Waters of Terebinthia.
2307.
Five nights til the full moon.
4th Year of the Reign of King Caspian X.
Boltan.
The river was thick with mist, curling like ghostly fingers over the turquoise water. The jungle pressed in on either side, a living wall of tangled roots and swaying vines. Strange cries echoed from the depths of the trees – some animal, some that sounded almost human. Insects hummed in a relentless chorus, and somewhere in the distance, something large crashed through the undergrowth. The scent of damp earth and decaying leaves hung heavy in the humid air.
Boltan stood on the deck of Milir's ship, watching the shadowy trees slip past as they sailed down the river toward the sea. The pirate captain leaned lazily against the railing; his scarred face half-lit by the glow of a torch flickering overhead, at odds with the bright light of the waxing moon. His frosty blue eyes gleamed with something that might have been amusement – or maybe just the hunger of a man who had spent too long on the edge of civilization, taking what he pleased.
"Your own ship awaits beyond the river's mouth," Milir said, tilting his head toward the unseen open waters. "Along with the rest of the fleet." His voice was rough, like salt and gravel, and carried the easy confidence of a man who had survived more betrayals than friendships.
Boltan barely acknowledged him, his gaze fixed ahead, his mind already beyond the river, beyond the jungle, beyond Terebinthia itself.
Milir chuckled, the sound low and knowing. "Tell me, king," he said, the title edged with mockery. "Where's your little star?"
Boltan's jaw tightened, but he did not rise to the bait. Instead, he exhaled slowly, his fingers tapping against the hilt of his sword.
Boltan stood at the prow of Milir's ship, his gaze fixed on the river's mouth where the dark waters would meet the open sea. The jungle still whispered around them, its unseen eyes watching as they slipped away from Terebinthia's shores. But his thoughts were not on the land he left behind. His mind burned with the promise of conquest—the cold, methodical steps of his revenge.
Galma would fall first.
Not because it was the strongest or the richest, but because of her.
Lezlea. The so-called lady who had once rejected his hand, as if he were beneath her. He had not forgotten the sting of her dismissal, the way she had spoken his name with an air of disdain. She had chosen to remain loyal to Narnia, to flatter the new King Caspian with her pretty words of alliance. He would ensure she regretted her choice.
Milir's fleet would strike Galma before the dawn after the full moon, and Boltan would see its proud lady brought to her knees. He would take his vengeance on her first – strip her of her wealth, her power, her dignity.
And then he would claim Galma's riches for himself.
The island would serve as more than just his trophy; it would be his foothold. A strategic base from which he would launch his true war—the war against Narnia itself. With Galma under his control, the Narnians would be vulnerable. Their sea routes disrupted; their alliances fractured.
He could almost taste it. The salt in the air, the thrill of battle, the moment he would see the fear in Lezlea's eyes.
Behind him, Milir chuckled, the sound as rough as the deck beneath their feet. "You're quiet, king," he said, his voice laced with amusement. "Thinking of your lady?"
Boltan's eyes flicked toward the pirate captain, his expression cold. "Thinking of my war."
Milir grinned, unfazed. "Same thing, isn't it?"
He could feel Milir's presence beside him, the pirate's eyes heavy with unspoken intentions. Boltan knew well enough that no man like Milir offered his services without a price. The pirate's loyalty was as fickle as the tides, and though Boltan had made use of his fleet, he did not trust the man. There was something in Milir's icy eyes – a flicker of ambition, a hunger for something more – that Boltan could never quite place.
But it didn't matter.
Not yet.
Milir's motives were irrelevant as long as the pirate delivered. And Boltan, ruthless as ever, had no qualms about using the man for his own purposes. Milir would help him crush Galma, destroy Lezlea, and seize the wealth and resources he so desperately needed.
After that? Boltan would deal with Milir in the same way he dealt with all who crossed him – when the time was right.
The only thing that mattered in that moment was the war ahead. The destruction of his enemies. The glory of his kingdom.
Milir spoke again, but Boltan didn't respond. The pirate captain's words were as empty to him as the endless stretch of water before them. It was all part of the game. Boltan knew it well, and he played it better than most.
"Whatever your plans are, Milir," Boltan finally muttered, his voice cold and commanding, "keep them to yourself. Deliver what you promised. And I'll give you what you want."
Milir chuckled, low and amused, but it was clear his answer was one Boltan didn't need to hear. They both understood the terms of their alliance – temporary, as all such things were in Boltan's world.
As the ship sailed further into the open water, Boltan turned his thoughts back to his goal. Galma would fall.
Lezlea would fall.
And from the ashes, he would build his empire.
Narnia would be next.
Nothing else mattered.