The wind howled through the Griffin’s rigging like the wails of the damned. Captain Blyden Kreg felt the familiar ache in his left shoulder—the one that always flared before a truly vicious storm. He gripped the gunwale with hands scarred from decades of rope burns and naval discipline, his weathered knuckles white against the polished brass rail. The vast expanse of clouds stretched endlessly beneath the airship, a roiling sea of vapor that had swallowed the world below. The setting sun bled through the western horizon, casting an amber glow that turned the endless skies into molten copper, beautiful and ominous in equal measure.
A storm was brewing, and Blyden could feel it in his bones. Not just the ache in his shoulder but something deeper. The way the air tasted metallic on his tongue. The way the ship’s barometric instruments had dropped for the past two hours. The way the wind patterns shifted as if the sky itself remained uncertain about which direction to unleash its fury.
Captain Kreg turned from the rail, his weathered face set in the granite mask that had become his trademark over fifteen years of commanding merchant vessels. When he spoke, his voice cut through the gusting wind like a cutlass through sail cloth, carrying the authority of a man who learned command in the unforgiving hierarchy of the Seacean Navy.
“Secure the cargo and batten down everything loose!” he barked, his eyes scanning the deck with the predatory intensity of a man who court-martialed sailors for lesser oversights. “Double-lash the starboard containers and get those loose tools stowed! I want every rope checked, every cleat tested, every fastening inspected! Rough air is coming, and any man who loses cargo overboard will work double shifts for a month!”
The crew scrambled to obey with the nervous efficiency that came from months under Blyden’s iron command. These men and women weren’t the disciplined naval ratings he once led, but they learned quickly enough about Captain Kreg’s non-negotiable standards. He built his reputation on results, not kindness, on ships that arrived on time with cargo intact and crews that, however grudgingly, respected his ability to get the job done.
Young Valen Wickshire, barely eighteen and still learning that merchant service was no soft berth compared to naval life, fumbled with a cargo net while casting nervous glances at his captain. The young man had made the mistake of questioning an order during his first week aboard, and the tongue-lashing he’d received had been legendary even by the Griffin’s standards. Now, he worked with the desperate efficiency of someone who knew that incompetence led to consequences far worse than hurt feelings.
Blyden’s sharp eyes caught the boy’s struggle, and he moved across the deck with the measured stride of a man accustomed to having his presence felt. “Wickshire!” he snapped, his voice carrying the edge that had once made naval midshipmen tremble. “If you can’t secure a simple cargo net, perhaps you’d prefer to spend the storm lashed to the mast contemplating your lack of skills!”
Valen’s face went pale, but his hands steadied as fear focused his attention. “No, sir! I mean, aye, Captain! I’ve got it, sir!”
“See that you do,” Blyden replied coldly. “Every man on this ship earns his keep, or he finds himself walking home from the next port. The sky doesn’t forgive weakness, and neither do I.”
First Mate Jacob approached from the port side, his weathered face bearing his usual careful neutrality. Jacob was one of the few men aboard who saw past the captain’s harsh exterior to the calculating intelligence beneath. Still, even he maintained the respectful distance that Blyden’s temperament demanded.
“Captain,” Jacob said, his voice steady, “the storm’s moving faster than expected. Weather-glass is dropping like a stone, and those thunderheads are building higher than I’ve seen in years. We could skirt it if we head south by a few degrees. Might add six hours to our journey, but we’d avoid the worst of it.”
Blyden’s eyes narrowed as he studied the approaching storm system. In his naval days, a cautious approach might have been prudent, but merchant service had taught him that caution was a luxury he couldn’t afford. The merchant guild’s representatives already questioned his methods after that incident in Alchester, where he had confined three crew members to quarters for what they called “excessive discipline,” but what he knew had been necessary to maintain order.
“No,” he said flatly, his tone brooking no argument. “We cut through the storm. If we divert, we miss the delivery window in Blackpoint, and the guild docks our payment. Every man aboard loses a week’s wages because of a little rough weather.”
