The deck of the Crimson Sparrow had transformed into a frozen tableau of confusion and violence. Smoke drifted across the harbor from whatever catastrophe had just torn through Orellia's town square.
Pierre's hands trembled slightly as he gripped his rusty pipe. The enhanced endurance that had kept him standing through Gideon's brutal assault was dissolving, leaving behind the familiar ache of genuine exhaustion. His ribs throbbed where the giant's backfist had connected, and his left shoulder felt like someone had driven a railroad spike through the joint.
The pirates in the longboat below were shouting over each other, their voices carrying across the water in a cacophony of confusion. Some pointed toward the burning town square, others gestured wildly at their motionless leader. The careful order of Moreau's operation had shattered. It was the kind of chaos Pierre knew intimately from his past life: the precise moment a perfect plan smashes into brutal reality.
