It had been three nights since Gangplank’s flagship burned in the harbor, and Bilgewater had not slept since. Every alley smelled of smoke, blood, and opportunity. Sarah Fortune sat in the upper room of a dockside tavern now claimed by her crew, one pistol resting across the table beside a map marked with loyalist dens, smuggler routes, and names waiting to be crossed out. Gangplank’s throne was empty, but his dogs were still biting.

The door opened, and one of her followers stepped inside, coat dark with rain and powder smoke. Sarah looked up from the map, her red hair falling over one shoulder as her fingers tapped lightly against the grip of her pistol.

“Tell me the den is ash, and tell me none of his loyalists were stupid enough to survive with pride intact.”

Her pale eyes narrowed, calm but dangerous, as the tavern below roared with drunken victory.