The air was thick with salt and coal smoke. Dockworkers shouted as they hauled crates aboard, steam hissing from the ship's iron belly.
Sena Lancer stood still in the middle of it all, as though she were carved into the pier itself, letting the noise pass around her like water around stone.
She adjusted the strap of her satchel across her chest, feeling the weight of journals, maps, and tools knocking against her hip. She liked that weight—it reminded her she was here on her own terms.
Not as somebody's daughter. Not as a society ornament. But as a scholar, a traveler, a fighter in a world ruled by men.
The revolver at her side drew more than a few stares from the dockworkers. She caught them glancing, whispering. Good. Let them.
Too many men underestimated her at first glance. The pistol was not for show. Neither was the climbing pick strapped across her back.
Her chestnut braid snapped in the harbor wind as her eyes rose to the ship.
The Daedalus was no ordinary vessel—it was a promise. The first step toward the ruins she had only ever read about in brittle scrolls and fading ink.
Atlantis.
A hand brushed her sleeve.
Sena turned to see Evelyn Fairchild at her side in a yellow gown, lace gloves already smudged with dirt. Her blond hair and green eyes shone brightly against the dull, coal-stained backdrop.
She looked absurdly out of place on the docks, but Sena couldn't help a faint smile.
Evelyn had always been out of place, even back in London—too curious for polite salons, too restless for embroidery and gossip.
More importantly, she was Sena's only friend. The one person who had listened when Sena spoke of ruins and legends, who had snuck her into lectures at the university, who had never laughed at her dreams.
When Sena announced she was joining her father's expedition, Evelyn had simply said: "Then I'm coming too."
"You're staring again," Evelyn whispered with a sly glance, tilting her head toward the line of sailors.
Sena followed her gaze—and that's when she noticed him.
A man apart from the rest. Blond hair streaked with coal dust, coat worn but posture proud.
A giant duffel bag hung from his left shoulder as if it weighed nothing. His blue eyes flicked across her, sharp yet weary, as though he had lived ten lives already.
Something about him stirred a ripple she couldn't name. He looked haunted. And dangerous.
Sena broke her gaze and turned toward the ramp. She had no time for distractions. Atlantis would demand her full attention.
Evelyn hugged her arm, grinning.
"Ooh, Sena Lancer—the wild girl, only caring for books and horseback riding—finally found someone who caught her eye." Evelyn giggled with delight. "So, when do I get the wedding invitation? Or will you just meet him on board over champagne?"
Sena pulled her arm free, not bothering to reply. She simply quickened her pace, boots striking the ramp as she strode onto the ship.
Across the Docks
While this unfolded on the pier, another group lingered in the shadows. Cloaked in black, their faces were hidden beneath masks that blurred in the fog and dim English light.
"How many ships have we sent to the island now?" one asked, his voice muffled behind a serpent mask.
"Too many to count," replied another, his tiger mask glinting faintly as coal smoke drifted past. "None ever returned."
The serpent-masked figure remained still, hands clasped behind his back with a surgeon's precision. His gaze lingered on the Daedalus, unblinking, almost clinical.
When his eyes found Jack Hale, a faint smile tugged beneath the mask.
"No matter. Our key has arrived. Right on time."
The tiger mask tilted, following his stare. "Richard Hale's son… I didn't expect him."
The serpent mask gave a low, measured chuckle—the kind that never reached the eyes. He adjusted his gloves, fingertips brushing each knuckle in exact order, a meticulous ritual.
"Which means fate has finally tipped in our favor," he said softly. "If he is anything like his father… he will lead us straight to the artifact."
After the Docks
A few hours later, the Daedalus pulled away from the London harbor, her sails snapping open as black coal smoke belched from the iron stack.
The city shrank into a smear of stone and soot behind them, swallowed by fog and distance.
Jack stood alone at the rail. The chill of the open sea bit sharper than the Thames breeze, but he welcomed it—it cleared his head better than any gin.
He watched the gray outline of London fade until the last spire sank beneath the horizon.
Duty tugged at him. Ashford was still below, barking orders as crates shifted in the cargo hold, and Jack knew he ought to lend a hand.
He turned toward the hatch when voices drifted across the deck.
Low whispers. Sailors talking.
He caught fragments—"the professor's daughter"… "the Fairchild girl"—names spoken with a mix of curiosity and unease.
Jack followed their glances across the deck.
There they were—the two women he'd noticed on the pier.
Sena Lancer stood near the quarterdeck, satchel slung at her side, eyes sweeping the horizon as if searching for secrets only she could see.
Beside her, Evelyn Fairchild's yellow gown fluttered awkwardly in the sea wind, her bright laughter cutting through the salt and steel.
Jack lingered a moment, gaze steady. Now he knew who they were. Names tied to reputations. Reputations tied to power.
He muttered under his breath, more to himself than anyone else:
"So. That's who I'll be sailing with."
With a small shake of his head, he turned for the hatch and started below, Ashford's commanding voice already echoing up through the iron walls.
"Let's just hope nothing goes wrong," Jack murmured.