Work Text:
October 17, 1911, North Antic Sea.
Damian Desmond adjusted the collar of his coat, before relaxing at his side.
The cabin was small. Far too small…
The walls creaked with every tilt and movement of the ship.
A constant reminder that there was nothing beneath him but cold, endless water—
Damin dreaded that fact.
On his desk beside him sat his cap—and next to it, his pistol.
Nancy & Marx No. 9, break action revolver.
In its cylinder it held six .44 Ostanian bullets, enough stopping power to stop a horse…
Eight months ago he hadn’t ever held a gun before—let alone knew as much about it as he did now.
Now he carried it everywhere.
How did Damian Desmond—youngest son of the Emperor of Ostania… a prince—end up on a Battleship in the middle of the North Antic Sea.
A Captain of one of the most elite units in the entire Empire— “Kraken-Truppen.”
He didn’t have an answer.
Damian sighed, running a hand through his hair before straightening his posture, as if someone might be watching.
Maybe they were.
They always were.
He remembered back in basic training, how they looked at him.
Officers. Instructors. Other cadets.
Not everyone, but enough…
They never said anything outright—but never need to.
It didn’t matter that his father had made it clear there would be no special treatment.
It didn't matter that he and Demetrius endured the same grueling, exhausting training as everyone else.
It didn't matter that the first day Damian arrived at basic training had been his birthday.
They were the Emperor’s sons.
Princes…
That’s all that mattered.
Demetrius had gone through it too.
Damian knew that.
He just made it look easier.
Demetrius seemed to absorb it—like it didn’t matter. Like none of it mattered.
Running a hand down his face Damian exhaled through his nose before reaching into his coat.
He pulled out his wallet.
He opened it.
A photograph.
Taken just before deployment.
His father—Emperor Donovan Desmond.
Immaculate in his red uniform, black cape draped over his shoulders, a ceremonial sword resting at his side.
His mother—Melinda Desmond.
Poised, elegant, a small crown resting atop her head.
Demetrius.
Standing tall beside them in his dark blue uniform—identical in cut to Damian’s, but marked with six gold Krakens instead of three.
And standing next to him, with her pink hair and beautiful face, holding his hand…
Was Anya Forger.
His fiancé.
Brushing his thumb over the photograph he was interrupted by a knock at the cabin door.
“CAPTAIN! ARE YOU THERE?”
“THE ADMIRAL SENT FOR YOU!”
The familiar voice of both of his childhood Friends echoed through the door.
“Emilie and Ewen…”
Smiling, he put his wallet back into his coat.
“I’ll be right over!”
Grabbing his cap and side arm, he made his way to the door.
Opening it he was met with his lieutenants.
“Damian! It’s good to see you still with us, Captain!”
Damin smiled back.
“Good to see you guys too.”
Ewen stepped aside, gesturing down the corridor.
“Well, come on then. Admiral didn’t sound like he was in the mood to wait.”
Damian adjusted his gloves slightly, then stepped out into the hallway.
He fell into step beside Ewen and Emile, the three of them moving in rhythm through the narrow corridors.
“Did he say what this is about?”
Emile shrugged.
“Just that all unit officers were to report to the bridge.”
Ewen glanced over to Damian.
“Which usually means something’s about to happen.”
Figured…
They passed a group of sailors gathered around a crate, cards spread between them.
Normal.
Then the ship lurched.
Damian’s foot slipped—His face went pale and green.
One of the sailors noticed.
And Burt into laughter.
“What’s wrong, boy?” the older man drawled, his accent thick with the eastern coast.
“They don’t teach ye’ swimmin’ at the palace?”
Damian’s expression hardened—but he said nothing.
Ewen stepped forward immediately.
“Watch your mouth—”
“—That’s your superior officer you’re speaking to!” Emile snapped.
The sailor didn’t move.
Didn’t flinch.
“We’re in the middle of nothin’ but water,” he said lazily.
“Ain’t much you can do about it.”
He then gave a snarky smile.
“And he ain’t my officer.”
Ewen and Emile both opened their mouths—
“Enough.”
Damian’s voice echoed through the room.
