It’s not enough. We all know it.
The longboat reaches the quay. Two guards step out first, scanning the harbor with professional attention before nodding to the figure still seated in the stern.
Gyla rises.
She’s exactly as I remember—tall and straight-backed, her dark hair swept into an elaborate arrangement that must have taken servants an hour to create. Her gown is deep green velvet over cream silk, completely impractical for a sea voyage, which means she changed just to make this entrance. Every detail calculated. Every element designed to remind everyone watching exactly who holds power here.
Her face is what I remember most. Handsome rather than beautiful, with strong features and pale blue eyes that strip away pretense the way acid strips paint. She’s forty-five, according tothe rumors, but could pass for ten years younger. Money does that.
Those eyes find me across the distance. Her expression doesn’t change—doesn’t need to. The satisfaction shows in the slight curve of her lips, the victory in the way she pauses to let me absorb the full reality of her presence.
“Aviora Larsa.” Her voice carries across the stone without effort. Trained for boardrooms and banquet halls. “Years, I’ve been looking for you. I was beginning to think you’d died.”
“I tried. The sea keeps spitting me back.”
“How fortunate for both of us.” She steps onto the quay, her guards flanking her. More men are climbing from the longboat now—not liveried servants but hard-faced mercenaries, their hands resting on sword hilts. “You owe me money, Miss Larsa. Quite a lot of money.”
“I’m aware.”
“Twenty-five thousand gold, principal.” She walks toward me with the unhurried confidence of someone who’s already won. “Plus interest at the standard rate. Plus expenses incurred in tracking you across four provinces and an ocean.” She stops five feet away. Close enough to see the crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes, the single strand of gray in her otherwise dark hair. “Call it fifty-five thousand. I’m prepared to round down.”
Fifty-five thousand. The number hits like a physical blow.
“I don’t have it.”
“I know.” Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “But you have other assets. Skills. Useful contacts.” Her gaze slides to Zoric, assessing him the way a merchant assesses livestock. “Protectors, apparently. We can discuss terms.”
“There’s nothing to discuss.” Zoric’s tone is deadly calm. “She’s under my protection. Her debts don’t enter into it.”
“Protection.” Gyla tastes the word like she’s evaluating wine. “That’s a strong position to take, Captain Druger. Especiallygiven your current... circumstances.” Her gaze sweeps the ruined keep, the half-collapsed walls, the handful of wounded survivors trying to look threatening. “You’ve had some troubles, I see.”
“Nothing we can’t handle.”
“Perhaps.” She turns back to me. “But can you handle what comes next? Dreadhaven may be remote, but it’s not invisible. You rely on trade with the coast—supplies, medicine, the occasional passenger willing to pay for safe harbor. What happens when that trade stops?”
My stomach clenches. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that harboring a debtor is a choice with consequences.” Her voice is pleasant, almost warm. a merchant explaining terms to a customer. “If Miss Larsa remains here under your protection, I’ll have no choice but to declare Dreadhaven a harbor for criminals.
“Every merchant I deal with—and I deal with most of them—will be advised to avoid these waters. Every ship that trades here will find themselves unwelcome in Saltmere’s ports.” She pauses. “Your people will starve, Captain. The villages that depend on you will suffer. All because you chose to shelter a woman who owes me money.”
The threat lands exactly as intended. I see Thorne stiffen. See Brek’s hand tighten on his sword hilt. See Zoric’s jaw clench with the effort of not doing something he’ll regret.
“You’d destroy innocent people over fifty-five thousand gold?”
“I’d destroy innocent people over twenty-eight copper.” Gyla’s smile is serene. “Debts are sacred, Miss Larsa. If I let one go unpaid, others will think they can do the same. My reputation is worth more than lives. It’s certainly worth more than yours.”
Zoric steps forward. His hand hasn’t gone to his weapon—not yet—but the threat is clear in every line of his body.
“You have a few days.” Gyla doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even acknowledge that he’s moved. “Produce fifty-five thousand gold, or Miss Larsa surrenders herself to my custody, or I carry out my threat.” She tilts her head. “I’ll be anchored in your harbor, enjoying your hospitality. I trust accommodations won’t be a problem.”
She turns and walks back toward her longboat, her guards falling into formation around her. The mercenaries remain on the quay—a dozen hard-eyed men with weapons and orders I don’t want to imagine.
I watch her go. Watch the longboat pull away from the dock, heading back toward the flagship anchored in deeper water. Watch my past catch up with me in the most brutal way possible.
Zoric’s grip tightens on mine. Squeezes.
“We’ll figure this out.”
