"Show me," I say, handing her my phone.
Cypress takes it without hesitation, her fingers moving across the screen with practiced efficiency. "So if we start with the original asset value of four point seven million," she says, pulling up the calculator function, "and apply an average depreciation rate of twenty percent per year over the relevant period, which looks like about four years based on these records, we get a remaining book value of approximately two point three million." She taps in the numbers as she speaks, her movements quick and confident. "Fifteen percent of that is three hundred forty-five thousand. Which means the claimed deduction of one point two million is overstated by approximately eight hundred fifty-five thousand dollars."
She hands the phone back to me, and I gaze at the calculation on the screen, at the clear and correct arithmetic that my First Mate has just performed in her head with apparent ease. She is not looking at me with smugness or superiority, merely with the patient expectation of someone who has delivered information and is waiting to see what will be done with it.
"You corrected me," I say slowly.
Cypress's expression flickers with something that might be concern. "Was I not supposed to? Because if this is going to be a 'the Warchief is always right even when he's wrong' kind of situation, I should probably know that upfront so I can adjust my expectations accordingly."
"No." The word comes out more forcefully than I intend, and I see her flinch slightly before catching herself. I moderate my tone, though the effort required is significant because I am feeling something that I think might be delight and I am not entirely sure how to express that in a way that will not be misinterpreted. "No, First Mate Evans. You were absolutely supposed to correct me. A leader who cannot accept correction from their advisors is a leader who will eventually lead their forces off a cliff." I pause, considering. "Sometimes literally, in the case of the Mountainhold Campaign of '89, which is a story for another time."
The concern in Cypress's expression is slowly being replaced by something else, something cautious and curious and oddly warm. "So you're not going to fire me for pointing out that your math was wrong?"
"Fire you?" I am genuinely baffled by the suggestion. "Why would I fire the one person in this entire building who has demonstrated the intelligence and the courage to correct an error? I did not acquire this company to surround myself with sycophants who would let me walk into regulatory audits with incorrect calculations. I acquired this company to build something, and building requires honest assessment of both strengths and weaknesses."
Cypress is quiet for a long moment, her eyes searching my face in that assessing way that I am beginning to recognize as her default mode of processing new information. "That's... not how my last boss operated," she says finally.
"Your last boss is unconscious on the conference room floor because he was too foolish to see the value standing directly in front of him," I reply. "I do not intend to make the same mistake."
Before she can respond to this, a sound reaches my ears from the direction of the main office floor. Footsteps. Multiple sets, moving with the kind of purposeful cadence that suggests intent rather than casual passage. I hold up one hand for silence, and Cypress goes still immediately, her eyes widening slightly as she registers my shift in posture from commanding to alert.
The footsteps stop just outside the records room door, and then someone speaks, smooth and polished and dripping with the kind of oily confidence that I have learned to associate with the worst kind of corporate adversary. "Knox Bloodaxe. I heard rumors that you were making moves in this sector, but I have to admit, I didn't expect you to be slumming it quite this dramatically. A third-tier regional firm? Really? I thought the Bloodaxe Clan had higher standards."
I turn slowly, positioning myself between Cypress and the doorway, and I feel my lips pull back from my tusks in what is not a smile. Standing in the entrance to the records room is a figure I recognize from intelligence briefings and unflattering photographs, a human male with silver hair swept back from a forehead that has clearly benefited from expensive cosmetic intervention, wearing a suit that probably cost more than this company's entire quarterly coffee budget.
Victor Ashworth. CEO of Ashworth Financial Solutions. My primary competitor in the regional market expansion and, according to my grandmother, "a snake in human clothing who would sell his own mother for a favorable quarterly report."
"Ashworth," I growl, and I am pleased to note that the name comes out sounding appropriately threatening.
"In the flesh." Victor steps into the room, his polished shoes somehow avoiding the scattered papers and debris that litter the floor, his smile wide and white and utterly devoid of warmth. Behind him, I can see two more figures, lawyers based on their matching briefcases and expressions of studied boredom. "I have to say, Knox, your timing could not have been more perfect. You've saved me the trouble of dealing with the previous management myself."
He reaches into his jacket and produces a folder, extending it toward me with a flourish that suggests he has practiced this particular gesture in front of a mirror. "Consider this a welcome gift. A notice of immediate foreclosure on all physical assets of this company, effective forty-eight hours from receipt. It seems the previous leadership was not particularly diligent about their loan payments, and Ashworth Financial Solutions happens to hold the majority of their outstanding debt."
I do not take the folder. I glance at Victor Ashworth, at his perfect hair and his perfect suit and his perfect smile that does not reach his cold, calculating eyes, and I feel something dark and hot unfurling in me.
Behind me, Cypress makes a small sound that might be dismay or might be the beginning of a very creative profanity.
Victor's smile widens. "Welcome to the neighborhood, Warchief."
3
CYPRESS
The folder hangs in the air between Victor Ashworth's manicured fingers and Knox's green hand, which has not moved to accept it, and in that suspended moment I watch the smugness spreading across Ashworth's face like oil across water. He thinks he's won. He thinks he's walked into a slaughter and found nothing but easy prey, a green Orc who doesn't understand the intricacies of human corporate law and a bunch of terrified employees too shell-shocked from the hostile takeover to mount any kind of defense.
He doesn't know about the three years I spent in the legal department before transferring to accounting because the pay was marginally better and the hours were marginally less soul-crushing.
My hand shoots out before my brain can talk me out of it, snatching the folder from Ashworth's grip with enough force that the papers inside rustle sharply. His eyebrows climb toward his artificially youthful hairline, and behind me I hear Knox make a sound that might be surprise or might be the beginning of a territorial growl, but I don't have time to worry about either of their reactions because I'm already flipping through thedocuments, my eyes scanning the dense legal text with the kind of desperate speed that only comes from genuine panic filtered through years of corporate document analysis.
Foreclosure notice. Debt acquisition paperwork. A truly staggering list of outstanding loans that the previous management somehow failed to mention during literally any of our budget meetings. And there, buried in the fine print of the debt transfer agreement, a single clause that makes my heart stutter and then start beating again with renewed vigor.
"Section 14.7.3 of the Regional Commerce Stabilization Act, states any debt holder seeking to foreclose on a business entity that has undergone ownership transfer within the previous fiscal quarter is required to provide a thirty-day grace period during which the new ownership may demonstrate financial viability through documented profit generation."
Ashworth's smile flickers, just for a moment, like a fluorescent bulb with a bad connection. "I'm sorry, who exactly are you?"
"Cypress Evans. First Mate of the Ledger." The title feels ridiculous coming out of my mouth, but I refuse to let that show on my face. "And according to Section 14.7.3, which I notice your legal team conveniently failed to reference in their foreclosure documentation, you can't touch this company's assets for thirty days. Not the building, not the equipment, not the tragically outdated computer systems. We have one month to turn a profit, and if we do, your debt claim gets restructured into a standard repayment plan with court-mandated interest caps."
The silence that follows my little speech is thick enough to cut with one of Knox's probably-very-sharp ceremonial daggers. Ashworth's lawyers exchange glances that suggest they are rapidly recalculating their billable hours for this particular engagement, and Ashworth himself has gone slightly pale beneath his expensive spray tan.