They stopped.
Turning they saw Damian step forward.
“It’s Captain,” he said, his tone even but firm.
“And you will address me as such.”
The sailor held his gaze.
Unimpressed.
Damian didn’t back down.
“I don’t care what you think of me,” he continued.
“But you will respect the uniform.”
He leaned down, staring deep into the man’s eyes.
“You will remember who you’re speaking to.”
Silence.
The sailor exhaled through his nose.
“…Aye, sir.”
Not respectful.
Not sincere.
But it would do.
Damian held his gaze a second longer—
Then turned.
Ewen and Emile followed briskly.
After a few feet, Emile muttered.
“…I was about to knock him flat .”
Ewen nodded.
“Same.”
Damian didn’t respond immediately.
“…It’s not worth it,” he said finally.
They continued down the hallway—
And then—
A memory.
July 27th, 1911
Shellbury – Fort Oxberg
l
“Move it, Desmond!”
Mud soaked through his uniform as Damian dragged himself forward, a heavy pack weighing him down as he crawled beneath barbed wire.
His arms burned.
His body ached.
But he had to keep going.
Beside him, Ewen cursed as his shirt snagged on the wire.
“Damn it—!”
Emile gasped, forcing himself forward through the mud.
And ahead—
Demetrius.
Already at the line.
Already standing.
Already Watching.
A drill sergeant passed by Damian, slowing—so only he could hear.
“Keep up, Your Highness.”
Not a compliment.
Not encouragement.
A reminder–a reminder that they were watching.
That everyone was watching.
Damian’s jaw tightened.
His grip dug further into the mud.
He pushed harder.
He wouldn’t fall behind.
He wouldn’t give them a reason.
Damian blinked.
The present returned once more.
Ahead lay the doors to the bridge.
The doors to the bridge opened with a sharp metallic sound.
Stepping inside, a mix of naval officers, navigators, and other sailors came and went from the bridge.
On the horizon 3 cruisers and 2 cutters sailed ahead of them, flying the Ostanian colors.
In the middle of the bridge was Admiral Ansel Powers, looking ahead into the far reaching ocean.
Falling to attention Damain saluted as did Ewen and Emile.
“Captain Desmond, Reporting.”
“Lieutenants Egeberg—“
“And Elman, reporting for duty!”
The admiral waved them off, not even bothering to face them.
“At ease…”
Relaxing, Damain watched as the older man with a neatly kept beard turned towards him.
“You’re late.”
““Apologies, sir,” Damian replied.
The older man didn’t push it—he didn’t care.
He turned to face a chart chart.
“We’ve received confirmation of enemy movement in this sector,” he said, tapping a marked position.
Damian stepped forward, scanning the map.
“Kraken-Truppen will be on standby,” the Admiral continued.
“Prepare your men for immediate deployment.”
“Aye sir.”
A voice behind the Admiral.
Calm.
Measured.
“We should assume contact within the hour.”
Damin didn’t need to turn, he already knew.
“Demtrious…”
He muttered as his older brother came into view, his signature wide eyes remaining much the same even though childhood.
“Me and my brother will have our men ready and prepared for boarding if necessary.”
Damin exchanged glances with his brother but neither said anything.
“Thank you Colonel, but I don’t believe it to be necessary. But keep your men at standby if need be—“
“Sir—contact bearing 040!”
One of the naval officers shouted, leaning over his instruments.
“Unidentified vessel—closing fast.”
“Range?”
“Closing—rapidly.”
“Signal them.”
“No response, sir.”
“Multiple signatures—!”
Another officer shouted.
The Admiral’s cursed.
“God damn it–”
“All men to battle stations!”
Alarms started blaring
.
Men ran.
Orders shouted.
Boots pounded on metal.
Damien turned.
“Ewen. Emile.”
They stepped in closer.
“Get our men ready, no delays!”
“Yes sir!”
They both ran back the way they had come.
Damain turned back to the horizon—a dark shape in the water.
Damian’s eyes widened.
“Sir—torpedo!”
The Admiral cursed.
“Hard to starboard!”
The ship lurched violently.
Too late.
BOOM—