The Horizon Talon hovered in her cradle of salt-streaked scaffolds. Her hull was half-scarred from the last encounter and half-renewed by dockhands who didn’t waste motion or conversation. Paint still dried along her starboard ribs. The scent of pitch lingered in the air. Mallets knocked in a steady rhythm that echoed through her bones. Her deck had been cleared of debris. Rails were scrubbed fresh.

  A sharp-eyed watch stood at every quarter. The Horizon Talon’s Marines kept to the deck, silent and still, their eyes surveying the piers and harbor. They looked carved from the mast itself, more statues than men, ready to move if needed but not before. Like gargoyles with crossbows.

  Down below, Tidebound Front patrolmen held a position along the docks. They had set up a makeshift checkpoint just past the first set of bollards. Nothing fancy. Just crates, sandbags, and the kind of posture that said clearance was required. Their eyes tracked every movement on the waterfront. Armed and unsmiling, they were the last polite warning before things got loud.

  Kade stood near the port rail, boots braced wide and arms folded behind her back, flanked by Lawson and Bishop. Behind them, the mainmast loomed like a sentry of its own. The sky had cleared from a gray dawn to something bright and pitiless. She watched the pier without blinking, thankful that the fog that had plagued the last couple of days seemed to be absent.

  Burrell Haskett arrived first, just as expected. The guards stationed along the dock shifted to let him pass with a nod reserved for someone who didn’t need permission. He walked like a man who knew that these were his docks. Every board, post, and gangway might as well have been stamped with his name. His coat snapped with each step, canvas worn smooth at the elbows, sleeves dark with old sweat. The Tidebound Front insignia on his shoulder caught the wind as he climbed the ramp like it was his own front porch.

  The man trailing just behind him was taller and leaner, in a sort of lanky way that made work clothes hang awkwardly, but there was nothing soft in how he moved. Dusty blond hair, sun-streaked and badly cut. His face was weathered and sharp around the edges. Not a military type air, just a man who looked like he’d spent a life lifting, fixing, hauling. Quiet strength. No rank on his jacket, just calloused hands and a watchful gaze that missed nothing.

  Burrell paused just shy of the top, boots on the gangplank’s final board. "Permission to come aboard, Lieutenant?"

  "Granted," Kade said. "Though I assume you’d have stepped aboard either way."

  Burrell’s smile flickered like a knife glint. "Only out of habit."

  He stepped across the rail and extended a hand. Kade clasped it briefly. No squeeze-measure games, just a dry palm and a sharp nod exchanged.

  "This is my second," Burrell said, gesturing to the man who followed behind. "Paul O’Malley."

  Kade acknowledged the man with a brief nod. "Mr. O’Malley."

  "Ma’am," he said. His voice was soft but crisp. He had a clipped accent, East Coast, maybe old Maine. Hard to place under the drawl of long nights and stress of the new post-cataclysm world.

  Bishop stepped forward. "I can take you both to the great cabin. We’ve set the table and ensured the maps are up-to-date."

  Burrell didn’t move. His eyes were fixed on the dockside below.

  "They’re coming," he said, glancing back down to the dock.

  The Ebonwake Conclave approached with deliberate precision, each step placed as if they’d rehearsed it. They wore coordinated robes, a mix of flowing greys and deep blue tones that blurred outlines and softened movement, rather than uniforms. It looked like an attempt to avoid attention, though the effect had the opposite result. People kept watching, trying to figure out what they missed.

  Mireya walked two steps ahead of her companion, not in a hurry, just apart. She didn’t look back to check whether he followed. Of course she didn’t, Kade thought.

  She didn’t pause at the top of the gangplank. Just like she hadn't acknowledged the guards at the checkpoint behind her. That floating orb of hers drifted just off her shoulder, its surface smooth and glassy, catching the light with a faint hum. Mireya claimed it wasn’t anything special. Kade wasn’t convinced.

  Mireya stepped onto the deck as if it were part of her lab, calm and unhurried, eyes already taking in her surroundings with absent interest. She didn’t ask for permission. The Marine guards glanced toward Kade, looking for a signal. Kade gave them nothing. That was enough. They stood aside, and Mireya passed without pause.

  Burrell muttered something under his breath. The remark was meant more for himself than anyone else. Kade caught it anyway. Something about researchers and their talent for ignoring protocol. She didn’t disagree.

  Behind Mireya came a hesitant figure, pausing at the base of the ramp. His robes matched the Conclave’s palette but lacked the layered finesse of hers, more functional than formal. He wasn’t armed, didn’t move like a soldier, and carried himself with the stiff posture of someone trying to look more confident than he felt. Kade had seen that kind of nervous energy before. Academic, probably. Or someone playing the part. He reminded Kade of a professor she once had at the SMC academy.

