“We need a display of strength,” Leonor said. “There is clearly a much larger faction forming than expected.”
“Can we deter aggression toward us?” Factor Marisol asked.
Captain Perez sighed, reclining and putting his feet on the table. Marisol stiffened.
“There will be a fight no doubt.” He pulled a small knife and twirled it between his fingers, “I will send a galleon and some ships to Thren’s hideout.”
Leonor nodded approvingly. “Factor would you contribute as well?”
Marisol did not answer immediately.
She reached for her glass instead, turning it once on the table, watching the amber liquid slide against the rim.
“I will not send guns,” she said calmly. “That invites accounting errors.”
Captain Pérez snorted. “You prefer ledgers to steel.”
“I prefer outcomes,” Marisol replied, not looking at him.
“First,” she said, “any hull produced under Thren’s keel will be bonded through my houses. Exclusively. Anyone interfering with that production will not be punished by force.”
Leonor frowned slightly. “Then what happens?”
Marisol’s mouth curved, just barely.
“They will simply find that no one will insure their cargo, bankroll their crews, or advance credit against their sails. Not here. Not upriver. Not next season.”
Captain Pérez stopped twirling his knife.
“Second,” she continued, “I will issue futures on winter traders immediately. Public ones. If a hull is destroyed, someone loses money the moment it happens.”
Diego exhaled slowly. “So the blood hits someone else’s ledger.”
“Yes,” Marisol said. “And ledgers have long memories.”
She turned at last to Drew.
“And third,” she said quietly, “I will make it known that these hulls are mine to trade.”
She paused, letting the words settle.
“Anyone who interferes with you makes themselves expensive to deal with.”
Silence.
Leonor nodded once. “You’re making violence expensive.”
“I’m making it pointless,” Marisol corrected.
She stood, smoothing her gloves.
“You are not a weapon, Drew Wilson,” she said. “You are a dependency.”
Her eyes sharpened.
“And dependencies are defended without banners.”
Captain Pérez exhaled slowly, then leaned back and hooked his chair with one boot.
“There are only so many good captains,” he said.
His eyes flicked to the ceiling, as if counting.
“And too many loud ones.”
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“Do you have names?” Pérez asked.
Leonor didn’t answer. She reached into her vest and placed a folded sheet on the table.
It landed flat. No ceremony.
The captain unfolded the paper and smiled. Not wide. Not pleased.
“Looks like whoring is out.”
He turned to Drew.
“You and Rafael are going to go out and paint the town red.”
A pause.
“Make it memorable.”
Drew felt resolve swell inside him.
Then he straightened and nodded once.
Drew met Rafael and a swarm of guards outside a cluster of massive tents. Beneath the canvas, the party raged. Heavy drinking, shouted laughter, and pounding music bled into the night air.
Rafael clapped Drew on the back.
“Be good bait.”
Grinning, he shoved Drew toward the entrance.
Drew straightened his new jacket, emblazoned with Thren’s golden wing, summoned his courage, and stepped inside.
Cheers rose immediately, mixed with sharp, measuring stares.
“Congratulations!” someone shouted.
“Hell of a canoe! Never seen anything like it!” a dockhand bellowed.
Drew couldn’t help but smile. The honest praise steadied him. For every cheer, though, there was a glare.
He cut toward the bar and spotted Venture Exchange representatives by their silver lapel pins. Many of their men had waved green banners during the race. Drew adjusted his path and approached deliberately.
“An ale,” he said.
Two guards flanked him, but he could feel the Venture Exchange eyes settle on his back.
“Drink it in,” said a foppish man beside him, voice thin and amused. “This is the part of your career where people clap. After that, they collect.”
Drew smiled faintly.
“In the end, systems beat materials,” he said. “They also outlast leverage.”
The man chuckled.
“You build things. We decide who gets to keep them.”
Drew’s jaw tightened before he smoothed his expression. Poker face. Still learning.
One of the man’s guards stepped forward.
“Much like this ale.”
