The Crimson Sparrow limped into the harbor of Corsair's Cradle, her once-proud red sails now dyed a dark, murky blue. Pierre stood at the bow, hands gripping the railing as he took in the sprawling chaos before him.

Unlike the pristine white stone of Porto Veloce with its geometric perfection, Corsair's Cradle was a haphazard collision of structures that had no business standing at all. Buildings leaned against each other at impossible angles, cobbled together from the remains of wrecked ships. Bridges made of rope and salvaged planks connected upper levels where entire quarters hung suspended between masts repurposed as support columns.

"My God," Pierre whispered.

The harbor itself was a crowded mess of vessels ranging from elegant schooners to patched-together fishing boats. No harbormaster directed traffic; ships simply wedged themselves wherever they could find space, sometimes overlapping gangplanks where they competed for the same docking spot.

For twelve days, Pierre had endured Valerio's voice in his head, a constant, cold analysis of every imperfection aboard the Crimson Sparrow. The misaligned seam in the mainsail (2.3 degrees off optimal angle). The asymmetrical wear pattern on the deck planks (increased likelihood of structural failure: 0.87% per nautical mile). The inefficient sleep patterns of the crew (resulting in 17.4% reduced performance).

But now, faced with this monument to disorder, the voice went suddenly, blissfully silent.

Pierre drew a deep breath, filling his lungs with the overwhelming sensory assault of Corsair's Cradle. The air tasted of salt and smoke, fried fish and spilled rum, unwashed bodies and exotic spices. Beneath it all lurked the perpetual damp rot of a place built atop the sea itself.

It should have been revolting. Instead, it felt like freedom.

"This is..." Pierre couldn't find the words, couldn't express the relief flooding through him as Valerio's analytical whispers drowned in the cacophony of life around him.

"Magnificent?" Raven suggested, appearing at his side. Her blue eyes glittered with something Pierre hadn't seen in weeks—genuine pleasure.

"I was thinking 'terrifying,'" Alyssa said from behind them, her voice tight with disapproval. She stood with her back perfectly straight, as if good posture might somehow protect her from the surrounding squalor.

"It's so... alive," Leo whispered, clutching his broom to his chest like a talisman. The boy's eyes were wide, darting from the sailors brawling on one dock to the half-naked women calling from balconies to the dark-skinned merchant loudly haggling over a crate of weapons.

"Alive is one word for it," Alyssa muttered. She pinched her nose as a particularly strong waft of rotting fish hit them. "Diseased would be another."

Raven laughed—a genuine sound that made Pierre turn in surprise. Her hair caught the sunlight, the red and white halves shimmering as she scanned the harbor with obvious familiarity.

"See that frigate with the black and green striped sails?" she said, pointing to a ship docked on the far side. "That's Captain Markov's Midnight Runner. Best smuggler in the Dawn Sea, but he'll slit your throat if you short him so much as a single Cori." She gestured to another vessel, this one with deep purple sails. "The Vengeance. Captain lost her whole family to Navy raids, so she attacks Navy ships exclusively. They say she bathes in the blood of admirals."

"That's disgusting," Alyssa said.

"That's business," Raven countered. She pointed toward a row of buildings on a higher level, where gilded facades gleamed in the sunlight, jarring against the rough timber and patched canvas of the lower districts. "Up there's where we'll find the money. Gambling halls, auction houses, brothels—the places where the real pirates go after they've had their fun in the mud down here."

"Real pirates?" Leo asked.

"The ones rich enough to call themselves businessmen," Raven explained. "They don't get their hands dirty anymore—they hire others to do the raiding, take their cut, and spend their days counting money and buying politicians."

Pierre barely heard them. He walked to the very edge of the bow, letting the clamor of the harbor wash over him. For weeks, every moment had been a battle against Valerio's influence—a constant effort to sort his own thoughts from the artificer's cold calculations. Now, in this swirling sea of disorder, those calculations had nowhere to gain purchase.

"Captain?" Alyssa's voice broke through his reverie. "We need to secure the ship. This isn't exactly a safe harbor."

Pierre turned back to them, aware he was smiling. "Nothing about this place is safe. That's what makes it perfect."

