Counterintelligence prioritized over expansion.
No tribute. No external leash.
The hall quiets.
I let them sit in it.
“Here’s the truth,” I say. “The Nine fed on our greed and our division. They called it ‘order.’ It was slavery with paperwork.”
I see heads lift. A few flinch.
I keep going. “We’re not becoming moral. We’re becoming ungovernable.”
That lands.
Orin’s eyes sharpen. Someone laughs, low.
“Any captain who wants to keep acting like a street predator,” I add, “can leave.”
Silence.
No one moves.
Because leaving means being alone. And everyone just learned what alone looks like when the Nine wants you.
I gesture toward the trade map projection. “We protect the arteries. We keep people working. We keep kids walking home without stepping over bodies meant to make headlines.”
A murmur of agreement—grudging, but real.
I point toward Jordan without making her a symbol. “And this woman—Jordan James—stands as my equal partner in this new doctrine.”
Some faces tighten.
I don’t care.
“She is not a hostage,” I continue. “She is not a weakness. She is not a bargaining chip.”
I let my voice drop, dangerous. “Anyone who says otherwise can test their luck.”
A few captains glance away.
Then—
Fyr steps forward.
He looks better than he did, but he’s still wounded—bandages under his shirt, posture stiff with pain. His eyes scan the room with that familiar sharpness, but there’s something different there too. Less rage. More discipline.
He stops beside me.
The hall goes even quieter.
