CHAPTER 50: [50] A RESENTMENT AGED TO PERFECTION

The amber light cast shifting patterns across Moreau’s scaled fingers as she continued tracing the rim of her wine glass. Each revolution created a soft, hypnotic hum that seemed to resonate through the tavern’s wooden bones.

"There was a time... a foolish, younger time..." Moreau’s gaze drifted past Raven, lost in the amber light. "I believed in things like ’shared adventure.’ The beautiful lie of equals sailing toward the same horizon."

Raven shifted in her chair, the leather creaking softly beneath her. Something in Moreau’s tone had changed—the theatrical politeness remained, but underneath it lurked something rawer, more personal.

"But experience teaches us that not all horizons are shared," Moreau continued, her voice dropping. "Some ships have a star that burns so brightly... it casts the rest of the crew in shadow."

⚓

Twenty-three years ago, aboard the Eternal Paradox

The ship’s library was Lydia’s cramped sanctuary below deck. Oil lamps threw dancing shadows across towering shelves of books and charts, the air thick with the scent of old leather and lamp oil.

Twelve-year-old Lydia hunched over a massive tome, her black hair falling like curtains around her face as she copied symbols onto parchment. The rhythmic scratch of her quill was the only sound. Ink barely dried on one intricate symbol before her eyes were already darting to another tome, her mind a frantic loom weaving threads from three different books into a single, perfect tapestry of information.

The door burst open with enough force to rattle the nearest shelf.

"Still playing with your dusty books, Vox?"

The white-haired boy bounded into the room like sunlight given form, his grin bright enough to illuminate the entire space.

Lydia’s hand jerked. A single drop of black ink spattered across the parchment, a starburst of chaos obliterating a perfect line of symbols. Her breath caught in her throat. Hours of work... marred by his carelessness.

"You’re going to go blind down here," he continued, clapping her on the back so hard she nearly toppled from her chair. "Captain Drake says we’re almost at the archipelago! You should come up and see—the water’s this incredible blue-green color, and there are dolphins racing alongside us!"

"I’m working," Lydia said through gritted teeth, carefully blotting the ink stain before it could spread further. "Some of us understand the value of preparation."

"Preparation for what? We’re pirates, not scholars!" He laughed, the sound carrying no malice—which somehow made it worse. "Besides, what could possibly be in those moldy books that’s more exciting than real adventure?"

"These aren’t moldy books!" Lydia shot back, her voice tight. "This one has routes no one has used in a hundred years! It’s not about fun, it’s about being smarter than them!"

Above deck, the crew erupted in cheers. Through the porthole, Lydia could see the shadow of land on the horizon, could hear Captain Drake’s booming laughter mixing with the excited shouts of the crew.

"Come on," the boy said, already heading for the door. "You can play with your books later. Right now, there’s a whole world up there waiting for us!"

He paused in the doorway, his white hair catching the lamplight like spun silver. "You know what your problem is, Vox? You think too much. Sometimes you just have to trust that things will work out."

Then he was gone, his footsteps echoing up the stairs as he rushed to join the celebration above.

She stared at the ruined page before her, at the ink stain that had obliterated hours of careful work.

Trust that things will work out.

⚓

"Which brings me to the real complication in our arrangement," Moreau said, gesturing to a heavy briefcase sitting on the table between them.

"You see, I have always valued those who understand the plan, who see the whole board rather than simply wanting to shine. Intelligence. Foresight. The ability to think three moves ahead while others stumble through life on charm and luck alone."

Raven’s eyes fixed on the briefcase. Whatever lay inside, she was certain it wouldn’t improve her situation.

⚓

Pierre watched the approaching longboat through narrowed eyes.

Twelve men. All armed. Rowing in perfect, unnerving synchronicity. The giant at the prow simply stood, arms crossed over a barrel chest.

They’re not trying to sink us, Pierre realized. They’re coming to take the ship intact. That means they think Raven is already theirs.

"What do we do?" Alyssa asked again. Her knuckles had gone white around the grip of her riding crop, the only weapon she possessed beyond her sharp tongue and sharper intellect.

"They want to board us," he said quietly. "But they’re not expecting resistance. Look at how they’re approaching—casual, confident. They think we’re already beaten."

The longboat drew closer, its occupants clearly visible now. The giant’s scarred face bore the expression of someone conducting routine business rather than launching an assault.

"This ship..." Alyssa’s voice caught slightly. "It’s all I have left. My father gave it to me, and I gave it to you, but it’s still..." She trailed off, then straightened her shoulders. "I won’t let them take it without a fight."

"Captain Moreau requests the pleasure of your company ashore!" the giant called again, his voice carrying easily across the water. "Both of you! She wishes to discuss terms!"

Pierre’s hand drifted to his belt, where his rusty pipe hung in a makeshift loop. Not much of a weapon against twelve trained fighters, but it had served him well against Hardy.

The question is: does Moreau actually want to negotiate, or is she just eliminating variables?

The longboat bumped against the Sparrow’s hull. The soft thud felt unnervingly final, like a coffin lid closing. Moments later, grappling hooks sailed over the rail with a dry scrape, biting deep into the polished wood.

"Permission to come aboard," the giant announced, his voice a polite command that ignored the splintered wood where his hooks had bit deep.

"Well," he murmured, "let’s see what kind of partnership Captain Moreau really has in mind."

The first pirate swung over the rail—a lean man with intricate tattoos covering his arms and a curved dagger at his hip. His eyes swept the deck, a single, sharp scan that logged every detail: mast, rigging, the two figures by the helm, the closed hatch to the cabins.

Behind him came the giant, moving with surprising grace for someone his size.

"The Captain is waiting," the giant said, his tone polite but unyielding.

"And if we decline?" Pierre asked.

The giant’s smile revealed teeth that had been replaced with gold. "I’m afraid that wasn’t presented as an option."