The Rat King’s Domain
Crimson Bay was a city built on the bones of betrayed men, and nowhere was this more apparent than the district known as the Rotting Maw. It was a sprawling, festering slum that clung to the jagged cliffs at the edge of the sea like a dark tumor. Here, the cobblestones gave way to a thick, knee-deep sludge composed of mud, spilled offal, and the shattered hopes of a thousand forgotten sailors. As Lucian slipped beneath the rotting wooden archway that marked the entrance to the Maw, the sounds of Valeria’s imperial hounds faded into a muffled, distant irritation. Even the Empire’s elite hesitated to step into this lightless abyss.
The fog rolling in from the Infinite Ocean was thick and suffocating, tasting of salt and copper. It clung to the dilapidated shanties stacked precariously on top of one another. Lucian pulled the collar of his damp coat higher, his sharp eyes piercing the gloom. He moved with the silent, predatory grace of a man who knew the shadows better than his own reflection. Every creaking floorboard above, every scurry of a wharf rat below, was calculated and cataloged in his mind.
He hadn’t walked three blocks before the inevitable happened. The locals, driven by desperation and the glint of potential coin, sensed fresh meat.
Four figures detached themselves from the murky alleyway ahead, their silhouettes jagged with rusted blades and heavy iron hooks. They didn’t wear uniforms; they wore the stench of cheap ale and week-old fish.
“Well, well. Look what the tide washed in,” rasped the leader, a hulking brute with a jaw misaligned from a past brawl. He twirled a wicked-looking gutting knife. “That coat looks a bit heavy for you, pretty boy. Why don’t you leave it, along with whatever coin you’re hiding, and maybe we let you crawl back to the upper city with your eyes still in your skull.”
Lucian stopped, letting out a long, exaggerated sigh. He rested his right hand casually on the hilt of his black iron cutlass, his posture reeking of absolute boredom.
“You know, gentlemen,” Lucian drawled, his voice a smooth, mocking melody in the damp air. “I’ve had a truly exhausting evening. I blew up my favorite tavern, outsmarted an incredibly beautiful but terrifyingly stubborn Imperial Commander, and practically ran a marathon across the rooftops. My boots are ruined. I am in no mood for a pathetic mugging.”
The thugs exchanged confused glances before the leader snarled, lunging forward. “Die, you arrogant—”
Lucian didn’t even draw his sword. As the brute thrust the knife, Lucian pivoted sharply, his movements as fluid as the ocean currents. He caught the man’s wrist, twisted it with a sickening crack, and used the attacker’s own momentum to drive his skull into the wooden post of a nearby shack. The man crumpled instantly.
The remaining three hesitated for a fraction of a second, but that was all Lucian needed. He swept his long leg out, taking the feet out from under the second thug, sending him face-first into the noxious mud. The third received a devastating, precise punch to the throat, leaving him gasping for air on his knees.
The last thug, a scrawny boy wielding a rusty hook, froze. His eyes widened in terror as Lucian slowly walked toward him, the faint moonlight catching the cold, unyielding gleam in the pirate’s eyes.
“Run along,” Lucian whispered, his voice suddenly void of any theatrical warmth. “And tell the shadows that Lucian has returned. Anyone else who wants to claim the bounty on my head will find it firmly attached to my shoulders.”
The boy dropped his hook and scrambled away into the dark. Lucian adjusted his cuffs, dusted a speck of imaginary dirt from his lapel, and continued his descent into the Maw. He didn’t have time for local bottom-feeders. He was looking for a specific ghost.
Deep in the belly of the slums, where the sea water constantly flooded the lower levels, stood a miserable, leaning structure that barely qualified as a tavern. It was called ‘The Sinking Anchor’. There was no door, just a tattered sailcloth hanging over the entrance. The smell emanating from within was a potent mix of despair and distilled fermented rot.
Lucian pushed the sailcloth aside. The interior was dimly lit by a single, sputtering oil lamp. In the corner, slumped over a warped wooden table, was a massive figure. He was surrounded by empty bottles, his face buried in his arms, his clothes little more than filthy rags. His thick, tangled beard was graying and matted with spilled liquor.
Lucian’s mocking smile vanished, replaced by a fleeting look of profound sorrow. This was Garrick. The man who had once been the most feared boatswain on the Infinite Ocean. The man who could hold the wheel of the Iron Oath steady through a hurricane. Now, he was just a broken shell, drowning his betrayal in cheap poison.
