The Free Port of Oakhaven gave no fig for dead kings or fallen fortresses; it concerned itself only with the heft of gold.In the smoky interior of the lower level of the Kraken's Guildhall, six of the grandest of the surviving Buyeo lords sat about a circular bronze table, their once regal silk robes now smeared with salt and tinged with the ash that was sifting down like dust from the lands beyond the Narrow Sea. "The capital is a sepulchre," Lord Braxton slammed his goblet onto the table's surface, spilling precious, dark red wine. "The stone titans surround the outermost walls; Malakor is dead. The royal line is fractured. We cannot rule a kingdom which the earth itself is devouring from the inside." "Then we do not rule the kingdom," Lord Corin countered, leaning over the table, his eyes glinting with a sharp, rapacious hunger. "We rule its survivors; there are still thirty thousand people trapped in the western valleys, begging for succor. We need only install a puppet with a

The belly of the Iron Sceptre reeked of sulfur, whale oil and heated iron. Unlike a merchant ship, the bottom hold of Vanya's flagship had been turned into a mobile foundry. The center of the space contained a large, hearth lined with brick and counterbalanced by a pair of iron gimbals, made of thick northern iron, allowing it to stay perfectly flat despite the rocking pitch of the Southern Sea. Vanya stood at the edge of the flames, a green woolen coat draped around her shoulders and her gaze fixed on the center of the forge, while behind her, two broad-shouldered northern smiths pumped away on the leather bellows, creating a searing stream of oxygen into the coals until they burned a stark white. Opposite her, on a low iron bench, sat Kaelen, the Sun-Cleaver resting on his lap. The chipped, silent framework of the god-bow gleamed in the firelight with a volcanic shine. "The metal from the southern vaults is pure celestial steel," Vanya explained, her voice cutting through the shr

The longboats of the Iron Sceptre cut through the whitecaps of the Oros strait, riding a tide that had turned violently unpredictable. The wind off the Southern Sea no longer carried the crisp, sterile sting of salt-crust. It was thick with the foul, oily stench of raw iron ore and burning blood-the unmistakable signature of General Kross's forbidden magic. Kaelen stood at the prow of the lead longboat, his boots braced against the wet wood. He had wrapped his scarred, obsidian-plated forearms in strips of rough sailcloth, but the faint, molten-gold veins still pulsed visibly beneath the fabric, reacting to the heavy atmospheric pressure of the approaching storm. In his right hand, he held the re-forged Sun-Cleaver. The silver-blue celestial steel sheath felt cold to the touch, but the trench of gold plasma inside the frame hummed with a low, predatory vibration that matched the deep, rhythmic thrumming of the sea floor. "They've cleared the deep shelf," Oi reported from the center

‎The white-hot beam of solar plasma cut through the gray sea gale, leaving a boiling trench of steam in the water that split the strait cleanly in two.‎It struck the central titan dead in the chest.‎‎The impact was a cataclysmic crunch of vaporized stone and superheated salt water. A blinding flash of solar gold light erupted over the waves, throwing a concussive shockwave backward that rattled the iron-plated hull of Vanya’s flagship two miles away. The monolithic entity staggered, its massive granite torso fracturing as a three-foot-wide crater of molten glass opened where its heart should have been.‎‎But it did not fall.‎‎The crimson blood-magic cables wrapped around its waist flared with a violent, ravenous brilliance. From the wooden platform atop its shoulder, General Kross drove his iron staff deep into the stone.‎ The red gemstone at the tip bled a heavy, dark mist of sacrificial energy that flowed down the titan’s back, instantly sealing the fractures with cooled, bl

The silence after the destruction of the central titan was heavier than the wave which followed it.The gray deluge rose up toward the bared reef, crashing down on the black Cliffs of Oros with a deafening shriek of air and sea. Kaelen made no effort to flee the spray; he stood rigid upon the fractured spire of the mast, his dark hair slick against his brow and his bare chest heaving.The gold fluid which leaked from the cracks on his left arm struck the churning spray, hissing as it solidified into small, round beads of celestial silver. He still gripped the refashioned Sun-Cleaver in his obsidian right hand, its gold plasma core dimmed to a low, alert pulse.Beyond a hundred yards from the rocks, the surface began to boil from the air and oil trapped within it.A solitary iron cage-all that remained of the command deck-burst forth, General Kross floundering on its confines, clawing at the bent bars with fingers, and pulling himself into a floating piece of splintered wood. His iron