Jacob’s jaw tightened. “Captain, this isn’t a little rough weather. I’ve seen storms like this tear ships apart. If we lose an engine or take damage to the balloon—”
“Then we’ll deal with it,” Blyden cut him off, his voice carrying the finality of an officer who knew second-guessing led to chaos. “The Griffin’s weathered worse, and so have we. The crew knew what was in store for them when they signed up.”
The statement wasn’t entirely true. Few had imagined the relentless demands Blyden would place on them or the way he pushed them beyond their limits. But that was the point. Soft leadership bred soft crews, and soft crews died when the sky turned violent.
Jacob nodded in capitulation. “Aye, sir. I’ll relay the orders.”
As his first mate headed off, Blyden studied the growing storm’s massive size. Here was the kind of weather system that separated competent captains from dead ones. The rational part of his mind acknowledged the risks, but the deeper part, the part shaped by years of making hard choices with incomplete information, had already calculated the odds and found them acceptable.
His thoughts drifted to those guild representatives back in Alchester, with their soft hands and softer spines, questioning his methods while counting profits they’d never earned. They spoke of “crew morale” and “aerial practices” as if running a merchant vessel was akin to a gentleman’s club rather than a constant battle against forces that would kill you for the slightest mistake.
But Blyden wasn’t captaining for their approval. He was captaining for results. Cargo delivered, schedules met, profits earned. His crew might not love him, but they ate regularly, got paid on time, and went home alive. That was more than many merchant captains could promise, and if it required a firm hand and harsh discipline to achieve, so be it.
As the wind picked up, the ship’s rigging sang a high keening note that made the newer crew members nervous. Blyden had heard that sound in a dozen storms, and he knew they had perhaps twenty minutes before the real blow began.
“All hands!” he bellowed, his voice carrying the authority that had once commanded a naval frigate. “Storm protocols! Any man not at his station in five minutes works extra duty for a week! Any man who fails in his responsibilities will answer to me personally!”
The crew moved with renewed urgency, and Blyden felt the familiar satisfaction of watching disciplined men respond to clear commands. Fear was a tool like any other. Used tactfully, it kept men sharp and alive. Used poorly, it bred resentment and mutiny. The key was directing the fear at the right targets: incompetence, carelessness, and the indifferent forces of nature that would kill them all without hesitation.
The Griffin groaned as the winds strengthened, her timber and metal framework singing with stress. Lightning danced within the storm’s heart, and the first fat raindrops spattered the deck like harbingers of the deluge to come.
Blyden moved to the helm, where Samuel Tuckett gripped the wheel with hands already white-knuckled from tension. The man was competent enough, but he lacked the steel that separated good helmsmen from great ones. In the navy, Blyden might have had him replaced, but one made do with the crew you had in the merchant service.
“Steady on,” Blyden commanded above the rise of the wind. “Keep her nose into the weather, and don’t fight the wheel unless I tell you to. The storm’s going to test everything we’ve got. Your skill, my judgment, and the ship’s construction. Don’t be the weak link in that chain.”
Samuel nodded, sweat already beading on his forehead despite the cooling air. “Aye, Captain. She’s bucking something fierce.”
“She’s supposed to,” Blyden replied without sympathy. “A ship that doesn’t feel the storm is a ship that’s about to be torn apart by it. Feel every vibration, every shift in the wind. The moment you stop paying attention is the moment we all die.”
The storm hit with fury an hour later, transforming the evening sky into a maelstrom of wind, rain, and electrical violence that seemed intent on proving that human ambition was no match for nature’s wrath. The Griffin bucked and rolled like a wild animal trying to throw its rider, her engines straining against the gale with a roar that was barely audible over the storm’s howling voice.
Blyden stood firm at the center of it all, his feet planted wide for balance, moving about the ship with grim determination. Rain hammered down on him in sheets so thick they turned the world into a gray blur, but his voice never wavered as he directed his crew with the precision of a naval engagement.
“Henderson! Get three more men on that port stay before it parts!”
“Wickshire! Secure that tackle or I’ll have you flogged!”
“Jacob! Check the cargo hold! Something shifted down there!”
