Gunmage

The late afternoon sun painted the vast fleet in hues of crimson. Lugh had left the mess hall, wandering the deck in search of answers—or perhaps, simply out of habit.

The air was thick with fatigue. Some men sat slumped against the rails, their eyes hollow, while others silently wrapped fresh bandages over old wounds. A small group huddled near the aft, furtively passing around stolen rations, their gazes lost in the dark expanse of the sea.

As Lugh passed, one of the men called out.

"Yo, kid, want a swig?"

He waggled a medium-sized bottle in the air, his voice thick with liquor.

Lugh eyed the drink cautiously.

"What is that?"

"This?"

The man examined the bottle as if seeing it for the first time.

"This is top-of-the-line gin from the Southern Highlands! You won't find stuff this good anywhere in Ophris."

"Lance, keep your voice down,"

another man chided, snatching the bottle from his drunken comrade. He studied Lugh, sizing him up.

"Want some?"

"Nah, I'm good."

The soldier shrugged, taking a long swig before running a hand through his thick brown hair. He exhaled slowly.

"gods, this isn't even my war."

A scarred veteran let out a dry chuckle, and a few others murmured their agreement.

Lugh, who had moved on, paused. He retraced his steps, his gaze sharpening.

"What do you mean by that?"

The scarred man scowled.

"Don't you know how to ask a question, brat? You're supposed to say 'please.'"

"...Please."

Lugh's voice remained flat, unfazed by the hostility.

The soldier snorted, defeated. Another man, younger and softer-spoken, hesitated before explaining.

"A lot of us here… aren't from Ophris."

Lugh listened in silence as they spoke.

"I was a prisoner," muttered a man with a thick desert accent. "They gave me a rifle and called it mercy."

"At least you had a choice,"

another recruit grumbled.

"My family was starving. Signing up was the only way they'd get food rations."

The longer Lugh listened, the clearer the picture became.

Not all the soldiers aboard were from the Ophris Kingdom. Many were from conquered lands, exiled criminals, or indentured laborers fighting for their way to freedom.

Some had joined out of desperation, others were forced. This 'army' was, more than anything, a collection of survivors with nothing left to lose.

Just then, a bell rang across the deck.

The weary soldiers stirred, rousing their sleeping comrades and trudging toward the gathering point. Lugh followed.

At the front, standing on a raised platform, was him.

The captain.

Lugh's fingers curled into his palms. This was another problem weighing on his mind. How was he, a publicly known spy, supposed to convince these men that the very captain they so loyally followed was, in fact, the real traitor?

He felt conflicted about the captain, a man who had once saved his life, yet who, if left unchecked, could cause extensive and irreparable damage. 

'What should I do?'

"Alex Berlain," the captain's voice boomed.

"Present," someone called from the crowd.

"Andrew Oslot."

Silence.

"Augustus…"

The roll call continued, names echoing across the deck. Those who responded received a brief, measuring glance from the captain.

Those who didn't were marked as deceased in the logbook. It was cold. Efficient. The air grew heavier with each unanswered name.

Then—

"Lugh."

He hadn't expected his name.

"Present," he responded, masking his surprise.

Another unexpected name followed.

"Lyra Cross."

Lugh glanced back.

Sergeant Sparky stood amidst the crowd, she seemed to sense his gaze and gave him an exaggerated wink.

Interesting.

The Cross family was one of the aristocratic houses of Ophris.

He wondered what someone sharing that name was doing aboard a ship filled with martyrs? Not that he was in any position to judge.

When the roll call ended, the soldiers dispersed, retreating to their own corners of exhaustion. But Lugh found himself searching for the sergeant sparky, or, as he now knew her, Lyra Cross.

He wasn't sure why, but he felt a connection, a sense that their stories might be similar.

He found her eventually, seated in a shadowed corner of the deck. She was humming a tune, idly drumming her fingers against a knee.

Dressed in uniform with a dented officer's cap that sat at an awkward angle, it made her aristocratic features seem almost out of place.

How had he not noticed?

"Cross?"

She looked up, her grin returning.

"You're well-informed"

She patted the space beside her.

"Come. Sit."

Lugh accepted the offer.

"My name used to mean something,"

she mused.

"Now it means nothing. And I prefer it that way."

Her voice dropped to a quiet intensity, a quality Lugh hadn't known she possessed.

"After all this time in the army, I've come to realise"

She continued.

"Us soldiers aren't just numbers on a piece of paper. Each of us is the protagonist of our own separate stories, and mine?"

She smirked.

"Mine isn't anything special."

Neither is mine Lugh thought.

A question surfaced in his mind.

"How many years have you spent in the army?"

"Five," she answered easily.

"And how old are you?"

"Twenty-four."

Her tone shifted, cautious now. "Why?"

Lugh's eyes flicked to the faded marks on her arms.

"Your tattoos are wearing off."

Her face twisted with immediate outrage.

"Brat!"

She punched his shoulder—hard.

"H-how was I supposed to know the artist was an amateur?! And on top of that, he used low-quality ink!"

Lugh quickly decided now was a good time to leave.

He stood, ready to slip away, when someone called his name.

"Lugh. We need to talk."

It was Marcus.

He turned, wary. "Talk? About what?"

Marcus smiled, walking closer. "You'll see."

Sergeant Sparky raised an eyebrow. "Since when were you two so chummy?"

"It's nothing serious," Marcus said smoothly.

"Just need him for something."

Lugh hesitated.

Then he nodded and followed.

They walked in silence, heading toward the upper deck. Lugh paused once they arrived, gazing at the sea stretched infinitely around them, a black void swallowing the last embers of daylight.

Then he turned. "So, what do you want to talk ab—"

A hand clamped over his mouth.

A second arm locked around his torso in an iron grip.

Before he could react, Marcus was lifting him—hauling him, effortlessly, toward the railings.

Lugh struggled. But his strength was no match.

Stay calm, stay calm.

When they reached the edge, he made his move.

Using both legs, he kicked back against the railing with all his might.

The force sent them both tumbling down the stairs.

By the time they crashed onto the lower deck, Lugh had broken free.

He clambered to his feet, eyes darting around frantically, searching for a weapon.

Marcus was already rising.

His arm was twisted at an unnatural angle from the fall.

But he didn't react. Didn't flinch. Didn't even seem to feel it.

His gaze was hollow. Empty.

'What the hell?'

Then—

The world turned dark.

Not like sunset.

Like the sun itself had been extinguished.

And in that darkness —

Marcus lunged.