While the Hylian offensive in the north burned like wildfire, the southern campaign floundered in brackish water and uncertainty. Over the sun-glared surface of the South Hylian Sea, the winds of war blew stiff and briny.
The sun beat down mercilessly on the choppy waters as the two opposing fleets drew ever closer. Gulls circled overhead, cawing above the clamor of war-drums and shouted orders. Salt clung to the skin like a second coat, and sweat ran freely down the backs of anxious rowers.
On one side, the proud banner of the State of Pavo fluttered defiantly—a horizontal tricolor deep green stitched with a silver top and bottom—on the mastheads of eight mighty triremes. Each ship boasted a disciplined crew of 170 rowers and 30 armored warriors, their armor gleaming like polished copper in the sun. Pavo's naval traditions stretched back centuries, and their ships were instruments of power and pride.
Opposing them was the Kingdom of Hyrule's southern fleet: ten sleek, fast-moving galleys, smaller but nimbler, each carrying around 100 sailors and soldiers. Unlike the ornate ships of Pavo, the Hylian vessels were stripped for function—long hulls, reinforced prows, and rows of archers perched atop elevated decks.
Atop the lead Pavoian trireme, Admiral Bohdan Shevchenko barked orders. A tall Rohati man with skin like dark bronze and a voice like breaking stone, he scanned the horizon with a spyglass. His second-in-command, Captain Dmytro Hrytsenko, approached with concern etched across his face.
"They outnumber us," Dmytro said, wiping sweat from his brow. "Shall we form the Crescent Line?"
Bohdan didn't lower the glass. "No. We form the Claw. Push hard with the center triremes, split them, then rake the flanks. If we let them circle us, it's over."
"Yes, Admiral." Dmytro gave a sharp salute and relayed the command.
The battle began with a storm of sound: the thud of drums, the bellow of conch horns, and the snap of sails catching the sea wind.
The Pavoian triremes surged forward, oars rising and falling in perfect rhythm. Their bronze rams gleamed like hungry fangs beneath the surface. From the Hylian side, galleys spread out like darting fish, sails snapping taut as they picked up speed.
As the fleets closed the gap, Pavoian archers loosed a deadly volley—arrows and javelins hissing through the air. The Hylians veered wide, their helmsman maneuvering expertly. A few galleys took hits—shouts rang out, and blood slicked the decks—but most dodged, their formation holding.
Then came the Hylian counter strike: arrows, slingstones, and flaming projectiles launched from catapults bolted to their decks. One Pavoian trireme was struck near the stern. Flames caught in the ropes and sails, and a column of smoke rose as sailors scrambled to douse the blaze.
With an ear-splitting crash, the ships met.
One Pavoian trireme rammed clean through a Hylian galley, splintering its hull like dry bark. Men screamed as the galley cracked in two and began to sink. But elsewhere, the Hylians swarmed the sides of Pavoian ships, grappling hooks biting into hulls, and boarding planks clattered into place.
Hand-to-hand combat erupted. Blades rang. Shields shattered. The decks became battlegrounds slick with blood and water. One Pavoian soldier, Levko Mazurenko, wielding a hooked glaive, swept through three enemies before a spear pierced his ribs and dropped him where he stood.
Admiral Bohdan himself fought at the prow of his ship, sword in one hand and signal horn in the other. "Push the right flank!" he yelled. "Cut them from the main!"
But the battle was slipping from his grip. The smaller Hylian galleys darted through the lines, circling and attacking in coordinated waves. Their lighter hulls let them escape retaliation before Pavoian oars could pivot to block them. Some triremes had to disengage and reposition, breaking the integrity of their formation.
Captain Dmytro staggered up the steps to him, blood on his sleeve. "Admiral—if we don't get support, we lose the sea by nightfall!"
Bohdan clenched his jaw. He could see it too. Two of their ships were already listing, water pouring into the lower decks. The enemy was faster, more fluid, and most of all, more numerous.
Just before the fleets clashed, a streak of pink light cut through the clouds overhead, descending like a meteor onto the flagship of the Pavoian fleet. Sailors ducked and shielded their eyes as the air rippled with heat and wind. When the light faded, a figure stood atop the mast—wings spread wide, feathers glinting rose-gold in the sun. Four of them, great plumes arched with tension, beat once in unison, casting salt-stirred gusts across the deck.
Valor Pavo had arrived.
He dropped to the prow with barely a whisper of sound, landing beside Admiral Bohdan, who offered only the barest nod of acknowledgement. The admiral had seen the young Valor before, during the capital's final muster. Few understood the nature of the winged ones, but all knew what their presence meant.
Without waiting for orders, Pavo flared his wings and launched himself forward—low and fast over the churning waves. The water hissed in his wake, briefly steaming. From the Hylian formation came shouts of alarm. He surged toward one of the lead galleys, heat trailing behind him like a comet-tail. Arrows fired—too slow. Slingstones flung wide.
