The Golden Sail Merchant Guild had booked out the Gilded Siren, the finest restaurant in Wrong Anchor Harbor, for the night.
The magical chandelier beneath the dome lit the hall as brightly as daylight, its light spilling across every long table and glinting off silver cutlery and crystal stemware.
The air was filled with the smoky aroma of roast meat, the rich fragrance of red wine, and the scent of the ladies' perfume.
The place was packed, and no one planned to leave sober tonight.
Everyone who believed they had contributed to this desperate comeback had come. Their cheeks flushed with drink and excitement, they spoke at the tops of their voices, eagerly recounting their achievements to companions, superiors, and anyone willing to listen.
The banquet was nearing its end, and the scene had long since descended into utter chaos.
His face flushed, Sea Wolf planted one foot on the table and slammed his glass down with a clang, splashing wine foam onto the faces of the stewards at the next table.
"You bunch of quill pushers! If I hadn't led my men through that act, putting our lives on the line, your contracts would've been nothing but ass-wiping paper!"
He pulled a terrified waitress into his arms and slapped her thigh, then roared at Freeman and his crowd, "You should've seen that Blackstone Hand agent's face when he signed the contract! He thought he'd landed the bargain of a lifetime! Ha! Now those ten thousand Gold Suns in compensation are enough to build us another fleet!"
A crowd of equally rough-hewn captains surrounded him, roaring with laughter and raising their glasses as they boasted to the colleagues who had benefited from their "betrayal."
Freeman, who had also been splashed with wine, stiffened. "A brute's perspective."
He pushed his glasses up his nose, a contemptuous smile curling his lips. "Vulgar! True winners never prove their worth by how loudly they shout. Sea Wolf, that little 'putting our lives on the line' routine of yours was nothing but an insignificant performance compared with a real financial contest."
"If our contracts hadn't formed an airtight net, sealing every force majeure loophole and tying those so-called 'hounds of the law' from the Blackstone Hand in knots, do you think they would have obediently handed over those Gold Suns?"
The accountant beside him continued, "Our calculations show that we lost nearly a third of our ships. But we exploited the window created by the collapse in shipping rates to charter twenty-seven medium-sized cargo ships at rock-bottom prices. Their loss was our gain. The Blackstone Hand has withdrawn from maritime trade entirely, while our foundations remain intact, even though we, too, have exhausted our cash reserves."
"This isn't ass-wiping paper, sir. It's a financial combination punch."
"Combination punch?" Sea Wolf's one eye widened further. He slammed the table, making the wineglasses jump. "You're fucking punching thin air, aren't you? Without us seafaring brothers risking our lives, could your 'fists' punch gold out of paper?!"
The atmosphere in the hall grew tense. The captains and office staff stood in clearly divided camps, glaring at one another like two flocks of roosters ready to fight.
This was an old conflict within the Golden Sail Merchant Guild. At the slightest disturbance, the seafarers, the bookkeepers, and the nail-hammerers always had to step forward and argue over who mattered most.
Just then, chief designer Gregor, unwilling to be left out, rose with unhurried composure.
"Gentlemen, a little harmony, please. I believe that, ultimately, the quality of one's weapons determines the course of a war."
He raised a glass of wine to the gathering.
"The Sea Serpent Class plans we took over were a stripped-down version. What we brought back, however, was the complete core structure of the Blackstone Hand's Wavebreakers class. They thought they had acquired the future. In truth, they had lost even the present."
"Bah! You bald bastard, you're a crafty one! I reckon you were just playing both sides and came running back when things looked bad!"
Gregor flushed crimson and tried to protest.
The arguing grew louder. Different factions, different departments-everyone believed their own piece of the puzzle was the most important.
"Enough!"
An elderly voice silenced the noisy hall.
Chief alchemist Valerius rose. He had joined none of the factions in their quarrel, merely eating the roast fish on his plate in silence.
The old man set down his knife and fork and surveyed the faces, some excited, others indignant.
"Your plans, your courage, your wisdom-all deserve praise."
He paused, his voice carrying unquestionable authority.
"But, ladies and gentlemen, without the antidote, what we would be discussing now is how to divide the Golden Sail Merchant Guild's estate."
No one in the hall dared speak again.
It was an indisputable fact. In the face of overwhelming technical superiority, all their schemes and courage were meaningless.
Valerius looked at them, pride showing on his face.
"And that antidote was developed by our alchemists, working day and night without rest."
As agreed, the chief alchemist had accepted this far too conspicuous honor. Only a handful of people in the entire guild had any vague suspicions about the matter.
Everyone exchanged glances and ultimately accepted this conclusion without comment.
The captains sat back down, and Freeman lowered his head to sip his wine.
As the uproar subsided, some of them belatedly noticed something.
"Come to think of it..." One captain looked around, confusion on his face. "Where's the vice president? Why isn't she here?"
"That's right! Where's Lady Caroline?"
"I haven't seen her for a while."
Only then did the people in the hall seem to wake from a dream.
Immersed in their revelry over victory, they had forgotten its true architect-the Silver-Haired Witch who had turned the tide at their most desperate moment.
On the open-air terrace atop the Gilded Siren restaurant.
Caroline leaned against the railing, the evening breeze stirring her skirt and hair, as though she might melt into the night over Wrong Anchor Harbor.
"Aren't you going downstairs to celebrate with the people who won this for you?" Veylin stood beside her and swirled the juice in his glass.
"Won this for me?" Caroline scoffed, her laugh tinged with tipsiness. "They're not heroes. They're hungry wolves. If I showed up downstairs now, they'd see me as an even bigger cake, and every one of them would want a few more slices from me."
She turned, her emerald eyes startlingly bright in the moonlight, and stared straight at Veylin.
"They don't understand. From beginning to end, the only people fighting this war were the two of us."
She took a step forward, her pale feet in high heels tapping crisply against the floor-and against Veylin's heart.
She held her wineglass out, its rim almost touching Veylin's lips.
"So this glass isn't a toast to victory."
Her voice held a languid huskiness, and her breath, mingled with the scent of wine, brushed softly past Veylin's nose.
"To my... Mr. Antidote."