Chapter 49: [49] Every Other Path
The sunlight glinted off the gemstones adorning Alyssa’s riding crop, casting miniature rainbows across the polished deck as her fingers nervously tightened around the ornamental weapon at her belt.
"What do we do?" she asked. A slight tremor ran through her full lips as she awaited his response.
Fleeing meant raising anchor and catching enough wind, a process that would consume precious minutes they simply didn’t have. The Crimson Sparrow might be swift once underway, but right now she sat vulnerable as a wounded bird before predators.
Standing their ground meant pitting themselves, one experienced fighter and a sheltered naval officer’s daughter whose entire combat repertoire consisted of pointing and ordering others to violence, against twelve battle-hardened pirates whose bodies told stories of countless survived encounters.
That wasn’t bravery; it was a death wish wrapped in foolish pride.
The third option, negotiation, seemed equally hopeless. Men who rowed with such single-minded purpose, their muscles straining with each powerful stroke, rarely came to exchange pleasantries or engage in reasonable discourse.
Unless this is exactly what Moreau planned from the beginning.
Everything he recalled about Captain Lydia Moreau painted her as meticulous and calculating—a master strategist who manipulated people as easily as others moved chess pieces. If she truly coveted Raven’s navigational talents, she wouldn’t merely extend an offer. No, she would methodically eliminate every alternative available to her target.
"We’re about to find out what kind of partnership Moreau really has in mind," Pierre murmured, keeping his voice low enough that only Alyssa could hear him. His fingers drifted upward, seeking the sea-blue stone hanging from the simple cord around his neck. The smooth talisman felt cool against his skin, anchoring him to the present moment as his mind raced through possibilities.
The approaching longboat cut through the harbor waters with unsettling efficiency, each oar dipping and rising in perfect coordination. As they drew closer, the amber glow of the setting sun illuminated the faces of their visitors. These weren’t common thugs or random muscle. These were hardened veterans who wore their numerous scars like badges of honor—men who had survived countless encounters in a world where even a moment’s hesitation meant death. At the bow stood their leader, a veritable mountain of a man, maintaining perfect balance despite the rocking boat. His enormous hand rested with deceptive casualness upon the hilt of a curved saber—a blade whose nicks and discoloration spoke of frequent, violent use.