The brute snatched the mug and overturned it. Cold liquid soaked Drew’s jacket, the sharp bite of hops filling the air.
Laughter barked from the rival guards.
“Great protection you’ve got, kid. Can’t even keep your drink.”
Drew wiped his jacket, then looked past the guard to the foppish man.
“In Deadwake,” he said evenly, “this is where I call for my second.”
He raised his voice.
“Rafael.”
The fop’s smile vanished.
He did not raise his voice. He did not look at Drew.
“Get him,” he said softly.
“Now.”
Drew’s guards moved, stepping in front of him. Too late.
The fop began to sing.
Not loudly. Not clearly. The notes crawled through the air, vibrating in Drew’s chest, scraping at his thoughts.
The Venture Exchange thugs surged forward with unnatural speed. A blade flashed, opening the throat of the guard on Drew’s left. A dagger buried itself in the right guard’s forearm, stopping his strike cold.
Too fast. Too coordinated.
Drew staggered back into a table. His hand closed around a tankard.
The attackers were on him again.
Panicking, Drew hurled the tankard and ducked. Ale exploded across one man’s face as the cup slammed into his throat. Steel whistled inches above Drew’s head.
The tent erupted. Screams. Shouting. Tables overturned as patrons fled.
Drew rolled and ran for the entrance.
Something slammed into his back.
He stumbled but kept moving, bursting past scarlet-coated guards bearing Rafael’s colors. Behind him, the brawl exploded outward.
Two guards seized him and dragged him behind a stone column.
“Don’t move!” one barked. “Healer!”
Drew froze, chest heaving.
Healer for who?
Then he felt it. A hard pressure in his back. Heat spreading with every heartbeat.
The singing cut off mid-note.
Silence rippled outward as the fighting slowed.
“Duels!” a smooth voice rang out. “Duels of blood and honor. These tactics disgrace us!”
Rafael.
Relief hit Drew so hard his knees nearly buckled.
Cheers rose.
“Blood Duel!”
“Blood Duel!”
“I see coats and symbols from many cowardly captains here tonight,” Rafael proclaimed. “From each, I demand a duel!”
He named them calmly, precisely.
“Captain Iago Velás of the Green Banner Corsairs.
Captain Santos Calder of the East Winter Privateers.
Catalina Morado, Chair of the Venture Exchange. You answer for the men who moved tonight.”
The tent went quiet.
“Are you mad, boy?” someone shouted.
Drew frowned. He had only seen Venture Exchange blades.
Of course.
Three figures approached. Two shield-bearers interposed themselves toward the chaos, guarding a woman with a long glove covering her left arm.
“Don’t move,” she snapped.
She reached Drew’s back.
He felt a slow, sucking pull as something was deliberately worked free. When it came out, pain knifed through him, stealing his breath.
Then warmth flooded in behind it.
A system message bloomed across his vision.
[SYSTEM MEDICAL INTERVENTION LOG]
Emergency Field Surgery initiated.
Operator: Unregistered Healer (Manual Extraction)
Foreign Object Removed:
Throwing Knife (Barbed Spine)
Location: Posterior Thoracic (Left)
Status: Successful
Complications:
- Micro-fractured ribs (2)
- Residual nerve shock
Aether / Graft Status:
Aether Conduction: VERY LOW (0.2%)
Graft: Dormant
Interface instability persists
Status Effects:
- Wounded (Thoracic)
- Shock (Fading)
- Movement Penalty (Upper Body)
The Solákata’s Thread eased the pain, but left something worse behind.
Regret.
Drew leaned against the stone, breathing shallowly, watching Rafael shout orders while Thren’s guards closed ranks around the wounded.
He was alive.
Not because he’d been ready.
Because Rafael had been louder. Because the healer had been fast. Because the system, for once, had not demanded more than he could give.
He flexed his fingers. They trembled, then steadied.
Too many dependencies, he thought. Too many single points of failure.
Next time, the inputs would change.
But he was still bait.
And next time, he needed to be more than that.