The crew responded with the desperate efficiency of men and women who knew their captain’s threats weren’t empty posturing. Blyden had never ordered a man flogged—such punishments were illegal in merchant service—but his creative alternatives were legendary throughout the airship community. Personnel who failed him found themselves working impossible hours, cleaning the most disgusting parts of the ship, or assigned to duties that tested the very limits of human endurance.
Lightning struck close enough to leave the taste of copper and ozone thick in the air, the thunderclap so immediate and deafening that several crew members dropped to their knees in terror. But Blyden remained standing, his presence a fixed point of authority in the chaos.
“On your feet!” he roared at the cowering men. “Lightning’s the least of our problems!”
Then disaster struck with vicious suddenness. A sharp crack split the air as one of the primary cargo restraining cables snapped under impossible strain. A massive crate of milled steel broke free from its moorings and slid across the rain-slicked deck with the inexorable momentum of an avalanche.
Young Wickshire, still struggling with rigging that seemed determined to tangle itself around his feet, looked up just in time to see half a ton of loose cargo bearing down on him. His eyes went wide with terror, his mouth opening in a scream lost in the storm’s fury.
For a split second, Blyden faced the calculation that had defined his command philosophy: the life of one man weighed against the good of the ship and crew. In the navy, the choice would have been clear. One life sacrificed was not just acceptable but expected. But this wasn’t the navy, and Valen Wickshire, however incompetent, was still his responsibility.
Without conscious thought, Blyden launched himself across the deck in a desperate tackle that sent both men skidding across the wet planking. They hit the deck hard, Blyden’s body shielding the boy as the massive crate thundered past, missing them by inches before slamming into the starboard railing with a crash that shook the entire airship.
“Get up!” Blyden snarled, hauling Wickshire to his feet with no gentleness. “Consider that your one free mistake, boy. Don’t expect another.”
Shock and gratitude played across the young man’s face, but Blyden had already turned away, his attention focused on the new crisis. The crate teetered on the rail’s edge, the Griffin’s hull groaning under the shifted weight.
“All hands!” he commanded, his voice somehow carrying over the storm’s roar. “Get lines on that cargo before it goes over! Move like your lives depend on it—because they do!”
The crew rushed forward, but Blyden wasn’t content to watch from a distance. He grabbed the heaviest rope available and threw his full weight against it, his boots sliding on the slick deck as he fought to stabilize the wayward cargo. The rope burned through his gloves and bit into his palms, but he held on with the fortitude that had seen him through naval battles and merchant crises alike.
“Hold fast!” he shouted as his men struggled beside him. “Any man who lets go spends the next month scrubbing bilges with his toothbrush!”
The threat was exactly the kind that had earned him his reputation—specific, humiliating, and entirely believable coming from Captain Blyden Kreg. The crew redoubled their efforts, driven as much by fear of their captain’s wrath as by the immediate danger.
Together, they fought to secure the massive crate while the storm raged around them like the end of the world. Treacherous footing and the constant battering of wind and rain worsened the brutal work. But slowly, methodically, they gained control of the situation.
Reginal Bilka, the chief engineer, appeared on deck with metal clamps and the determined expression of a man who feared his captain’s displeasure more than natural disasters. “Captain! These clamps will hold her if we can get them secured!”
“Then get them secured!” Blyden snapped. “I don’t want to hear excuses! I want results!”
Sensing the possibility of their small victory, the storm responded with renewed fury. A massive downdraft sent the Griffin plummeting toward the cloud layer, the altimeter spinning as they lost altitude at a terrifying rate.
“Emergency power to all engines!” Blyden commanded, his voice cutting through the panic threatening to grip his crew. Fear and anger were motivating tools, and he wielded them with the precision of a master craftsman.
The engines roared to life with renewed vigor, their combined thrust fighting against the storm’s attempt to drive them into the killing embrace of the earth below. Slowly, the Griffin clawed her way back to a safer altitude.
But the storm wasn’t finished with them. A piece of loose rigging, torn free by the wind, wrapped itself around the starboard engine’s intake cowling. The engine’s note changed from a healthy roar to a dangerous whine, black smoke beginning to stream from its exhaust ports.
“Engine trouble!” Bilka shouted. “That rigging’s choking her! She’ll seize if we don’t clear it!”
