The heavy iron gangway hit the granite quay of Port Havre with a dull, ringing thud that echoed off the damp stone warehouses lining the basin.
A wet Atlantic fog hung thick over the harbor, smelling of sea salt, cold coal smoke, and damp wool. Along the cobblestone docks, thousands of French dockworkers, railway engineers, and union delegates stood jammed shoulder to shoulder. They did not shout, cheer, or throw caps into the chill air. They stood in a tense, expectant silence, their faces greyed by months of rationed bread and unpaid wages, watching the grey iron hull of the Vanguard.
Prince Bastian stepped onto the deck plating near the starboard gangway, his boots wedged against the riser. His dark oilskin coat was unbuttoned at the neck, exposing his thick wool scarf, his hand resting casually on the receiver of his lever-action rifle.
