The banquet roared on, a tempest of clattering pewter and bellowed toasts. Whole boars vanished to the bone; casks of amber cider drained like summer ponds. Every swallow, every spilled drop came from Blake's own coffers—silver he could have hammered into swords and axes and more ships . Yet he watched the captains gorge without a flicker of regret. This was currency too: wine‑drenched loyalty, the kind no ledger could record.
He felt their eyes on him—sharp as grappling hooks thrown across a gap. Some stared openly, lifting brimming cups in silent homage; others only stole glances between mouthfuls, as though half‑afraid the legend might stare back.
They saw not merely a man, but the flare of their own myth stitched into living flesh. The raider who broke the Imperial keel. The storm that freed Harmway. The flint that struck flame beneath the sleep‑heavy embers of the Confederation.
