Ven grunts agreement. Only Henek remains silent, his hatred warring with his survival instinct. Finally, he spits on the floor.
“Fine. But when this goes wrong—and it will—I’m holding you both responsible.”
“Fair enough.” I squeeze Aviora’s hip, drawing strength from her presence. “Now let’s go surrender to a merchant queen.”
TWENTY-FIVE
AVIORA
Gyla’s smile doesn’t reach her eyes.
“I’ll return,” she said. Two words that should have meant victory. Two words that should have ended this.
Instead, she’s retreating to her longboat, her guards falling into formation around her, leaving us standing on the quay with nothing but quiet and the growing certainty that we’ve miscalculated.
“That’s it?” Brek’s voice carries the confusion we’re all feeling. “She just... leaves?”
“She’s thinking.” Zoric’s palm settles against my lower back, draws me against his side. The gesture is automatic now—comfort and claim in a single touch. “Gyla didn’t build an empire by walking into obvious traps.”
“So she suspects.”
“She knows.” His jaw tightens. “We offered her exactly what she wanted, exactly when she needed it most. No merchant with half her cunning would trust that kind of luck.”
I watch the longboat pull away from the quay, its oars cutting the water with mechanical precision. Gyla sits in the stern, her back straight, her attention already on calculations beyond us. Planning. Deciding whether our offer is salvation or suicide.
“What happens now?”
“Now we wait.” Zoric turns me toward the keep, his hand sliding to the curve of my hip. “And prepare for whatever she decides.”
Dawn comes without an answer.
What comes instead is worse.
I’m standing on the wall walk when I see them—four of Gyla’s five ships weighing anchor, their sails unfurling in the morning light. For one heart-stopping moment, I think they’re leaving. Think she’s decided the risk isn’t worth the reward, that ninety-five thousand gold in cursed water is too dangerous even for her greed.
Then they turn.
Not toward open sea. Toward the harbor mouth. Toward the iron chain booms that are Dreadhaven’s only defense against invasion.
“She’s blockading us.” Thorne appears at my side, her weathered face grim. “Cutting off any chance of escape.”
“Or resupply.” I watch the ships maneuver into position—two at the harbor entrance, two more anchoring in the deeper water beyond. A net of wood and canvas and hostile intent, closing around us with military precision. “She’s not attacking. She’s starving us out.”
“Same result, slower death.” Thorne rests her hand on her sword hilt. “The fifth ship?”
I scan the harbor until I find it—Gyla’s flagship, anchored closest to shore, its deck crawling with activity I can’t quite make out at this distance. “Still in the harbor. Within range of our walls.”
“Hostage against our good behavior.” Thorne spits over the battlement. “She sits pretty while her blockade does the work. Clever bitch.”
A longboat launches from the flagship. Eight rowers, plus a figure in the stern that I recognize even at this distance. Gyla, coming to deliver terms.
“Get Zoric.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel. “She’s not done with us yet.”
Gyla stepsonto the quay with the confidence of someone who’s already won.
“I’ve considered your offer.” Her pale eyes sweep across our assembled defenders—Zoric, Thorne, Brek, Margit, the handful of wounded who can still stand. Finding us wanting, from her expression. “It’s intriguing. But you’ll understand if I require... assurances.”
“What kind of assurances?” Zoric stands beside me, close enough that I can feel the tension radiating from his massive frame. His hand isn’t on his weapon, but it doesn’t need to be. The threat is clear in every line of his body.
