Thren spoke. “The Silent Wake is not invoked for curiosities… tsk.”

  A pause.

  “It is invoked for things worth killing over.”

  The room was silent.

  Captain Esteban Pérez leaned forward, the gold edging of his coat catching the light.

  “This keel was negotiated to foster relationships. The young engineer” he gestured to Drew “has designed and built something new. A hull material that is lighter and stronger.”

  Marisol Ríos crossed her arms, golden bangles jingling with the movement. “Then we are here,” she said coolly, “to determine who profits… and who is protected.”

  “I called this meeting,” Thren said, cutting in, “to decide both.”

  His remaining wing angled toward Drew.

  “Show them.”

  Drew swallowed. Public speaking had never been his strength.

  He turned, hands shaking slightly, and reached into the wicker basket behind him.

  He pulled out the sample panel.

  The keelweave was dark, almost black, with a deep oil-sheen that caught light without reflecting it sharply. Not lacquer gloss. Not matte. Somewhere in between. The surface swallowed glare instead of throwing it back.

  Drew set it on the table.

  It landed with a dull, muted sound.

  His palm was slick with sweat as he withdrew it. When he looked up, every eye but Thren’s was fixed on the panel with naked interest. Thren watched the watchers instead, his gaze moving, measuring.

  Captain Esteban leaned forward instinctively, then stopped himself.

  “May I?”

  Thren nodded.

  Esteban leaned forward and, with his good hand, picked the panel up. He inspected it carefully, eyes tracing the visible plant fibers.

  “It’s lighter than wood,” he murmured.

  He rapped it once with the metal hook.

  The sound was deadened. Solid. Wrong, in a way that made it impressive.

  He passed it to Rafael.

  Rafael didn’t hesitate. He bent the panel between his hands, flexing it. The panel bowed slightly under load, then returned to true without hesitation, without memory. No white stress lines bloomed along the surface. No fibers shifted. It absorbed the force and let it go.

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

  Rafael’s grin widened.

  Drew watched their reactions with pride.

  The panel could take shear. It could take torsion. It could take a bad correction and not fold like María’s canoe had.

  This wasn’t just better.

  It was safer.

  Marisol inspected the panel next, turning it slowly from every angle. She handed it to Isabela, who stood and carried it to the priest.

  Brother Confessor Alonzo accepted it without ceremony. His fingers lingered on the surface a moment longer than necessary. He studied it briefly, expression unreadable, then set it back on the table.

  Of every participant, he reacted the least.

  Marisol broke the silence.

  “What is the cost of manufacture,” she asked, “and at what scale?”

  Thren’s head of operations answered, voice clipped and precise.

  “More expensive than wicker. Significantly cheaper than wood.”

  She glanced at her notes.

  “At current output: several canoes per day. One brigantine every week and a half.”

  A beat.

  “Production is still improving.”

  So they’d already upped production, Drew thought. Likely more presses.

  Captain Esteban leaned back, lips parting in a grin.

  “Worth killing over.”

  His face was flushed. Excited.

  “As rabid as ever, I see,” Marisol said in a warning tone.

  Thren clicked his beak, bringing the room to order.

  “Innovation and defense.”

  He pointed a talon at himself.

  “Sales and distribution.”

  His gaze shifted to Marisol.

  “Offense and convoy protection.”

  He pointed at Captain Esteban.

  “Forty. Thirty. Twenty-five.”

  A pause.

  “Five to the engineer.”

  He leaned back slightly.

  “Final.”

  Drew’s breath caught.

  Five percent.

  Not wages. Not a bonus. Ownership. His mind snapped into numbers before he could stop it. Hull output. Convoy volume. Licensing.

  For the first time, he didn’t flinch from where the figures led.

  This wasn’t money.

  It was leverage.

  Marisol and Captain Esteban locked gazes. Marisol broke first and nodded once. Captain Esteban returned the nod.

  Thren looked at the priest.

  “Observed?” he stated.

  Brother Confessor Alonzo replied without inflection.

  “Observed.”

  Isabela looked at Drew, her gaze carrying new respect. She spoke for the first time in the meeting.

  “The Nueva Trujillo nobles’ keel bragged that they also have a Silent Wake agreement around the canoe. Whether material or design is unknown.”

  All eyes turned to the priest, who sat impassively.

  “I can’t answer that.”

  “So it’s true!” Captain Esteban declared, slamming his fist on the table and startling the room.

  Drew turned to Thren, who arched his neck, features thoughtful.

  Concerned, Drew reached back into the wicker basket behind him.

  “Wait! I saved the best for last.”

  Thren looked at him questioningly as Drew drew out the scale model of the cruise-missile hull with its forward solar sail arrangement.

  “Then they’re already behind,” Drew said. “This isn’t one design. It’s an entire build philosophy. Materials, forms, and failure tolerance all working together. You can emulate one part. You can’t copy the whole system.”

  “Dios mío,” Rafael exclaimed.

  No one corrected him for taking the Lord’s name in vain.

  Captain Esteban leaned forward instinctively, then stopped himself halfway, as if unsure if he should touch the model. His brow furrowed.

  “That’s not a canoe,” he said slowly.

  Marisol Ríos did not reach for it at all. Her eyes tracked the model the way she might study a contract written in an unfamiliar script, searching for intent rather than meaning.

  Thren had not moved.

  His large eyes followed the model without blinking, head tilted just slightly to one side. Not curiosity.

  Appraisal.

  “Speak,” Thren said at last, his voice low. “Why this shape.”

  Drew swallowed, then straightened.

  He withdrew a prepared sheet of calculations and handling estimates, handing copies to Thren’s head of operations. She passed one to Thren.

  Drew swallowed, then continued.

  “The current racing canoes, no, all skycraft are not very aerodynamic or efficient.”

  A brief pause.

  “Current racing canoes are stable at speeds of four and a half to six knots. This design is stable at six to eight and a half.”

  The room went still.

  “Forget racing,” Drew continued. “A traditional racing canoe covers about twenty leagues a day on a twelve-hour sail.”

  He let that settle.

  “This design, built in keelweave, can exceed thirty. A caravel is still the marathoner,” Drew said evenly. “Range. Endurance. Cargo. It wins long hauls.”

  He tapped the model once.

  “This hull is a sprinter. Twelve hours in Heaven’s River, it can run with them. Intercept. Courier. Strike. Withdraw.”

  He met their eyes.

  It gets there first.