He slammed into the deck of the galley with a thunderous crack, the wood beneath his feet blackening and splintering. Warriors staggered, shields raised. Pavo's hands blurred as he struck—first one, then another, sending men sprawling like dolls hurled across a floor. He moved with liquid ferocity, a flurry of pink and heat and motion.
But the Hylians did not falter.
They came at him from the water.
From beneath the ships rose pale blue bodies—sleek, scaled, and swift. Zora. The Hylian navy's hidden strength was not in their ships, but in the sea itself. Zora warriors vaulted from the depths, some wielding coral-forged spears, others sending slicing jets of water at impossible speeds. One launched from the waves and collided with Pavo mid-air, knocking him back with a resounding splash. He crashed into the water, wings flaring violently as he struggled to rise—feathers soaked, power dampened.
Three more Zora surged in. One slashed at his side, forcing him to roll away, wings dragging through the brine. The water boiled around him as his heat rose reflexively, but it wasn't enough. The Zora were fast—almost as fast as he was—and they fought not like beasts, but like trained soldiers.
Above, the sky rang with the thunder of Pavoian war horns. Admiral Bohdan watched, jaw clenched. "Dmytro—he's too far out! Pull us toward him, now!"
But Pavo had already broken free. A powerful beat of his wings hurled him upward, trailing sea spray and steam. He shot toward the clouds, wheeled once, and dove low again—not toward the galleys this time, but toward the flank where the battle had begun to shift.
The Zora had repelled him, for now.
Back on the front lines, the galleys maneuvered with unnerving coordination, bolstered by Zora teams that climbed aboard mid-combat, their amphibious forms a blur of wet muscle and motion. Two Pavoians were dragged screaming overboard, disappearing beneath the surf. Another trireme, trying to assist the embattled Valor, found its hull peppered with sharpened coral javelins and geysers of water fired with bone-snapping force.
"Sir," Captain Dmytro called over the din, watching Pavo circle high overhead, "he can't destroy them alone. They're not just sailors. They're Zora—half the Hylian fleet lives beneath the waterline!"
Bohdan growled. "Then we fight on two fronts."
Even as the tide seemed to turn against them, the horizon shifted.
Then, a cry from the watchman. "Sails on the southern horizon!"
Every head turned. Two more triremes were cutting through the waves toward them, flying the emerald and silver banner of Zeleny.
Cheers erupted from the Pavoians. The Hylians faltered, suddenly faced with renewed resistance. The Zelenyian triremes plowed into the flank of the nearest Hylian galleys, their archers releasing devastating salvos as boarding crews stormed across.
At the helm of the Zelenyian fleet stood Admiral Yaroslav Melnyk, his armor forest-green and gold-trimmed. "For the alliance!" he bellowed, raising his blade. His ships struck like wolves—fast, vicious, and coordinated.
With the fresh Zelenyian reinforcements flanking the Hylian right, Admiral Bohdan sounded the signal horn. "All ships—rally and press!"
The tide of battle turned.
The Pavoians, now reinvigorated, fought with renewed ferocity. The triremes tightened formation, cutting off the Hylian escape routes. Two galleys were set ablaze, their crews diving into the sea. Others tried to flee, rowing hard toward open water.
Bohdan's voice rang out over the crashing waves. "Run them down!"
By late afternoon, the Hylian fleet was scattered. Three ships had been sunk, two more captured. The rest limped back eastward, bloodied and broken.
The sea belonged to Pavo and Zeleny.
But even as the sailors celebrated and tended to the wounded, a grim reality loomed.
Though the southern sea lanes were secure, the lands north of the South Trench River were a different story entirely. The Pavoian army had retreated from those regions weeks earlier, unable to sustain their supply lines or defend against persistent Hylian raids.
Their once-proud forts now lay abandoned, their garrisons reassigned to a thin line of makeshift fortifications along the river. Observation towers rose from muddy banks, hastily constructed with whatever timber could be salvaged. Torches burned day and night as signal fires.
Skirmishes flared often. Hylian scouts tested the defenses, probing for weaknesses. Occasionally, full squads would launch raids, cutting down sentries or burning supply wagons. The Pavoians held the river only by sheer grit and desperation.
General Mykhailo Drachuk, commander of the river defense, stood overlooking a newly dug trench, brow furrowed.
"We're bleeding slowly," he muttered to his adjutant, Colonel Ostap Bohatyriuk. "If they send their main force, we won't hold for more than a week."
Ostap nodded grimly. "Scouts report five thousand levies massing beyond the eastern hills. It's only a matter of time."
Mykhailo looked west, toward the interior of Pavo's dwindling territory.
"Then we must buy time. Delay them. Hold the river, no matter the cost."
Behind him, smoke from the battle at sea still curled into the sky.
Victory on the waves. But on land, the walls were closing in.