Without hesitation, Blyden grabbed a coil of safety line and fastened it around his waist. The idea of going over the side in this weather was little short of suicide, but losing an engine would doom them all.
“Captain, you can’t!” Jacob protested, grabbing Blyden’s arm. “Let me—”
“You’re needed here,” Blyden cut him off with the finality of absolute command. He also knew Jacob didn’t have the stones for this kind of work, and he didn’t have time to argue with him. “If something happens to me, you get this ship to port. That’s an order.”
Before Jacob could protest further, Blyden swung himself over the rail and began working his way along the Griffin’s hull toward the fouled engine. The wind tried to tear him loose with every step. Rain blinded him, and the ship’s violent motion threatened to dash him against the metal framework.
The fouled rigging twisted tight around the engine’s air intake, knotted by the wind into a strangling web. Blyden drew his knife and began cutting, each strand requiring careful work to prevent damage to the delicate engine components. One slip could destroy their only chance of survival.
A massive gust caught him as he severed the final strand, slamming him against the engine nacelle with enough force to drive the breath from his lungs. For a moment, his vision grayed. He felt his grip on the safety line weaken. But Blyden Kreg hadn’t survived fifteen years of merchant command by being easy to kill. He tightened his grip, drew a painful breath, and started the treacherous journey back to the main deck.
When he hauled himself back over the rail, soaked and battered but successful, he found his crew staring at him with something approaching awe. He’d risked his life for the ship many times, but none more dramatic than this, and the effect on crew morale was immediate and obvious.
But Blyden had no interest in their admiration. “Engine’s clear,” he announced curtly. “Now get back to work before I find reasons to dock everyone’s pay.”
The storm continued its assault for what felt like hours, testing every system, every man, every decision Blyden had made in preparing for this moment. Through it all, he moved among his crew like an avenging spirit, his commands cutting through the chaos with surgical precision.
When Mr. Tuckett finally collapsed from exhaustion at the wheel, Blyden took over the helm himself without missing a beat. When fear distracted the less experienced crew members, his harsh voice and harsher threats kept them focused on their duties rather than their terror. This was leadership through intimidation and example. Not the genteel command style that merchant guild representatives preferred to see in their reports but the iron-fisted authority that kept men alive when everything else failed.
Gradually, almost imperceptibly, the storm weakened. The wind’s howl dropped to a roar, the rain changed from driving sheets to heavy droplets, and the lightning retreated into the storm’s heart, its electrical fury spent.
The Griffin emerged from the tempest like a battered warrior claiming victory. Scarred, damaged, but alive. Her envelope showed patches where hail had torn the fabric, her rigging sang with a dozen distinct notes where ropes had stretched under the strain, and debris and standing water littered her deck. But she flew true, her engines hummed with steady power, and most importantly, her crew stood intact.
Blyden allowed himself a moment to assess the damage and take an inventory of his people. The night’s events had left them exhausted, battered, and more than a little traumatized, but they were alive, and the ship was whole. More than that, he could see in their faces the grudging respect that came only from witnessing competent leadership under impossible conditions.
They might not love him—most never would—but they understood now why Captain Blyden Kreg commanded premium rates from merchants who needed their cargo delivered, regardless of conditions. They’d seen him risk his own life to save theirs, seen him make the hard decisions that kept them breathing when lesser captains would have folded under the pressure.
“Damage reports in one hour,” he announced, his voice carrying the same authority it had before the storm, as if the past few hours of hell had been nothing more than a routine drill. “Anyone not at their assigned duties will work double shifts until we reach port. The storm’s over, but we still have a job to finish.”
As the crew dispersed, moving with the careful precision of men pushed to their limits but who found they could endure more than they imagined, Valen Wickshire approached his captain with obvious nervousness.
“Captain,” he said, his youthful voice still shaky from the night’s events, “when that crate broke loose.… You saved my life, sir.”
Blyden studied the young man, seeing in his face the mixture of gratitude and hero worship that could be dangerous if left unchecked. Admiration could lead to complacency, and complacency killed.
“I saved the ship,” he corrected coldly. “Losing a crew member would have meant paperwork, investigations, and delays. Don’t mistake pragmatism for sentiment, boy.”
