CHAPTER 51: [51] ARTICLE 4, SUBSECTION C

Pierre felt the ship rock slightly under the additional weight as three figures hauled themselves over the rail with the casual ease of men who’d boarded a thousand vessels.

The first man to swing aboard was a mountain given human form. His shoulders stretched his black coat to its limits, and his boots hit the deck with the solid thunk of anvils dropping. Behind him came two smaller pirates—one lean as a whip with nervous eyes, the other stocky . The nine remaining pirates stayed in their longboat, oars resting across their knees, watching the proceedings like spectators at a particularly interesting execution.

The giant stepped forward, his massive frame casting a shadow across half the deck. When he spoke, his voice carried the weight of boulders rolling down a mountainside.

"Names Gideon. Captain Moreau requests your presence ashore," he said, each word measured and polite. "Both of you. She wishes to discuss terms."

Pierre pushed himself away from where he’d been leaning against the mast, crossing his arms over his chest.

Time to see how well these pirates handle bureaucracy.

"A request? How wonderfully polite. But you see, my First Mate here," he gestured toward Alyssa, "is terribly particular about unannounced visitors. Ship’s regulations, you understand."

The giant frowned. Deep lines carved themselves into his forehead as he processed this unexpected response. Behind him, the whip-thin pirate shifted his weight from foot to foot, clearly expecting swords to be drawn by now.

"We’ll need to see your official invitation," Pierre continued.

Alyssa’s pale green eyes widened slightly as she caught Pierre’s lead. Her posture shifted, spine straightening until she looked every inch the Navy princess she’d once been. The riding crop in her hand suddenly seemed less like a weapon and more like a symbol of authority.

"He’s quite right," she said. "Article 4, subsection C of the Pirates Code clearly states that all non-crew boarding parties must present formal, written invitation from the ship’s captain."

She paused, letting her gaze sweep over the three pirates.

"Do you have such documentation?"

⚓

"Before we discuss your future with my organization," Moreau said, "I thought you should understand the scope of what I can offer."

Raven’s blue eyes tracked every movement of those scaled fingers. Something about Moreau’s casual confidence made her skin crawl—the way a mouse might feel watching a snake decide whether it was hungry.

"The charts are valuable, certainly. Six million Cori is nothing to dismiss lightly." Moreau’s golden eyes fixed on Raven’s face. "But I find that people make better decisions when they understand all their options."

The briefcase opened with a soft click.

Raven’s breath caught in her throat.

Paper Cori. More than she’d ever seen in one place. Cori stacked in neat rows, each stack identical to the next. Between the stacks, she caught glimpses of what looked like official documents—papers with elaborate seals and ribbons.

"Thirty-one million Cori," Moreau said, her voice as casual as if she were discussing the weather. "Your sister walks free by sunrise. The debt that’s consumed your life... gone. Erased. You could sail to whatever horizon calls to you, with enough wealth to make any dream reality."

Raven’s hands trembled as she stared at the briefcase. The number echoed in her head like a bell tolling. Thirty-one million. Six million more than she needed. Enough to free her sister and start fresh somewhere the past couldn’t follow.

"All you have to do," Moreau continued, sliding an ornate pen across the amber-stained table, "is choose the path that works."

⚓

"We don’t have a written invitation," Gideon said, his voice taking on the edge of a man who’d run out of politeness.

"Then I’m afraid we have a problem." Pierre gestured vaguely toward the cabin. "Ship’s regulations are quite clear on this matter. Without proper documentation, I’ll need to file a Report of Unauthorized Boarding Attempt with the Maritime Authority. That’s... oh, seventeen pages of forms, minimum. Carbon copies, naturally."

"Don’t forget the Incident Classification Worksheet," Alyssa added, her tone suggesting she’d rather eat glass than deal with such bureaucratic nightmares.

The nervous pirate looked like he might actually flee back to the longboat. The stocky one kept glancing between Pierre and Alyssa as if trying to figure out whether they were serious or completely insane.

The beauty of bureaucracy, Pierre mused. It’s the one weapon that works equally well against pirates and admirals.

Nobody wants to deal with paperwork.

Gideon’s jaw worked silently for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice carried the forced calm of a man trying not to crush something fragile.

"Captain Moreau is not accustomed to being kept waiting."

"I’m sure she’s not," Pierre replied. "But you understand my position. Without proper documentation, accepting your invitation would violate maritime law. As a legitimate ship’s captain, I simply can’t ignore regulatory requirements."

He paused, letting that sink in.

"Of course, if Captain Moreau were to provide the appropriate paperwork, we’d be delighted to discuss whatever proposal she has in mind."

⚓

Raven stared at the pen lying on the table between her and Moreau. Such a small thing. Elegant, with golden filigree that caught the lamplight. The kind of pen used to sign important documents. Treaties. Death warrants.

Freedom papers.

"Your hesitation is understandable," Moreau said, her voice gentle as silk over steel. "You’ve grown attached to your current... associates."

Moreau leaned forward, her golden eyes seeming to glow in the amber light.

"But attachments are luxuries, dear Raven. Your sister doesn’t have the time for you to indulge in sentiment."

Pierre trusted me, she thought. He gave me a real share of the profits. He listens when I talk about navigation like I actually know something. He’s never once suggested I owe him anything beyond what we agreed to.

But Pierre wasn’t chained in some nobleman’s private hell, counting days and hoping rescue would come.

Her sister was.

"The dream," Moreau continued, her voice hypnotic, "or the reality. The choice has always been yours to make."

⚓

"This is ridiculous," the stocky pirate finally burst out. "We’re pirates! We take what we want!"

Alyssa turned her pale green eyes on him with the expression of someone discovering something particularly unpleasant stuck to her shoe.

"Are you suggesting we ignore established maritime protocols?" Her voice could have frozen seawater. "I suppose next you’ll tell us you don’t have proper customs documentation."

The pirate’s mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. No sound emerged.

Giant’s massive hands had stopped clenching. Instead, they hung at his sides, fingers twitching as if he were contemplating strangling someone but couldn’t decide who deserved it most.

"Look," he said, his voice strained, "Captain Moreau just wants to talk. She’s got a business proposition for you. Good money, legitimate work."

"I’m sure she does," Pierre replied. "And we’d love to hear it. But first—paperwork. I’m sure a professional organization like the Black Serpents understands the importance of proper documentation."

In the longboat below, one of the remaining pirates called up, "Gideon! What’s the holdup?"

The giant’s face flushed red above his black beard. "They want to see a written invitation."

A moment of silence. Then explosive laughter erupted from the longboat.

"They want what?"

Pierre felt Alyssa stiffen beside him. Her knuckles had gone white around the riding crop’s handle, but her voice remained perfectly controlled.

"I fail to see what’s amusing about following proper procedures."

She’s actually offended, Pierre realized. She’s so deep into this performance, she’s taking their laughter personally.

The laughter from the longboat died as Gideon turned to glare at his men. When he looked back at Pierre, something dangerous had entered his eyes.

"Enough games," he said, his voice dropping to a rumble. "You’re coming with us. Now."

Pierre’s smile never wavered, but his hand drifted closer to the pipe at his belt.

"Well," he said, his tone conversational, "I suppose we’ve reached the end of diplomatic solutions."