Alyssa's pale green eyes narrowed. "Perfect is not the word I would use."

"It's the only word," Pierre said. "Look around you, Alyssa. There's not a straight line or a matched set in the entire place. Nothing here follows a pattern. Nothing here can be predicted or controlled."

Understanding dawned on her face. "Valerio...?"

Pierre tapped his temple. "He's still there. But he's... quieter here. All this chaos drowns him out."

"Well," Raven said, adjusting a knife hidden in her sleeve, "enjoy the silence while it lasts. We've got work to do."

They secured the Crimson Sparrow among a cluster of similar-sized vessels, paying a one-eyed dockhand named Grimsby to "keep an eye on her." Given the man's single bloodshot eye and the empty bottle at his feet, Pierre had doubts about the arrangement, but Raven assured him it was standard practice.

"Nobody steals entire ships here," she explained as they made their way down the crowded dock. "Too obvious, too hard to fence. They'll steal everything not nailed down, though, so we'll take turns keeping watch."

"I'll take first watch," Leo volunteered eagerly, clutching his broom like a weapon.

"You're coming with us," Pierre said firmly. "We stick together until we know this place better."

They navigated through streets that defied the very concept of urban planning. Alleyways twisted without warning, opened into unexpected plazas, or sometimes ended abruptly at the edge of a drop to the sea below. Makeshift market stalls crowded every available space, selling everything from exotic fruits to questionable weapons to items Pierre couldn't even identify.

Raven led them confidently, occasionally greeting faces she recognized with a nod or a subtle hand gesture. Alyssa walked with the stiff formality of someone who expected attack at any moment, her hand never far from the riding crop tucked into her belt. Leo stayed close to Pierre, his eyes darting everywhere, a mix of terror and wonder on his young face.

"The Barnacle's Bite," Raven announced, stopping before a three-story structure that might once have been half a ship's hull, now turned on its side and expanded with salvaged timber. A worn sign showed a barnacle with human teeth. "Best place to start. The owner, Madame Gristle, deals in information as much as rum. If anyone knows where six million Cori might be found, it's her."

The tavern's interior was surprisingly spacious, the former hull creating a high, curved ceiling from which mismatched lanterns hung on chains of varying lengths. Tables were scattered around without any discernible pattern, each as unique as the patrons who occupied them. A long bar dominated one wall, behind which a mountain of a woman with silver-streaked black hair surveyed her domain.

"Find us a table," Raven instructed. "I'll arrange some rooms."

As she approached the bar, Pierre led Alyssa and Leo to an empty table near the back wall, positioning himself so he could see the entire room.

"This place smells like sweat and sadness," Alyssa muttered, using a handkerchief to wipe her seat before sitting down.

"It smells like freedom," Pierre replied, then immediately wondered where the thought had come from. Was it his, or just the absence of Valerio's?

Leo set his broom carefully against the wall and perched on the edge of his chair, his gaze fixed on a nearby table where three pirates were engaged in some sort of knife game, stabbing rapidly between their splayed fingers.

"Don't stare," Alyssa hissed. "It's rude and dangerous."

"Sorry," Leo whispered, quickly looking down at the scarred tabletop.

Raven returned with four mugs of amber liquid and a ring of keys. "Rooms are secured. Top floor, end of the hall. Two rooms, adjoining. They're not pretty, but they're clean enough and the locks work."

She pushed the mugs toward them. "Drink up. It's rude not to order something, and we need to blend in."

Alyssa sniffed her mug suspiciously. "What is it?"

"They call it Cradle Comfort. It's basically watered-down rum with some local herbs thrown in. Tastes better than it smells, and it won't kill you."

Leo took a cautious sip and immediately coughed, his eyes watering.

"Probably won't kill you," Raven amended with a shrug.

Pierre drank from his own mug. The liquid burned going down, but left a surprisingly pleasant warmth in its wake. He set the mug down and leaned forward. "So what's our plan?"

Raven glanced around before speaking. "We need six million Cori in less than two weeks. That means we need to hit something big. There are three ways to make that kind of money fast in Corsair's Cradle."

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