  "Jon," Mireya said, finally glancing over her shoulder. "Come along."

  That was all it took. The man squared his shoulders and followed her up.

  "Associate Jon Larocque," Mireya said. "He’ll be assisting me at today’s summit."

  Kade started to reach out to shake Larocque’s hand, more out of habit than warmth, but the motion stalled as movement on the dock pulled her focus. The Restoration Council was making its approach, later than they should have been and with more boots than anyone needed.

  Six armored guards moved in a tight wedge, their breastplates polished to a shine that didn’t match the dirt underfoot. Each carried a long sword at the hip and a crossbow slung across the back, gear too pristine to have seen actual use since the collapse. Kade noted the weapons before she even looked at the two men leading them.

  Ryan Callan looked like he was on his way to a committee hearing, not a warship. His clothes were perfectly pressed, gold pin at the collar, hair slicked into a wave that refused to acknowledge wind or stress. The man beside him was older and broader, carrying a portfolio case that probably hadn’t been opened in weeks. They both walked with the self-importance of someone used to being called Councilor in every room.

  The Restoration Council delegation reached the checkpoint at the dock head, where two Tidebound guards blocked the path with a posture that technically counted as neutral but was clearly antagonistic. One stepped forward, hand raised in a motion that stopped just short of confrontational.

  "Security check," he said, voice flat and bored in a way that sounded deliberate.

  The lead Council guard drew himself up. "Restoration Council delegation. Councilors Callan and Tilden."

  The guards didn’t move at first. Just a beat too long. Then one stepped aside, while the other waved them through without a word. It wasn’t a refusal. Just a reminder of whose docks they were standing on.

  "Oh, this should be fun," Bishop whispered as he leaned toward Kade.

  Kade didn’t smile, but Lawson’s mouth twitched, barely visible. The Restoration Council delegation passed through stiffly, postures tight, eyes forward. As they neared the base of the gangplank, Burrell’s voice called down from the deck.

  "Invitation said two representatives per faction."

  Ryan Callan stepped forward with the coiled arrogance of a man who’d memorized his rebuttal two days ago. "This is Councilor Hale Tilden, my fellow delegate. The invitation did not specify any restrictions on security."

  "It didn’t specify the shape of the table either," Burrell said. "Should I have brought a cannon in case things get interesting?"

  Callan’s lips thinned. "We’re here in good faith."

  "Then you won’t mind leaving your good-faith guards on the dock," Kade said before either could escalate. Her tone stayed level, eyes scanning the line of Council troops. "There’s no room aboard for extra bodies, and I won’t have swords banging up my bulkheads. If you need someone to carry your pen case, we’ve got crew who can lend a hand."

  Callan’s gaze lingered on her. Measuring. Likely calculating whether to press or pivot.

  He pivoted.

  "Very well," he said. "They’ll remain below. But any harm comes to me or Councilor Tilden…"

  Kade raised a hand, not to interrupt but to dismiss. "Won’t. Let’s move."

  The Restoration Council stepped aboard. The guards stayed behind, stiff at attention, as if posturing might compensate for being left on the dock like oversized luggage.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Burrell gave Callan a look that could etch steel. Mireya’s orb hummed again. Larocque looked like he regretted everything that had brought him here.

  Kade turned toward the quarterdeck, jaw tight, then led the group aft in a quiet column. Boots echoed against the planks as they moved past the mainsail rigging and cut across the midship shade. The deck behind them was full now, humming with the quiet friction of rival factions forced too close.

  She opened the cabin door and stepped through without pause.

  Someone had stripped down and reassembled what had been a tactical nerve center for the last week. The staff rolled the charts, pushed out the supply crates, and collapsed the bunk screen. In its place, a heavy oak table dominated the center of the room, scarred and braced with fresh hardware, just wide enough to seat nine without forcing elbows. It wasn’t comfortable, but it would serve its purpose.

  The chairs scraped as each person took their place. Captain Voss was already seated at the head, his expression unreadable, hands folded across a folder he hadn’t opened yet. Kade moved to his right and sat without ceremony. Lawson dropped into the next chair over. Lt. Bishop remained standing behind Captain Voss.

  Bishop made a subtle hand gesture to the porters nearby to see to their guests.

  Across from them, Mireya took her seat with an absent grace, her orb bobbing quietly beside her shoulder like a smug pet. Jon Larocque eased into the chair beside her, spine too straight, gaze dancing from corner to corner as if trying to read a room he hadn’t studied for.

