CHAPTER 77: [77] A DEBT IS NOT A BOND

Consciousness was a series of snapshots.

The sharp scent of antiseptic. The low murmur of Raven’s voice arguing about wind patterns. The weight of a blanket. And Alyssa. Always Alyssa, her pale green eyes focused with a terrifying intensity as she changed his bandages, her touch surprisingly gentle.

The kiss lived in the spaces between sleep and waking, a memory that tasted like salt and possibility and the kind of desperation that made people do things they couldn’t take back.

When Pierre finally surfaced for good, the sun was setting on their seventh day at sea, and the Crimson Sparrow felt different. Quieter, maybe. More settled. Like a house where people had learned to live together instead of just surviving in the same space.

He found himself on deck, wrapped in a blanket and propped against the mainmast. His ribs still ached, but the fire had dimmed to a manageable burn. The bleeding had stopped days ago, according to Alyssa’s careful reports, though she still watched him like he might collapse at any moment.

"You’re awake." Raven’s voice came from the helm, steady and unsurprised. She didn’t turn to look at him, just kept her eyes on the horizon where storm clouds gathered like dark promises. "Good. We need to talk."

Pierre tested his voice, found it rough but functional. "About?"

"Water. Food. The fact that you nearly died." Raven adjusted their heading slightly, her movements economical and sure. "We’re down to our last barrel of fresh water. Medical supplies are gone. And unless you’re planning to photosynthesize your way back to health, we need a port."

The practical problems felt manageable after everything they’d been through. Concrete. Solvable. Pierre pushed himself more upright, ignoring the protest from his ribs.

"Where are we?"

"Porto Veloce." Raven finally glanced back at him, her blue eyes unreadable in the dying light.

Porto Veloce—the shipwright’s island, famous for its neutrality and its craftsmen. A place where pirates and merchants and Navy ships could dock side by side without starting wars, bound by centuries of tradition and mutual profit.

"That’ll work."

"It’ll have to." Raven’s tone suggested she had opinions about their limited options, but she kept them to herself. "It’s the last major port before we hit the empty stretches."

Footsteps on the deck announced Alyssa’s arrival before she spoke. Pierre had learned to recognize her walk over the past week—confident but careful, like someone who’d grown up expecting the ground to be solid but had recently learned it could shift without warning.

"You shouldn’t be up yet." She carried a steaming mug in her hands, and the smell of something that might generously be called soup drifted toward him. "Doctor’s orders."

"Whose doctor?"

"Mine." Alyssa settled beside him, close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating from her skin but not quite touching. "I read the ship’s medical manual," she said, lifting her chin slightly.

"You read a medical book?"

"Most of one. The important parts." She held out the mug, and Pierre caught a whiff of something that smelled like boiled leather and optimism. "Drink this."

Pierre accepted the mug because arguing would take energy he didn’t have. The soup tasted exactly as bad as it smelled, but it was warm and probably nutritious in ways he didn’t want to think about too hard.

"What’s the verdict, Doctor Hardy?"

The use of her father’s name made Alyssa’s jaw tighten, but she didn’t flinch away from it anymore. Progress, of a sort.

"You’ll live. Probably." She pulled her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them in a gesture that made her look younger than her nineteen years. "The internal bleeding stopped three days ago. Your ribs are healing, though they’ll ache for weeks. The fever broke yesterday."

Pierre nodded, filing away the information. His body felt hollow but functional, like a house that had been gutted by fire but still had good bones.

"Thank you."

"You don’t have to thank me for keeping you alive, Pierre. Someone had to," she mumbled, not looking at him. "We’re... we’re crew. Aren’t we?"

Crew. Not partners or business associates or whatever careful distance they’d been maintaining before Orellia. The word sat between them like a small miracle, simple and honest and true.

Raven’s voice cut through the moment like a blade through silk.

"Land ho."

Pierre looked up to see her pointing toward the horizon, where lights flickered like fallen stars against the darkness. Porto Veloce rose from the sea like something out of a fairy tale—white stone buildings climbing terraced hills, harbor lights reflecting off calm water, the warm glow of civilization after days of empty ocean.

