Finn wanted to believe him. But three moons later, the trouble came.
The idea was absurdly simple: a stadium that sailed from port to port. Every full moon, The Crimson Wake would anchor off a lawless island or a contested coastline, and two rival crews would fight for a chest of silver. Not to the death—that was bad for repeat business—but to the “first blood, first flag.” The winner took the purse. The loser paid for repairs. And the crowd? The crowd paid in gold dust, rum, and futures in plunder.
The next match, the Inevitable was gone. But something else had arrived. A sleek corsair with no flag, crewed by silent figures in grey cloaks. They paid for front-row seats. During the match between the Iron Sails and the Wavebreakers, one of the grey-cloaks threw a smoke pot onto the field.
The match was brutal. The Black Keels were faster, but the Red Sashes had a giantess named Morwen who used a broken spar like a club. In the final minute, a wiry youth from the Keels shimmied up the ratlines, dodged a thrown hook, and rang the bell. The stadium erupted.
“It’s a money pit,” Finn said, kicking a loose plank. “We’re buccaneers, Uncle Silas. We chase galleons. We don’t… host seating sections.”
A Royal Navy intelligence ship, the HMS Inevitable , didn’t attack. Instead, her captain—a pale, tight-lipped woman named Vexley—came aboard as a spectator. She sat in the cheap seats, watched a match between the Salt Dogs and the Bilge Rats, and applauded politely. Then she bought Finn a drink.
Finn’s blood went cold. “Are you threatening us?”
It was a stadium.
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