The approach to the teak galleon did not resemble an imperial arrest or a triumphant corporate escort. The iron-bound courier launch slipped through the choppy harbor waters with a steady, low rhythm, its oars slicing the gray foam in absolute silence. Elara sat in the stern sheets, her shoulders squared beneath her ruined charcoal wool coat. Her blistered palms were tucked deep into her pockets, the skin throbbing beneath the salt-crust, but her gaze never left the towering black hull of the foreign vessel.
Beside her, Julian sat with his knees slightly bent against the timber ribbing of the boat. His grease-stained frontier brigandine was gone, replaced by a simple, clean wool doublet that hid his side-arm but did not soften the blunt, uncompromising geometry of his jaw. His dark eyes remained fixed on the gun ports of the Vanguard-Sovereign idling nearby, where the newly hoisted silk flags of the Overseas Merchant Combine snapped sharply in the freezing sea breeze.
