The frigate slid into the docks of Crestmar Wharf with the slow dignity of something newly claimed. Arthur had sent word ahead, quiet, firm orders delivered to Hydra contacts scattered through the lower tiers. By the time the sun crested over the harbor roofs, dockhands were already clearing space. Ropes snapped taut. Footbridges thudded against stone. No heralds, no flags, no fanfare. Just work, brisk and silent.
It wasn't ready yet. The hull gleamed, and the rigging caught light like woven wire, but the heart was still missing. Without a beastcore, it was a shell with purpose but no pulse. Arthur didn't mind. He preferred it that way. There was something sacred about the moment before a vessel took its first breath.
He had already acquired the core.
A large one, twice the size needed for a normal merchant ship, virgin from any marks, untouched. Not until runes were carved deep, not until heat and breath and silence met in its forging.
