Accompanied by the booming sound of the horn, the slave soldiers of Volantis sprang into action. They quickly moved between the decks, distributing weapons, and tearing off the oil paper that covered the catapults and crossbows.
In an instant, the entire fleet was alive with activity. The shouts, the hurried footsteps, and the clash of metal echoed through the air, creating a cacophony of noise. Some slave soldiers, nervous and panicked, stumbled and fell, causing exclamations to erupt around them. Others fumbled with the ropes, trying to raise the sails, their movements hurried and disjointed, resulting in uneven speeds across the fleet.
Despite the urgency, confusion reigned. The sudden appearance of the enemy fleet had caught them off guard, and the entire operation seemed thrown into chaos.
Narik, ever vigilant, kept his eyes trained on the movements of the enemy. Across the water, the opposing fleet lay still—like a shadow frozen on the sea. The warships, anchored in an orderly row, didn't raise their sails, giving them a peculiar stillness. Under the bright sunlight, the ships' outlines were sharply defined, but there was an eerie, almost otherworldly quality to them. They seemed suspended in time, silent and waiting.
The enemy fleet was anchored, unmoving, almost as if it were sleeping or preparing for something. No sails billowed, no visible signs of activity. It was a stark contrast to the frantic bustle of Volantis's own fleet.
Narik's brow furrowed. This strange stillness made him uneasy. The enemy had deliberately given up their maneuverability—an odd decision in battle. Yet, this unanticipated situation felt like an opportunity he couldn't afford to miss.
Without hesitation, he turned to his deputy and commanded urgently, "The situation has changed. This is our moment! Give the order immediately: form a crescent formation and attack at full speed!" His voice rang out over the noise of the fleet, sharp and commanding.
The deputy nodded solemnly, then quickly passed on the order.
The crescent formation was a well-practiced maneuver, with the fleet's warships arranged in a curved arc. The faster, more agile vessels positioned themselves at the ends of the arc, acting as the sharp tips of the crescent, harassing and outflanking the enemy. Meanwhile, the central portion of the arc, where the flagship and the more heavily armored ships were located, would focus their firepower and deliver the main assault.
Each ship moved into position swiftly, following the orders transmitted by flags, drums, and shouting messengers. The sails were adjusted, and oars were rowed, as the Volantis fleet gradually took shape.
Throughout the process, Narik kept his eyes on the enemy, wary of any changes in their stance, but also ensuring his own fleet maintained its formation. As the fleet settled into the crescent, Narik conducted one final review. Satisfied with the arrangement, he shouted, "Maintain the distance! Keep the formation intact and attack!"
With the command given, the Volantis fleet surged forward, cutting through the waves. The warships raced ahead like predators closing in on their prey.
As the ships on the outer edges of the crescent formation neared the enemy fleet, the slave soldiers began to smell a pungent, acrid odor. They quickly realized something was wrong. There, on the surface of the sea, a thick, greenish liquid floated—sticky, almost slime-like, spread across a wide area of the water. It seemed to move, as though it had a life of its own.
The liquid was not wide, perhaps no more than a hundred meters across, and it had gone unnoticed from a distance. But now, the fleet was sailing directly into it, dragging the sticky green substance behind them, leaving long, slimy trails in their wake.
The slave soldiers, uneasy but focused, pushed forward. The discomfort gnawed at them, but they continued their tasks, the unease growing stronger with each passing moment. The green sludge clung to the hulls of their ships, dragging like a weight that slowed their momentum.
Narik, now concerned, kept his gaze locked on the strange sea surface as the flagship entered the green pool. His unease deepened. He had never seen anything like it.
Suddenly, a realization struck him. His face went pale, and his heart skipped a beat. His voice rose in urgency, trembling with fear. "It's wildfire! Full retreat! Full speed, retreat!" His order echoed across the decks of his flagship, but it was almost too late.
From above came an earth-shattering roar, a sound that seemed to shake the very air. Narik's eyes were drawn upward, where he saw a small black dot in the sky, rapidly expanding. It grew larger and larger, until it became clear—a massive, golden dragon, its scales shining like molten metal. The dragon's wings spanned wide, casting a shadow that seemed to darken the very sun.
Narik's heart sank. He had seen many battles, but this… this was no ordinary enemy. The dragon, its eyes filled with fury, swooped down upon them with terrifying speed.
From the dragon's back came a voice, calm but carrying the weight of doom: "Dracarys."
Though the words were spoken with chilling calm, they were enough to freeze the blood in Narik's veins. The dragon's mouth opened wide, and a torrent of fire erupted, crashing down onto the Volantis fleet.
The flames were unlike anything the slave soldiers had ever seen. They rained down like a flood of destruction, igniting everything in their path. The green wildfire that had been spread across the sea flared up instantly, igniting with an uncontainable fury.
The flames spread at a speed that defied belief. They tore through the fleet, engulfing warships in a sea of green fire. The fire consumed wood, metal, and flesh, spreading with a violent, unstoppable force. The sea itself seemed to groan under the onslaught, as though the very waters burned with the wrath of the dragon.
The Volantis fleet was annihilated in moments. Warships exploded into flames, while the sea, once calm, became a chaotic, burning battlefield. The cries of the slave soldiers—those unlucky enough to still be aboard—were drowned out by the roar of the flames and the deafening crash of burning ships.
Some jumped into the sea in a desperate attempt to escape the fire, but even the water could not protect them from the searing heat. Others ran, but there was nowhere to hide. The flames followed them, devouring everything in its path.
Narik watched in horror as his flagship was consumed by the wildfires. The heat was unbearable, the smoke thick, choking him. His eyes were wide with disbelief, his body frozen in despair. The fire, relentless and all-consuming, tore through his ship as though it were nothing more than dry tinder.
The once-proud Volantis fleet was reduced to nothing but ruins in the span of moments. What remained was a sea of fire and destruction. The green flames burned brightly, their intensity only rivaled by the terror Narik felt as he realized there would be no escape.
And yet, the enemy fleet, unhurried and precise, began to move again. The ships, now revealed, were as magnificent as they were deadly—silent and efficient, their sails billowing in the wind.
The name "Syndor" seemed to echo through Narik's mind as he realized the true force they had just faced. They were no mere raiders. They were conquerors.