Mr. Wickshire’s face fell, but he nodded with the understanding of a man learning what it meant to serve under a captain who measured success in results rather than feelings.
“Yes, sir,” Valen replied. “Thank you anyway, Captain.”
As Wickshire hurried below with the others, Jacob approached with a steaming mug that smelled of coffee fortified with rum. “Compliments of the cook,” he said, offering the drink to his captain. “He thought you might need this.”
Blyden accepted the mug with a nod, feeling the warmth spread through his chest and down into his exhausted limbs. “Damage report?”
“Could have been much worse,” Jacob replied, consulting his notes. “Envelope’s got tears, but she’ll hold pressure. Rigging’s stretched but functional. We lost some low-value cargo when that big crate broke loose, but the important goods are secure. A few injuries, nothing serious.”
“Time to Blackpoint?”
“Five hours, forty minutes if we maintain current speed. We’ll make the delivery window with time to spare.”
Blyden nodded, feeling the satisfaction that came from another successful mission nearly completed despite the impossible odds. The merchant guild would have their goods on time, his crew would have their pay, and the Griffin would have another victory added to her record. More importantly, thirty-three men would go home to their families with wages earned and stories to tell. Stories about serving under a captain who demanded everything from his crew but delivered results that kept them employed and breathing.
The two men stood in comfortable silence, watching the stars emerge as the last storm clouds moved away. The Griffin flew steady and true beneath them, her engines humming their familiar song, a testament to the value of harsh discipline and uncompromising leadership.
“Captain,” Jacob said eventually, his voice unusually thoughtful, “the crew sees you differently now. What you did tonight, going over the side to clear that engine—”
“What I did was my job,” Blyden cut him off, though not harshly. “A captain who won’t risk himself has no right to ask his crew to risk themselves. It’s not heroism, Jacob. Just basic competence.”
Jacob nodded, his expression suggesting he saw more in his captain’s actions than simple duty. “The guild representatives won’t understand the costs. They’ll want to know about the lost cargo, the overtime pay, the repairs.”
“Let them question,” Blyden replied with the confidence of a man whose results spoke louder than any criticism. “We’ll still be flying tomorrow, and that’s what matters. The Griffin’s reputation—the only currency that matters in this business—remains intact.”
As if summoned by their conversation, Bilka emerged from below deck, his engineer’s overalls stained with oil but his weathered face showing satisfaction rather than concern. “Captain, engines are running smoother than they have in months. Storm blew out some carbon buildup, but she’s purring like a well-fed cat.”
“Good,” Blyden replied simply. Praise wasn’t his way, but he always acknowledged competence. “See that she stays that way.”
As Chief Engineer Bilka headed back to his duties, Blyden found himself alone at the helm once more. The Griffin flew through the clearing night, her course true toward Blackpoint and the completion of another successful run. Around him, the sounds of a ship returning to normal routine—quiet conversations among exhausted men, the settling creak of stressed rigging, and the distant clatter of galley work—resumed.
He thought about the storm, about the decisions made and their consequences. Another captain might have chosen safety over schedule by turning south. It would have been the prudent choice, the one that guild officials would have understood and approved. But prudence didn’t build reputations or command premium rates. Results did.
His crew had needed to see that their captain wouldn’t ask them to face dangers he wouldn’t face himself, that competent leadership balanced harsh discipline, and that he matched his demands to his commitment to getting the job done. The storm provided that test, and they all passed it together.
Blyden remained at the helm as the night deepened, watching the stars wheel overhead and feeling the familiar rhythm of the Griffin beneath his feet. Tomorrow would bring new challenges and new merchants to satisfy with on-time deliveries regardless of conditions.
But tonight, thirty-three men would sleep soundly knowing they served aboard a ship where their captain rewarded competence, punished incompetence, and would face any danger to bring them home alive and get paid. This was his life: demanding, unforgiving, built on hard choices and harsher necessities. The sky was his domain, the Griffin was his command, and his crew was his responsibility. At the end of the day, Captain Blyden Kreg wouldn’t have it any other way.
This story featured the following characters from The Alchemancer series:
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