arrive in time.

"Khalid… that dastard," Xanthippe uttered as she placed a shaking hand on her forehead while watching their enemies seemingly glide over the waves towards them. She finally understood that they were being outplayed. She also knew the correct person to blame. Protector Senusret may have been admiral of the fleet, but the events during the parley left no doubt that Khalid was actually in charge.

As the sailors hacked away at the lines, the flagship's officers debated their next actions. The discussion was aided by the arrival of a wyvern messenger from the first wave. After space was cleared for the wyvern to land on the poop deck, its rider dashed down to the fleet's commanders.

She shared, "We had the advantage in the initial engagement, Your Excellency, but we took heavy damage in those flames afterwards. One ship grounded on the rocks trying to avoid them, and several others had to be abandoned after catching fire. Please don't lead the next wave on the same course. They'll face the same fate."

"If we keep straight, we'll only a brief shot at them before we're downwind," one of the officers reminded everyone.

Philemon commanded, "Hold to the coast for now to avoid raking fire before cutting through the center of their fleet at an angle. We'll both avoid their trap and maximize how long we can fire broadside."

Another officer cautioned, "We can, but it's also very dangerous. We can send the others that way while we keep to the northern coas-."

"All of us," Philemon reiterated. Running from the battle while everyone else continued to fight was not an option. Such cowardly behavior better suited Khalid than the Hammer of Meteora.

After a pause, the messenger remembered something else important. She claimed, "The captain on my ship swore that he saw two enemy ships flagging orders. We weren't sure what to make of it."

"A diversion?" Xanthippe pondered.

Philemon shook his head. "Perhaps, but there's a likelier answer. Remember that we're dealing with two navies- one from Shomal and the other from Brigid, both with their own forms of communication. They're operating under their own systems."

Everyone accepted this as the likeliest answer, but there was no time to debate before their ship was finally cut loose. Chaos unfolded as the other vessels finished this process at different rates. One ship rammed into the stern of another that was still anchored, disabling its rudder. Another ship flayed the port side of its neighbor, ripping off gunport lids and dislodging cannons.

The officers began to look between each other in silent disapproval of Philemon's leadership, but his hurry was ultimately justified. In fact, it was proven to not be quick enough. Brigid's fleet came upon them at full speed before the Meteoran columns could make much ground. The enemy galleys lacked cannons, but they showered the Meteorans with arrows at little danger to themselves. Some arrows were lit with fire that burned decks and ignited sails. The ships in the very front were safe, but Brigid's archers could reach most of their targets with a combination of skill and well-built bows. The truly unfortunate ships at the back of the columns were even pelted with ceramic balls filled with their form of Nabataea's Wrath.

It was insulting to be persecuted by foreigners wielding Meteoran technology, but there was nothing to be done about it. A few Meteorans at the rear launched arrows and spears in the direction of their enemies, but they were not adequately armed for such a fight. Their only logical option was to push forward and destroy the main fleet. Brigid's crews began to unfurl their sails to try keeping pace, but because they were short on projectiles and their oarsmen had started to tire, the enemy galleys eventually allowed the Meteoran columns to slip out of reach.

As it was the first ship freed of its anchors, Philemon's flagship mercifully avoided the worst fate. The flagship now led the fleet into the heart of battle.

As they approached, Philemon used the spyglass to continuously scan Shomal's fleet for the real flagship. He was certain that he would recognize it from the parley. If he could crush the enemy's leadership, the rest of his foes would crumble. He no longer planned to turn Khalid over to the mirza. The spoiled prince had caused too much suffering. Philemon wanted to personally oversee Khalid's death.

Just in time, Philemon finally spotted their target. The flagship was predictably located on the back line of battle where it was safe from the initial attack. Its broadsides were protected by a pair of frigates that shielded it. Khalid was willing to sacrifice the entire fleet for his safety, so this came as no surprise.

"That ship there," Philemon said as he pointed. "That's their flagship… I'm sure of it. Take it out."

No one argued as Callinicus steered them in that direction. To reach their target, they had to pass through the first line of battle. They briefly exchanged fire with the nearest ship as they crossed. Minor damaged was inflicted on both vessels, but the fight was not conclusive. Two or three sailors could be heard screaming in pain, but they were few enough that all of the wounded could be attended to.

The enemy fleet was apparently ready for the attack, as their frigates had already weighed anchor. Like the Meteorans, they must have dropped only light anchors before the battle. They had expected this from the start.

As they approached the flagship, Philemon briefly ran to the stern to watch the rest of the battle. He would have preferred forgetting what he witnessed. The numerical advantage of the Meteorans was more of a hindrance than an assistance. Their maneuvering was limited in the crowd, and many of the ships could not get a clear shot at any enemy vessels. Essentially, only one ship was engaged against each of Shomal's frigates at any given time. Because many of the Meteoran ships were already damaged before the engagement began and their strategy was in shambles, the situation was deteriorating in a hurry.

Philemon charged back down to the helm and emphasized, "We're going to lose this battle if we don't take their leadership out."

"We all want them gone, Your Excellency," Xanthippe assured. "But we're going to have a difficult time getting past those other ships."

