"I am prepared to go anywhere, provided it be forward."
—David Livingstone
Mediterranean Sea, June 21, 1872 — Later That Night
The oil lantern on Jack's desk swung with the ship's roll, its flame fluttering as the Daedalus groaned like an old warhorse under strain.
Shadows leapt and staggered across the cramped cabin walls, chased by the drumbeat of rain hammering steel.
Jack hunched over the notebook, its pages trembling beneath his rough hands. Outside, the storm had risen swiftly, crawling across the sky like a living beast. The hull creaked under every swell, thunder clashing above like the gods striking their shields.
Still, he read. His eyes clung to the Latin words scrawled in his father's hand:
"The sea swallows what man cannot keep. But beneath Thera's ash, beneath its drowned cliffs, lies the city that mocked the gods. They called it Atlantis. Its engines still breathe, hidden from the world by fire and storm."
Jack's pulse quickened. These weren't idle myths—his father had written them as warnings, wrapped in poetry. His thumb traced the margin, where spirals and glyphs curled into the mark of Atlantis.
Then he froze.
A symbol stared back at him from the page: a serpent devouring its tail. The same emblem he had glimpsed earlier, stamped onto a crate in the ship's hold.
His chest tightened. Someone else aboard the Daedalus knew. Someone else was following the same trail.
A crack of thunder split the night, rattling the lantern until it toppled. Oil spilled across the desk in a dark sheen before Jack righted it, the sharp stink of fuel mixing with the salt air.
For a heartbeat, he thought the storm itself had answered the words, the wind howling like some ancient voice raised in warning.
Snapping the notebook shut, he pressed it to his chest.
Above, boots pounded across the deck, ropes strained, and Ashford's voice barked steady orders against the chaos. The Daedalus lurched, throwing Jack against the bulkhead.
He stuffed the book into his coat, eyes flicking upward as if he could see through to the storm.
They were close. Too close. His father had written of storms like this—unnatural ones, conjured to turn back any who sought the ruins.
Gripping the rail, Jack whispered through clenched teeth:
"Damn it, Father… what did you drag me into?"
On the Deck
The foredeck was half-hidden in spray and shadow, sailors fighting to haul down the mast before the gale tore it apart.
A man in black stood among them, serpent mask gleaming faintly whenever lightning split the sky. Beyond the sheets of rain, a dark silhouette of land swam into view, blurred by mist and lightning.
He slipped a hand into his coat and drew out a pocket watch. Its cover gleamed with the serpent devouring its own tail.
"The first trial is here," he murmured, his voice lost to the storm. "What will you do now, Jack Hale?"
The Daedalus shuddered as another wave struck broadside. Water surged across the planks, soaking boots and sweeping ropes into the sea.
Above, the mainsail cracked like a cannon shot, lines thrashing like whips.
A sailor shouted over the storm:
"We're heading for the rocks—turn her!"
Sena Lancer was already among the crew, her hands locking around a rope. The gale nearly tore her from her feet, but she leaned into the wind with teeth bared.
"Pull harder!" she cried to the sailor beside her. "If the mast goes, it'll tear the ship apart!"
The men cast her wary glances—women did not belong on a storm-tossed deck—but she ignored them. Fear for the crew outweighed propriety.
Her braid snapped like a banner behind her as she fought against the storm.
Not far away, Evelyn Fairchild clung white-knuckled to the rail, her yellow gown plastered to her frame, the soaked fabric tugging against the wood.
"Sena—let go!" she cried, her voice breaking.
But the rope burned Sena's palms, her arms screaming in protest. Just as her grip began to fail, another pair of hands clamped onto the line behind hers.
"Hold steady!" a deep voice thundered.
Sena twisted. Reginald Arthur Ashford stood braced against the railing, his scarred face set like carved stone, his whole frame anchoring the rope.
For a heartbeat, hope surged.
Then came the crack.
The rope snapped with a gunshot pop, lashing the air. The mast lurched, timbers groaning in agony.
With no time to think, Ashford lunged, grabbing both Sena and Evelyn as the deck pitched. He locked his arms around them, pressing them against the rail as the Daedalus heaved toward ruin.
Lightning split the sky. For an instant, the serpent-masked man was gone—vanished into the storm as if he had never been there.
Below the Deck
Jack fought his way through the chaos. The Daedalus listed hard, seawater flooding down the passageways in sudden torrents.
He staggered, clutching at iron beams as crates broke free and slammed against the walls. Sailors shouted over the groaning of the ship's bones, their voices drowned by the storm's fury.
Then came a sound that froze his blood—
a shriek of rending metal.
The hull gave way, torn open by jagged rocks hidden beneath the waves.
A roar of freezing seawater exploded into the corridor, sweeping men and cargo alike toward the gaping wound.
Jack reached desperately for something—anything—to hold. His fingers brushed slick wood, then nothing.
The torrent ripped him from his feet, slamming him against the bulkhead before dragging him helplessly down the collapsing passage.
The current seized him, hurling him into the open sea.
Silence swallowed everything.
The cold clamped around him like iron, crushing the air from his chest. His lungs screamed, his body convulsing for breath. Darkness closed in—until a flicker seared across his mind.
Not the storm. Not the sea.
Something else.
A soldier, bronze shield raised against an army wreathed in flame.
A craftsman, hammer striking sparks from a gear marked with spirals.
A priest, hands trembling as he whispered oaths to a machine crowned in smoke and steel.
A sailor, steering into a burning horizon.
Visions slammed into him—sharp, alien, and endless.
They weren't dreams. They felt too real, like memories stolen from strangers who had lived and died long before him.
Jack tried to scream, but the sea filled his throat.
And then—something darker.
From the abyss, a colossal silhouette loomed. Broad shoulders, horns curling upward, a body of iron and steam.
The water shimmered with its heat, and its furnace eyes blazed red as they locked onto him.
Jack's heart thundered in raw terror. This was no dream. This was a nightmare given form.
His last breath escaped in silver bubbles. His limbs went slack, his vision collapsed to black.
The visions shattered, leaving only the storm's roar muffled far above.
And Jack surrendered to the dark.