Drew and Bastía were led back downstairs where they waited. Both exchanged nervous glances as the noise outside swelled, people realizing the rules might stop applying. They waited for Thren as occasional bottles crashed against the wall.

  Drew turned to Bastía. “Have you ever seen something like this happen before?”

  The man pondered in thought. “Never. There has never been such a market crash before. This is the greatest loss of hulls and Vélaria Sanctum buds since the failed Nueva Trujillo Armada 80 some years ago.”

  Drew considered that. Deadwake had formed after the last great collapse. This one would do the same. The difference would be who controlled the terms when the dust settled.

  An aide fetched them. “Thren and your faction have arrived in the back.” She motioned “Please follow me Chief Factor Marisol will be addressing the square soon.”

  The pair followed not to the back but up the stairs to the second floor. Thren hunched his height too great for the low ceilings flanked by Diego and another guard.

  Several groups wore printed symbols pinned to their clothes, emblems so new nothing permanent could have been fashioned.

  Drew and Bastía walked up to Thren “Come, klik” Thren spread his remaining wind out curving around the two of them pulling them in close to hugging range.

  “What..were the terms agreed?”

  Bastía whispering relayed the summary of their deal with the Golden Ledger.

  Thren’s pupil narrowed, then widened again.

  Drew looked away from the uncomfortable motion.

  “Not favorable,” Thren said softly.

  He straightened slightly, the low ceiling forcing him to angle his shoulders. His wing withdrew, the embrace loosening into space.

  “But survivable.”

  His gaze shifted to Bastía. “The Exchange controls capital.”

  “Yes,” Bastía said. “All of it.”

  Thren clicked his tongue once. “And information.”

  Drew nodded. “Full visibility.”

  A pause.

  “That is the sharper blade tsk,” Thren said. “They will not cut us. They will wait for us to bleed.”

  He looked down at Drew then, eyes steady.

  “You agreed to be seen.”

  Drew held the look. “So that we could continue building.”

  Thren studied him for a long moment, then gave a low, thoughtful sound.

  “Very well,” he said. “Then we will build.”

  He turned slightly, addressing both of them now.

  “But not everything that matters… can be built in daylight.”

  Bastía stiffened.

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  Thren’s gaze flicked toward the square beyond the walls. “They think they have purchased stability… tsk. Let them.”

  His eyes returned to Drew.

  “We will use the time you bought us,” he said quietly. “And when the margins tighten, we will already have options.”

  A distant roar echoed up from the plaza as the crowd reacted to movement outside.

  Thren smiled thinly.

  “Come,” he said. “Let us hear how they intend to sell this.”

  Large wooden doors on the second floor were unbarred, opening onto a balcony overlooking the square. Pandemonium surged from the crowd below. Bells rang as Golden Ledger workers signaled the start of the address.

  Marisol strode onto the balcony without haste. The noise did not stop entirely, but it thinned. Those closest to the exchange quieted first.

  She raised her voice, not to shout, but to carry.

  “People of Deadwake. You stand in Golden Ledger Square today because this is the last exchange still operating on this island.”

  She let the words settle.

  “These are extraordinary times. And to meet them, we have assembled a new coalition of nine factions.”

  A pause, deliberate.

  “Not conquerors. Not raiders. Contract holders. Builders. Enforcers bound by charter.”

  She stepped closer to the railing.

  “I will speak plainly. Deadwake is burning through ships faster than we can replace them. Contracts are failing, not because of dishonor, but because the hulls to honor them no longer exist.”

  Murmurs rippled outward.

  “The Golden Ledger coalition can currently fulfill just over seventy percent of all active contracts registered on this exchange.”

  She did not soften it.

  “Without coordination, that number will fall. With it, it will rise.”

  For a heartbeat, the square held.

  Then it broke.

  Shouts burst from the lower tiers. Voices overlapped, angry and sharp.

  “Seventy isn’t enough!”

  “What about the outer docks?”

  “Those aren’t all the contracts!”

  A man was lifted onto another’s shoulders near the exchange steps, his face red with panic rather than rage.

  “On this exchange!” he shouted up at her. “Only on this exchange! What about the others? What about the side markets?”

  The words spread faster than he could have shouted them.

  The crowd churned. Bodies pressed forward. Hands pointed skyward, not at Marisol, but at one another.

  “So who gets cut?”

  “You decide who eats?”

  “We paid already!”

  The bells rang again, sharper now, trying to claw order back out of the noise.

  Marisol did not raise her voice.

  Drew felt the math turn against them. Seventy percent meant someone here was already dead. They just hadn’t been chosen yet.

  She waited.

  Because this was the part she could not argue away.

  The crowd eventually died to a low murmur.

  Then she spoke.

  “We can only honor the contracts we are bound to honor.”

  Her voice carried without strain.

  “To do that, we are establishing a sub-council under the Golden Ledger, composed of representatives from the coalition. Its mandate is narrow. And it is temporary.”

  She lifted a hand, forestalling objections.

  “It will set price ceilings on essential services only. Freight. Escorts. Repair. Food and vine stock. No luxury cargos. No indulgence markets.”

  Her gaze swept the square.

  “This is not control. It is containment.”

  “The Ironwake Foundries and Thren’s Reach are laying new hulls. The Combined Factors are reopening stalled routes. The Chainwake Guard has committed escorts where contracts already exist.”

  A beat.

  “We do not promise perfection. We promise delivery.”

  “Others believe order can only come through seizure. Through consolidation. Through fear.”

  Her voice cooled.

  “That is one path. It is not the only one.”

  “This plan will not save Deadwake forever.”

  The admission cut deeper than any promise.

  “It will buy time. Time to rebuild capacity. Time to decide what Deadwake becomes next.”

  She straightened.

  “Join the coalition and gain priority access, price protection, and enforcement under shared terms. Decline, and remain free.”

  A thin, ledger-sharp smile.

  “Deadwake has always valued its freedom.”

  She let the bells fall silent.

  “But freedom without ships is just drift.”

  The square did not erupt.

  There was no cheer, no chant, no single answer rising from the crowd. Instead, voices fractured into smaller arguments. Groups peeled away toward the exchange doors, already calculating what they might salvage. Others lingered, angry, gesturing toward the outer docks and the darkening sky beyond.

  One by one, representatives of the nine factions were escorted from the balcony. Each offered Marisol a brief, symbolic handshake before being led away.

  Drew followed Thren onto the outer balcony and watched as Thren clasped Marisol’s hand, talons closing with deliberate care. It was the first time Drew had seen the gesture performed publicly.

  As they stepped aside, Drew noticed two other Skyborne perched on a nearby rooftop. They were the first he had seen besides Thren, both hunched over notebooks, their attention fixed not on the crowd, but on the exchange itself.

  Whatever they were recording, Drew suspected it wasn’t meant for Deadwake.

  Drew looked up. Galleons were descending through the cloud layer above the island, their hulls broad, disciplined, unmistakable.