It looked like salvation.

The approach took another hour, the Crimson Sparrow threading between merchant vessels and fishing boats toward the main harbor. Pierre had managed to stand by the time they reached the docks, though Alyssa hovered close enough to catch him if he fell. The evening air carried the smell of salt and sawdust and cooking food, underlaid with the particular scent of a working port—tar and rope and human industry.

A man waited for them on the dock, his massive frame silhouetted against the harbor lights. As they drew closer, Pierre could make out more details: olive skin weathered by years of sun and salt, arms like tree trunks, a smile that seemed to take up half his face. He wore the practical clothes of a working shipwright—leather apron over a simple shirt, tools hanging from his belt like weapons.

"Ahoy there!" The man’s voice boomed across the water, rich with genuine warmth. "You folks look like you’ve had a rough crossing! Name’s Valerio—Master Valerio if you’re feeling formal, but my friends just call me Val!"

Raven guided them into an empty slip with the kind of precision that came from years of practice. The Crimson Sparrowsettled against the dock with barely a bump, her red sails furled and her lines secure.

"Welcome to Porto Veloce!" Valerio continued, his enthusiasm undimmed by their obvious exhaustion. "Finest shipyard in the Dawn Sea, neutral port since before my grandfather’s grandfather was born! You need supplies? Repairs? A good meal and a soft bed?"

Pierre found himself warming to the man despite his natural suspicion. There was something infectious about Valerio’s cheerfulness, a kind of uncomplicated joy in meeting new people that felt genuine.

"All of the above," Pierre called back, accepting Alyssa’s steadying hand as he prepared to disembark. "We’ve had a long week."

"Haven’t we all, friend! Haven’t we all!" Valerio’s laugh was like thunder rolling across calm water. "Come on then, let’s get you sorted!"

Pierre stepped onto the dock, his legs unsteady after days of bed rest. The solid wood felt strange under his feet after the Sparrow’s constant motion, and for a moment the world swayed in ways that had nothing to do with the sea.

Valerio strode forward, his hand extended in greeting. "You must be the captain! I can always tell—it’s in the eyes, you know? The weight of responsibility!"

The big man’s hand clamped down on Pierre’s shoulder in what was probably meant to be a friendly gesture. Pain exploded through Pierre’s ribs like lightning, white-hot and immediate. His knees buckled, and only Alyssa’s quick reflexes kept him from hitting the dock.

"Pierre!" Her voice was sharp with alarm, but Valerio’s booming laughter drowned out her concern.

"Ha! Sorry about that, friend! Sometimes I forget my own strength! You look like you’ve been through a war!" Valerio’s smile never wavered, but something flickered in his dark eyes—a quick assessment that was there and gone so fast Pierre almost missed it. "Don’t you worry about a thing. Valerio will take good care of you!"

Behind the shipwright, a scrawny figure dropped something metal. The clang of a hammer hitting stone echoed across the suddenly quiet harbor, sharp and final as a closing trap.

The apprentice—barely more than a boy, all knees and elbows and terrified eyes—scrambled to retrieve the tool. When he looked up, Pierre caught a glimpse of bruises on his thin wrists and a fear so deep it had become a permanent part of his expression.

"Clumsy Leo!" Valerio’s laugh had an edge now, like glass wrapped in velvet. "Always dropping things! Boys these days, eh? No respect for good tools!"

Leo flinched at his master’s voice, the hammer trembling in his hands. When his eyes met Pierre’s for just a moment, Pierre saw a desperate plea for help that the boy couldn’t voice.

The harbor around them was beautiful and welcoming, full of warm lights and the promise of safety. But Pierre had learned to read the spaces between words, the truths that lived in the silences.

They had sailed from Moreau’s elegant trap directly into something else entirely. Something that wore the mask of hospitality while hiding teeth sharp enough to cut.

Valerio’s hand was still on Pierre’s shoulder, heavy as an anchor and twice as hard to escape. His smile was perfect, practiced, the kind of expression that never quite reached the eyes.

"Come along then!" the shipwright boomed, his voice echoing off the harbor walls. "Let’s get you settled! Porto Veloce has everything you need!"