“Captain.” Thorne’s gaze flicks to Aviora, then back to me. No judgment visible, but I know her well enough to recognize the questions she’s not asking. “You wanted to see us.”
“Salvage operation.” I gesture at the charts. “A few days of diving. We need to pull fifty-five thousand gold from the Wrecktide before Gyla carries out her threat.”
Quiet settles over the hall. The kind that carries unspoken objections.
“Permission to speak.” That’s Ven, his voice flat. The fingers he lost make him useless for diving—we both know it. But he’s still calculating odds the way any veteran does. “We just fought off an army of the dead. Lost half our people. The keep is flooded. And now you want us to risk more lives diving cursed waters for—” his eyes slide to Aviora, “—one woman’s debt?”
“The curse is gone.” I keep my voice steady. “Oreth is destroyed. The Wrecktide is just water and reef now.”
“Maybe.” Henek speaks for the first time. His tone carries grief sharpened into blame. “Or maybe whatever made that curse is still down there. Waiting.”
Aviora doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t react at all, her expression carefully neutral under Henek’s stare. But I see her fingers drift toward her knife hilt—old instinct, the reflex of someone who’s spent years expecting attacks.
“Gyla controls shipping along this coast.” I step forward, putting myself between her and the hostile gazes. “If she declares us harbor to criminals, we lose our supply lines. Our trade contacts. Everything that keeps Dreadhaven functioning. The coastal villages that depend on our patrols will suffer.” I let my eyes sweep across each of them. “This isn’t about one woman’s debt. It’s about whether we see spring.”
“With respect, Captain.” Henek’s voice holds no respect at all. “Your judgment’s been compromised. We can all see it.”
My hands curl into fists at my sides—the old instinct, the pirate captain who would have killed for less. I force it down. Swallow it.
“My judgment is none of your concern.”
“It is when you’re asking us to die for her.”
“I’m not asking anyone to die.” I close the distance between us. He’s taller than most, but grief has hollowed him out, made him smaller somehow. “I’m asking you to dive. To salvage. To do work that might save every person on this coast, including yourselves.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Then you refuse.” The words cut sharper than I intended. “No one’s being forced. Anyone who doesn’t want to be here can leave today. I won’t stop you.”
His jaw tightens. For a moment, I think he’s going to take me up on it—walk out the door, take his chances with Gyla’s ships or the coastal road or whatever else is waiting beyond Dreadhaven’s walls.
Instead, he turns and walks to the far side of the hall. Not leaving. Not agreeing. Just... removing himself.
“I’m in.” Brek’s voice cuts through the tension. The young orc steps forward, his cracked rib making him slump, his eagerness undimmed by pain or politics. “Whatever you need. I can hold my breath longer than anyone here.”
“Same.” Margit limps toward the table, her weathered face unreadable. “These old lungs have more dives left in them than you’d think.”
Thorne nods once. “I’ll coordinate from shore. Someone needs to manage equipment and rotations.”
Ven hesitates. His bandaged hand is useless for diving. But there’s more than one way to help.
“I can handle the lines,” he says finally. “Check the gear, splice rope. I’m no good in the water, but I can make sure you don’t die from equipment failure.”
Four volunteers. Five if I count myself. Not enough for what we need to do, but more than I expected.
“TheMaiden’s Roseis our primary target.” Aviora’s voice draws everyone’s attention. She’s moved to the center of the table, commanding the space without asking permission. “Based on the debris patterns and current flow, she’s sitting at roughly thirty feet—shallow enough for extended dives. If I’m right about her cargo, we could pull five to ten thousand gold on the first day alone.”
Brek moves to her elbow, studying the charts with undisguised curiosity. “How can you tell what she’s carrying from current patterns?”
“Smugglers sink differently than legitimate cargo.” Her hands move across the parchment, tracing lines I can’t read. “Heavy contraband settles faster, creates different debris fields. The way Zoric’s marked the scatter pattern suggests concentrated mass in the main hold—consistent with gemstones or precious metals, not textiles.”
Margit grunts. Approval, maybe.
I watch Aviora work. Watch her take command of my people, my charts, my operation—and do it better than I could have done alone. Her hands are sure, her voice steady. This is who she was before years of running stripped it away. A professional. A partner.
Extraordinary.
The word settles in my chest. I don’t push it away.
