CHAPTER 57: [57] THE SOUND OF SILENCE

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Jack Steelheart stood atop a pile of shattered amber and broken wood, his chest heaving as the last echoes of his battle cry faded across Orellia’s merchant quarter. The Torres Twins lay unconscious in the wreckage—Marcus sprawled face-first in what had once been a spice vendor’s cart, his massive frame coated in cinnamon and paprika like a seasoned roast, while Luis groaned weakly from beneath an overturned fountain, water snaking around his battered body in tiny rivulets.

Victory tasted sweet. He planted his hands on his hips and surveyed the destruction with pride, waiting for the inevitable cheers and grateful tears that always followed his heroic interventions.

"Another successful rescue!" Jack announced to the gathered crowd, his voice booming across the square with unshakable confidence.

The silence that greeted his declaration felt wrong somehow. Jack’s confident smile faltered as he scanned the area, expecting faces filled with relief and adoration. Instead, every pair of eyes that met his held something else entirely—a hollow, stunned shock that twisted his stomach into uncomfortable knots.

An elderly woman knelt among the ruins of what had been an amber jewelry stall, her weathered, calloused hands trembling as she desperately gathered fragments of a shattered necklace. Silent tears carved glistening paths down her dust-covered cheeks as she clutched each broken piece like a lost memory.

A young father stood frozen near the remains of a pottery shop, clutching his daughter protectively against his chest while ceramic shards crunched beneath his boots with each subtle shift of weight. The little girl peered over her father’s shoulder with wide, frightened eyes, regarding Jack with the kind of terror usually reserved for nightmarish monsters.

"But..." Jack’s voice emerged smaller than intended, his usual boisterous confidence crumbling. "I defeated the bad guys. They were hurting people. I stopped them."

A baker emerged from the wreckage of his destroyed stall, flour coating his apron like ghostly shrouds. His life’s work—the carefully crafted ovens, the artisanal breads, the wedding cakes he’d spent days lovingly preparing—lay in ruins around him. He looked at Jack not with rage, but with the kind of bone-deep, exhausted resignation that comes when the last ember of hope dies quietly.

Jack’s hands fell limply to his sides. "I... I saved you all. Didn’t I?"

The sound of marching boots sliced through the uncomfortable silence. Twelve men in crisp uniforms stepped into the square, their formation so flawlessly precise it seemed choreographed rather than improvised. Each wore a green bandana tied in exactly the same manner, and despite the surrounding chaos, their weapons remained sheathed at their sides.

At their head walked a man whose presence commanded attention without demanding it. Saxe Webb stood nearly as tall as the Torres Twins but carried himself with the fluid economy of a dancer rather than the brutish swagger of a brawler. His twin sabers hung at his sides, their ornate hilts catching the amber light filtering through the hanging dust clouds. Most striking was his complete silence—not the sullen quiet of someone refusing to speak, but the profound stillness of someone who had transcended the need for words altogether.

The Black Serpent pirates spread through the square like water finding its natural path, each man moving to a specific position without orders or discussion. One knelt beside the weeping amber merchant with gentle hands. Another methodically cataloged the damage to the pottery stall, making careful notes. A third helped the baker assess what precious few items could be salvaged from his destroyed livelihood.

"Citizens of Orellia," announced one of the pirates, his voice carrying effortlessly across the ruined square. "Captain Moreau extends her sincere apologies for this unfortunate disruption to your daily commerce. She has authorized immediate compensation for all damaged property, to be distributed within the hour."

An older man with compassionate eyes and remarkably steady hands emerged from the formation, carrying a worn leather medical bag that looked older than many of the surrounding buildings. He approached a woman who’d been struck by flying debris during the chaos.

"Just a few cuts, my dear," Henrik said softly, cleaning her wounds with the tender care usually reserved for beloved family members. "Captain Moreau insists on the finest medical attention for all residents under her protection."

Jack watched this unexpected display with growing confusion and discomfort. These weren’t like him. These were real pirates—criminals by definition and reputation. Yet they moved through the destruction like a well-trained disaster relief team, offering genuine aid where he had brought only further chaos. The stark contrast felt like a physical blow across his face.

"Wait a minute," Jack called out, stepping forward with renewed defiance. "You’re the Black Serpent Pirates! You’re the bad guys here!"

Saxe Webb turned toward him, and Jack found himself looking into eyes that held no malice, no anger—just the kind of clinical, professional assessment a master craftsman might give a fundamentally flawed tool. The silent man’s penetrating gaze swept over the widespread destruction, then returned to Jack’s face with damning clarity. He said nothing, but somehow that silence carried more weight than any spoken accusation ever could.

"Captain Moreau maintains order in Orellia," the speaking pirate continued smoothly, as if Jack hadn’t interrupted. "She ensures that merchants can conduct their business safely, that families can walk the streets without fear, and that disputes are resolved through proper channels rather than..." He gestured expansively at the wreckage surrounding them. "Uncontrolled, destructive violence."

The elderly amber merchant looked up from her broken treasures, her tear-streaked face turning toward the pirates rather than Jack. "How much?" she asked, her voice barely above a broken whisper. "How much will she pay for what I’ve lost?"

"Full replacement value, plus twenty percent for the inconvenience and emotional distress," the pirate replied without hesitation. "Captain Moreau understands that your work represents not just merchandise, but irreplaceable artistry passed down through generations."

The woman’s shoulders sagged with relief so profound it was almost painful to witness. Around the devastated square, other merchants began cautiously approaching the pirates, their faces showing the first tentative signs of hope since Jack’s catastrophic "rescue" had begun.