That issue abruptly resolved itself as the two frigates flanking the flagships suddenly peeled off. The flagship itself pivoted to meet the Meteoran leaders head-on.

"They're letting us through…" Callinicus muttered in surprise.

Xanthippe copied the smile of a ravenous hyena. "They know it's us. Khalid wants to destroy us himself. Let him have his chance."

Philemon could not understand Khalid's move. "No… no, that doesn't sound like him at all…"

As the other ships cleared the path, Philemon finally had an unobstructed view of the flagship's deck. It was operated by surprisingly few sailors, but Khalid, Senusret, and James could be seen standing by the helm.

It still did not add up. He saw no cannons in the gunports. The crew did not reach for any weapons.

Philemon started to put the pieces together. He should have heeded the warning about multiple ships giving orders. The signals coming from this particular vessel were clearly meant only for the eyes of the deceived Meteorans.

He lifted the spyglass once more. He did not see Senusret or the princes. His gaze was instead met by stand-ins wearing the clothes of their leaders.

The crew suddenly ran to the opposite side of the hull and dived into the water. A few remained behind as they turned the wheel in Philemon's direction and tied it in place. The imposter Khalid was the last to jump, giving the Meteorans a salute before his plunge.

"Turn this ship away, now!" Philemon yelled at his helmsman.

It was too late to avoid contact. Callinicus frantically obeyed the order, but they had only managed to turn a few degrees before the decoy flagship rammed into them amidship at an angle. The hull groaned, and the enemy bowsprit got tangled up in their main mast shroud. The ship did not have the ramming force of a galley, but Philemon and most of the crew were still knocked off their feet.

Their problems increased exponentially when the other ship detonated in a surge of wreckage.

The shock wave from the explosion had a horrifying effect. Philemon remembered almost nothing of the first few seconds. At the end of it, though, he found himself lying in a heap on a lower deck. He had hit his head against the tiller somewhere along the way, leaving his temple throbbing and his nose bleeding. Callinicus and another officer lay dead next to him. He did not see Xanthippe.

Smoke billowed throughout the space. The blast was almost certainly caused by a detonation of a gunpowder magazine, but they must have mixed in Nabataea's Wrath to promote ignition of Philemon's flagship. The ship was beginning to list badly to starboard. Philemon's thoughts were scrambled, but he knew he had to find a ladder up if he was going to escape. He limped his way to the main gundeck, but just as the ladder came into sight, the situation worsened again as the mizzenmast collapsed. This brought down a new storm of debris on top of him. One splinter lodged itself into his ribcage.

Philemon was cast to the deck again, this time pinned against the starboard hull under a heavy beam. He could slightly shift the weight on his chest, but not enough to get himself free. His position did not provide enough leverage.

He glanced at his surroundings as he breathed heavily in pain. Many dead sailors were scattered across the deck. Those who survived had already abandoned their posts.

Philemon could identify a few muffled shouts from doomed mariners trapped under the wreckage, but otherwise, the only other living person on the gundeck was Xanthippe herself. She had just reached the nearest ladder and had already dumped her armor and sword.

"Xanthippe!" Philemon shouted. "Xanthippe... Lend me a hand!"

She heard him at the last moment. Instinctively, she jumped off the ladder and slid down to his position. She grasped the beam and prepared to provide the needed assistance. Suddenly, though, her rattled expression morphed as if a veil had dropped from her eyes. She was no longer looking at the Hammer of Meteora- she was looking at a helpless, defeated man.

Her grip loosened as she muttered darkly, "You've done much for Meteora, Lord Philemon. It's a shame it ended this way."

"What are you talking about? Come on, we can get this off with a bit more leverage."

"Even if we could, your wound is fatal."

"What? I coul-."

Xanthippe suddenly grasped the splinter in his side and forced it in deeper, putting her other hand over Philemon's mouth to cover his agonizing scream. By the time she released her hand, he lacked the power to call for help.

"W-why…" he managed to exhale.

"King Justinian listened to you because he was trained to believe in your infallibility. Now that the illusion has fallen, you offer us nothing that we can't do ourselves. Meteora needs a king who will be our spiritual leader, not a puppet for your political ambitions. I know you've always had contempt for the Sentinels, Lord Philemon. May Nabataea forgive you for it."

Philemon was unable to respond while Xanthippe scrambled back to the ladder. She presumably dove from what remained of the main deck as quickly as possible.

His wound was likely now fatal, and it was only a matter of time before the spreading flames reached their magazine. Water was now beginning to pour into the breach at middeck.

Philemon was going to die here. He gave up trying to move the beam and allowed his head to rest. As the ship turned farther onto its side, the smoke thickened, and more objects rolled in his direction from the port side. A barrel of gunpowder burst on its way down, raining black powder all over his body. The world seemed to be taking all of its frustration out on him at once.

He had performed terrible deeds- murdered rivals, permitted an unjustified war against the Dékhomai, led his people into open war against a wronged king… All of that would have been vindicated if he had the chance to end centuries of abuses. Without succeeding, though, history would only remember him as a tyrant. No one would know or care what he wished to accomplish.

Ariadne…

Even if no one else would, at least she remembered him as a decent man.

The scene before Philemon's eyes flared burning-white.