Sovereign and Shadow : Crimson Tide

Ryumaru. Just the name was a curse, a cold whisper carried on the salt-laced wind across the Seven Seas. It was enough to send a chill down the spine of the most hardened sailor, a desperate prayer from the lips of a desperate king. The very air seemed to thicken with his presence, heavy with the metallic tang of distant blood and the brine of unending oceans. On the foredeck of his legendary flagship, a slow, deliberate twitch of his fluffy tail served as the only warning, a silent tremor of anticipation as he surveyed the horizon. He was a silhouette against the endless expanse of sea and sky, tall and undeniably formidable. His dark clothes seemed to absorb the light, hinting at the coiled power subtly hidden beneath. His eyes, twin points of crimson light, gleamed with a predatory intelligence that missed nothing. A mane of dark brown hair, long and unruly, whipped around ears that constantly twitched, catching every whisper carried by the wind—a distant gull's cry, the groan of ancient timbers, the frantic flap of canvas from a fleeing merchantman too far away to see. A slow, sinister smile curved his lips, a chilling promise of the chaos he carried in his wake. Twenty-one years ago, he'd been born amidst a furious storm on these very waters, his first breath drawn in the roar of a tempest. His mother, a formidable pirate queen, and his father, a legend whispered of only in hushed tones, had forged his destiny. Raised by the unforgiving rhythm of the waves, where the deck was his cradle and the horizon his only boundary, piracy was his birthright. The vessel beneath his feet was truly ancient, far older than he, yet meticulously maintained. Its deep black hull, weathered but defiant, plunged through the waves, a stark contrast to the deep crimson insignia emblazoned on the immense black sails—a demonic skull impaled by an anchor, its ears wickedly pointed. They said Ryumaru came with the tempest and vanished as swiftly as he arrived, leaving only ruin and terror in his wake. Rumors of his depravity—of maidens tortured and devoured, of port cities left burning and silent—spread through the kingdoms like wildfire, whispered from trembling lips, fueling the ever-growing fear of the Demon King. POV: Lyra The grand conference room of Castle Aethelgard hummed with the low murmur of worried voices, a stark contrast to the brilliant sunlight streaming through the towering arched windows. Below each pane, gilded frames held the solemn portraits of Aethelgard's past rulers, their painted eyes seeming to scrutinize the current crisis. Lyra stood rigidly behind her father, King Theron, her back aching with the effort of holding herself still, of simply being in a dress. This particular gown, in a delicate shade of sky-blue silk, featured a demurely scooped neckline that revealed just a hint of her collarbones, the fabric ruched subtly over the bodice before flowing into a wide, bell-shaped skirt. The sleeves, fitted to the elbow, then flared out into soft, open cuffs of fine lace, a style currently in vogue. It was beautiful, undeniably, but it felt like a cage of silk and whalebone. She tried to focus on the droning reports, on the grim faces of the councilmen, but her mind kept snagging on a single, terrifying name: Ryumaru. The Demon King's cruelty was the poisoned undercurrent of every discussion. Tales of his atrocities—ships sunk with no survivors, vital trade routes choked, and worst of all, the hostages. Always women, beautiful and young, dragged from their homes or merchant vessels, never to be seen again. They said he devoured them, body and soul. A shiver, colder than any sea breeze, traced its way down Lyra's spine. An alliance was being forged, a desperate pact between Aethelgard and the powerful maritime kingdom of Veridian, across the turbulent eastern sea. The price for this aid? Prince Valerius, a man a few years older than Lyra's own eighteen. A political marriage, of course, to solidify the bond. It would be her brother, Prince Corvin, who would truly benefit. At twenty, Corvin was already preparing to inherit the crown from their father next year, once he found a suitable bride. Lyra, however, felt less like a princess and more like a pawn on a very dangerous chessboard. Father, must I truly marry such a prince? The thought, a rebellious whisper, was barely stifled. Prince Valerius, heir to Veridian, sat next to his own father across the polished oak table. He was handsome, undeniably, with a broad frame that spoke of strength and dark, aristocratic features. But his eyes – icy blue, they seemed to never leave her, holding a storm behind their depths. A storm she'd heard whispered of in taverns, a tempest of women who came and went, never staying, never quite enough for his insatiable appetites. He was a notorious womanizer, a fact gossiped about even in their distant court. The very idea of being tethered to him, of his touch, sent a shiver of dread through her. Yes, it's for the good of our kingdoms, she sternly reminded herself, forcing down the rising unease. A necessary sacrifice. This pirate, this man… Her gaze drifted to the window, envisioning the vast, unforgiving ocean beyond the castle walls. They say he attacks any ship that enters his waters, here in a flash and gone without a trace, a tempest storm following him. The rumors alone were enough to cripple trade and instill terror. "Can our rallied kingdoms really beat him?" The question, a silent, desperate plea, echoed in the confines of her own mind. It wasn't just Valerius she feared; it was the unseen demon lurking on the horizon, threatening to consume them all.