  Burrell didn’t move at first.

  He stood behind the nearest open chair, jaw tight. Paul O’Malley waited a pace behind him, posture relaxed but ready. Burrell’s eyes scanned the table, then landed on the two Horizon Talon officers seated beside Voss.

  He didn’t bother lowering his voice. "Funny how this ship gets three seats at the table."

  Voss looked up without lifting his chin. "That’s because it’s my ship."

  Burrell didn’t smile.

  Voss shifted just enough to place a hand on the table. "We’re hosting. I’m moderating. Kade and Lawson are representing the Talon crew. If anyone here’s planning to request use of our ship or personnel, it makes sense that we have someone listening."

  Mireya gave a small nod, the kind that could be agreement or disinterest. Her orb clicked softly once and fell silent again.

  Ryan Callan entered next, with Councilor Tilden following behind, still clutching that battered portfolio case like it held something more important than dust and protocol memos.

  Callan took one look at the table, then shifted his weight slightly. "That should be our seat," he said, nodding toward the head opposite Voss.

  Burrell didn’t sit. "We’ve got the Talon in our dry dock. You want to argue about whose roof we’re under?"

  "You’re under no roof," Callan said. "This is a military vessel operating in Council-administered waters, under the Restoration charter…"

  "This is a warship," Burrell cut in. "The charter isn't the one putting it back together. My guys are. My welders. My dock space."

  Kade leaned back and watched the two men square off across the table. Voices hadn’t gone loud yet, but the tension had ratched up even higher than it was out on the deck. Everyone in the room could feel it. Jon Larocque looked like he wanted to sink into his chair. Lawson’s fingers tapped twice against the wood before going still.

  Then Captain Voss stood. His voice cut through the rising heat like a blade. "Enough."

  Callan took half a step back. Burrell didn’t flinch.

  Voss turned his head slightly, not looking at either of them directly. "The Talon crew rearranged this space to give all three factions equal footing. No one gets the head of the table, because no one here is in charge of the others."

  He paused, then nodded toward the far end of the table. "Kade, take it."

  She stood without a word, crossed behind the chairs, and claimed the open seat at the opposite end of the table. If either faction wanted to interpret it as a power move, that was their problem.

  Lawson slid smoothly into the chair she had vacated, settling in like he’d planned it all along.

  Voss looked back at the others. "You don’t like the arrangement, you can stand or you can leave."

  Silence followed.

  Tilden cleared his throat and took the nearest open seat. Callan followed a moment later. Burrell gave Voss a final glance, then sat. O’Malley took the last chair beside him without a word.

  The lanterns overhead hissed softly. The oil was running low in one of them, making the shadows in the corners flicker like they were listening.

  Kade sat still, taking in the room. No one spoke. The air hadn’t settled. Low mutters drifted across the table, punctuated by the scuff of boot leather against the floorboards. Mireya adjusted her cuffs without looking up. The orb beside her turned once, as if judging everything.

  Kade could already feel the start of a headache building behind her eyes. Monsters were easier than this, she thought.

  Bishop remained standing just long enough to confirm everyone had settled, then gave Voss a quick salute and stepped out. The door clicked shut behind him with a sound that echoed louder than it should have in the tight space.

  The room held its shape for another few seconds. It was the sort of pause where everyone pretended they weren’t waiting for someone else to speak first.

  Then, Mireya reached out and unrolled the map.

  She did it with the slow grace of someone unbothered by the tension or someone trying to increase it. Parchment curled as it flattened, corners held down by spare mugs from the table and a rusted bolt that hadn’t yet found a proper home. The coastline of Portland stretched across the center, the familiar contours lined in ink, with colored markers pressed into key positions like pieces on a game board.

  Three markers marked strongholds, one for each faction. Five others were scattered farther out. One Kade recognized as the location of warehouse seventeen near the industrial edge of the docks marked in red. Another marked in blue in a nearby rail yard, and three more in black at various points. Those most likely indicated the three contested locations still in play.

  Kade watched in silence as the map unfurled across the table. She hadn’t seen this version before. The placement of the contested markers pulled the shape of the conflict into focus like a wound traced in ink. Each zone sat just far enough from any faction’s stronghold to make support a problem. Reinforcements wouldn’t reach in time. Patrols would stretch thin trying to hold position.

  Taking one of those sites would be hard. Holding it if another faction got squirrelly would be worse. The system might not care who got there first. She’d need to update the Talon’s charts after this. Probably adjust some contingency plans with Lawson while she was at it.

  Burrell leaned in. "I’d like to know how you managed to take the rail yard. That place’s been a death trap since day three. Either you got real lucky, or someone cleared it for you."

