CHAPTER 62: [62] THE SERPENT’S ARITHMETIC

The Merchant Assembly hall was dead. In its place, Lydia Moreau had built a brain. Information was its lifeblood, flowing not to a council, but to a single mind—hers.

Maps covered every available wall surface, their edges weighted down with amber paperweights that captured and fractured the afternoon light streaming through tall windows. The largest map dominated the room’s center, spread across a massive oak table that had once hosted heated debates about trade regulations and tariffs but now served as the stage for far more dangerous games of conquest and manipulation.

Moreau stood behind that table, her scaled left hand resting on the map’s surface near a location marked in crimson ink simply as "Deep Excavation Site." Her golden eyes traced the coastline, not as land and water, but as ambush points and escape routes. A lesser mind saw a map. Moreau saw a chessboard.

"Captain, the merchant quarter cleanup is proceeding remarkably ahead of schedule," Henrik reported from the doorway, his weathered face creased with the quiet satisfaction of a seasoned quartermaster who took pride in efficiency. The late afternoon sun caught the silver streaks in his beard as he stepped further into the room. "We’ve distributed appropriate compensation packages to forty-three affected vendors, including those with minor structural damage. Public sentiment remains surprisingly favorable toward us, despite the... shall we say, collateral enthusiasm demonstrated by our red-haired guest."

She didn’t look up from the map, her golden eyes narrowing slightly as her scaled fingertips traced an invisible path along the coastline. "And what of our peculiar blue-haired visitor? Has he shown any sign of connecting the dots?"

"Still posturing in the town square," Henrik replied with the dry amusement of a man who’d witnessed enough self-proclaimed heroes to fill a tavern. His weathered hands clasped behind his back as he delivered his report. "He’s engaged in quite the theatrical display—arguing with bewildered locals and attempting to explain the supposedly intricate mechanics of his ’power system’ to anyone unfortunate enough to make eye contact. Most fascinating performance I’ve seen since that traveling circus passed through last spring."

Henrik cleared his throat before continuing, "As for the Torres brothers... they’re conscious now but confined to the medical station. Both sporting impressive collections of bruises in colors I didn’t know human skin could produce. They’ve submitted three separate formal requests in the last hour alone for permission to—and I quote—’settle the matter personally, with extreme prejudice.’"

"Denied." Moreau’s fingertip traced a route from the harbor to the cave entrance, her nail leaving the faintest scratch in the parchment’s surface. "Our guest served his purpose admirably. Let him continue believing he’s the protagonist of his own little adventure while we focus on the real story unfolding."

Saxe Webb entered the room with his characteristic ghostlike silence, the twin curved sabers crossed on his back catching and reflecting the amber light. He approached the table with measured steps and placed a single piece of paper beside Moreau’s hand—a brief report written in his neat, economical script that conveyed volumes in few words.

Subject departed tavern during explosion. Evaded pursuit through harbor district with unexpected competence. Last seen boarding vessel. No further contact attempted per standing orders.

Moreau read the report twice, her expression remaining as impassive as carved stone. Then she set it aside with deliberate care and returned her attention to the map, though her fingers now drummed against the table’s edge. A restless, complex rhythm, the only outward sign of the thoughts churning behind her serene mask.

"Henrik, how long would it take a small, determined crew to reach the excavation site from the harbor?" she asked, her voice carrying that musical quality that always emerged when her mind was racing ahead of her words.

Henrik produced an ornate, tarnished pocket watch. He clicked it open, his thumb tracing the worn silver as a habitual gesture that helped him organize his thoughts.

"Depends entirely on their approach, Captain," he finally answered, snapping the timepiece shut with a soft click. "Direct route through the village," he began, snapping the watch shut. "Twenty minutes, if they move with purpose."

"Conspicuous," Moreau stated, not a question.

"As a shark in a tide pool," Henrik confirmed. "Our eyes in the market would spot them before they passed the fishmonger’s stall."

"The coast?"

"An hour longer. Treacherous after sunset."

Henrik paused, studying her face with the familiarity of a long-time associate. "Are you expecting uninvited visitors, Captain?"

Moreau’s smile was the sort that made even hardened pirates feel a chill down their spines. "I’m expecting possibilities, Henrik. The fascinating question is which ones will actually manifest."

She lifted her hand from the map and walked with fluid, serpentine grace to the window overlooking the harbor. The Crimson Sparrow sat at anchor like a defiant ruby against the sapphire water, its distinctive blood-red sails furled but clearly ready for rapid deployment. Three figures moved on its deck—too distant to identify clearly, but their body language spoke volumes about urgent, perhaps contentious conversation.

Raven rejected thirty-one million Cori, Moreau thought, her golden eyes narrowing as she watched the ship with predatory focus. Not six million. Not ten. Thirty-one million. Enough to solve whatever desperate problem drives her actions, plus a comfortable margin for establishing an entirely new life anywhere in the Dawn Sea.

The rejection defied logic. Everyone had a price. It was the fundamental rule of the world, the lever she used to move it. Self-preservation always won.

Always.

But Raven had walked away from the solution to her life’s greatest problem without hesitation. Why?

Moreau’s slender fingers found the scaled portion of her left arm, absently tracing the intricate black and gold patterns that marked her as something other than entirely human. Power had a price. She’d paid it. She remembered the pain. It was the best lesson she’d ever learned. And Raven had just refused to pay her own price.

She believes she has another option, Moreau concluded. Something better than my offer. But what could be better than guaranteed success?

The answer arrived like a serpent’s strike—swift, venomous, and entirely logical.

She doesn’t want the money. She wants the source.