Lucian slowly walked over, pulling up a stool opposite the sleeping giant. He reached into his coat, pulled out a pristine, silver flask of top-tier Imperial rum—liberated from a rather wealthy merchant three days prior—and slammed it onto the table.
The loud thud jolted Garrick awake. The large man blinked, his eyes bloodshot and unfocused, struggling to register the figure sitting across from him in the gloom.
“We’re closed, you phantom,” Garrick slurred, waving a massive, scarred hand dismissively. “Take your coin and buy your poison somewhere else. I’m busy dying.”
“Dying is a rather passive activity for a man who used to tear the masts off Imperial galleons with his bare hands, wouldn’t you agree, Garrick?” Lucian said, his voice cutting through the drunken haze.
Garrick froze. The slow, rhythmic sound of the waves outside seemed to stop. He slowly raised his head, staring at Lucian. The dim light caught the jagged scar running down Garrick’s left cheek. For a moment, disbelief, rage, and agonizing grief warred in the big man’s eyes.
“You,” Garrick breathed, his voice trembling. “You’re dead. The Empire strung you up at the Coral Citadel. I saw the reports.”
“Since when do we believe anything the Empire writes, my friend?” Lucian replied, leaning forward, resting his elbows on the table. He flashed his trademark, arrogant grin. “I must admit, the rumors of my demise were greatly exaggerated. Though, looking at you, it seems the rumors of your retirement were horribly accurate. What happened to you, Garrick? You smell like a dead whale left out in the sun.”
The provocation worked instantly. Garrick’s sorrow ignited into explosive fury. With a roar that shook the flimsy walls of the tavern, he flipped the heavy wooden table and launched himself at Lucian.
“You bastard!” Garrick bellowed, his massive hands reaching for Lucian’s throat. “You left us! You vanished when Black Horn betrayed the fleet! My brothers died because you weren’t there!”
Lucian didn’t draw a weapon. He smoothly sidestepped Garrick’s wild, drunken charge. As Garrick crashed into the bar, sending splinters flying, Lucian swept his leg, knocking the massive man to the floor. Garrick scrambled up, blindly throwing a devastating right hook. Lucian ducked, caught Garrick’s arm, and with a masterful display of leverage, pinned the giant against the wall, a forearm pressed firmly against Garrick’s throat.
The struggle ceased. Garrick, gasping for breath, glared at Lucian with sheer hatred.
“Are you done?” Lucian asked, his voice low, losing all its theatrical mockery. The cold, commanding aura of a true Captain filled the tiny, miserable room.
“Kill me,” Garrick spat, blood trickling from his lip. “Do it. I have nothing left. No ship. No crew. No honor.”
Lucian released his grip and stepped back. He picked up the silver flask from the floor, wiped it off, and tossed it to Garrick. The large man caught it instinctively.
“I didn’t run, Garrick,” Lucian said, his eyes darkening with the memory of the past. “I was set up by Black Horn. Tricked, poisoned, and thrown into the abyss to rot. I’ve spent the last three years clawing my way back from hell. The Empire thinks they own the seas. Black Horn thinks he’s a king. And my boatswain is drinking himself to death in a puddle of mud.”
Garrick stared at the flask, then up at Lucian, the anger slowly draining away, replaced by a desperate, flickering hope.
“The Iron Oath,” Lucian continued, stepping closer, his voice resonating with an unyielding promise. “She’s still out there. Black Horn took her, but she answers only to me. And I am going to take her back. I am going to burn the Empire’s pride, and I am going to make Black Horn choke on his own gold. But I cannot sail her alone.”
Lucian extended his hand toward the broken man on the floor.
“I need my boatswain. The sea is calling, Garrick. Are you going to die here like a forgotten rat, or are you going to stand up and ride the storm with me one last time?”
Silence hung heavy in the damp air. The wind howled through the cracks in the walls. Garrick looked at the hand extended toward him. It was the hand of a trickster, a rogue, a man who wore masks to hide his scars. But it was also the hand of his Captain.
Slowly, Garrick unscrewed the silver flask and took a massive, burning swig of the Imperial rum. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, letting out a rough, barking laugh that sounded like rocks grinding together.
“You always were a crazy, arrogant son of a bitch, Lucian,” Garrick grunted, reaching out and grabbing Lucian’s hand with a bone-crushing grip. Lucian hauled the giant to his feet.
“It’s part of my undeniable charm,” Lucian smirked, adjusting his coat. “Now, clean yourself up. We have a ship to steal, and I hear the Imperial prison ships are currently holding the rest of our family. It’s time to gather the crew.”