  Callan didn’t flinch. "How we took it is none of your concern. However, we didn't have to trick anyone into doing it for us."

  Burrell snorted. "Right. Because the Restoration Council’s known for rolling up their sleeves and kicking in doors. I’ve seen your people hesitate over fighting rodentia. Now I’m supposed to believe you took the rail yard clean? Nobody there has the stones for it."

  Kade didn’t speak. Her attention stayed on the map.

  While the others argued, she traced the lines between strongholds and contested zones, measuring distance in her head. Supply chains, fallback routes, blind spots. It was all there if you knew what to look for. Her eyes caught on a marker placed just beyond the mouth of the bay, dead on the wind-blasted shape of Halfway Rock Lighthouse.

  She leaned in slightly. There was nothing out there but sea salt and ruined stone.

  Her focus shifted inland and found similar markers. One at a woods preserve to the south along the coast. Another marked a stretch of industrial sprawl west of the airport. A final one at seemingly a random spot to the north of the city limits. Too far out to be caches. Too specific to be a coincidence.

  What the hell are you people not saying? She thought.

  None of the factions had mentioned the extra markers. Maybe they hadn’t noticed. Or maybe they had, and they already knew exactly what they meant.

  Kade sat back in her chair and said nothing.

  Mireya smiled faintly. "Of course, both sides have had trouble maintaining clear boundaries. Hard to keep order when the borders themselves aren’t fixed."

  Callan turned his head toward her. "We’ve had no trouble defining our boundaries. The issue is who respects them."

  O’Malley gave a quiet snort and didn’t bother to hide it.

  Kade resisted the urge to rub her temple again. The entire room smelled of sweat, oil, and testosterone. The lanterns overhead threw just enough light to keep the shadows in the corners moving. No one looked relaxed. Even Larocque, who had said nothing so far, sat with his hands too carefully placed on the table, like he was waiting for permission to breathe.

  Burrell leaned back in his chair, arms folded across his chest. "You want to talk about respect? Let’s talk about the shipment that vanished outside the wholesale supply center. That wasn't rodentia. We had already marked half of it for salvage, then it disappeared, and suddenly people saw your people on the far side of the river cataloging crates that looked a lot like ours."

  Tilden raised an eyebrow. "Your idea of evidence is hearsay from civilians under your ‘protection’? Forgive me if I question the neutrality of the testimony."

  "At least we showed the courtesy to take a seat offered," Callan said, glaring toward Burrell, "rather than barge in and declare ourselves the host."

  Burrell leaned forward again, the chair creaking under the shift in weight. "That your way of saying the Council thinks they own the Safe Zone already? That’s why you pushed for the head of the table?"

  "The Council is the only functioning governmental authority left," Callan said. "Unless we’re considering personal militias and gang leaders as governing institutions now."

  "You call us a militia," Burrell said, "but we’re the ones pulling the city back together while you’re still drafting mission statements and demanding tribute in paperwork."

  It spiraled quickly after that. The table became a target. Accusations flew in both directions. Theft of resources. Withheld repair crews. Intimidation of workers near salvage areas. Lines drawn and redrawn without notice. Shipments redirected. Reports falsified. No one raised their voice, but the tone dropped pitch by pitch, tighter with each exchange.

  Mireya sat quietly, hands folded, her orb humming faintly beside her like it was enjoying the tension. Every time someone tried to score a point, she watched the reaction instead of the speaker.

  Kade had counted on the summit getting ugly, but this had the smell of something that wasn’t just territorial. There was pressure behind it. Each faction tested the others not just for leverage, but for weakness.

  Then Voss spoke. His voice didn’t rise. It landed like a hammer blow.

  "Enough."

  Everyone stopped yet again.

  "You’re not here to win the Safe Zone. You’re here to keep it from falling apart. That means coordination. That means compromise. If neither of you can’t manage that, feel free to walk now. Additionally, we are here at the request of the Ebonwake Conclave, who has information regarding the artifact recently recovered and, I'm assuming, relevant to the undead plague everyone."

  Silence stretched.

  Kade glanced toward Mireya.

  She wasn’t smiling now, but her expression had the same polite curiosity of someone watching a fire spread through dry brush. Not celebrating. Just measuring the rate of burn.

  "We're going to take five minutes. Everyone is going to take a breath and come back to this table with a sense of cooperation regarding the topic Mireya here is going to present. If anyone feels they can't do that, then leave. I won't be asking again."

  If you want to read five weeks ahead and directly support my work as an author, you can do so over on Patreon. Your support there helps make chapters like this possible and keeps the Horizon Talon sailing