The high sea swell off the coast of Havre was heavy and iron-grey under a low, blanketed autumn sky. Three hundred miles south of the English Channel, the Vanguard rode the long Atlantic rollers at a steady twelve knots, her twin quad-expansion engines humming in deep, subterranean synchronization.
In the high chartroom behind the bridge, the air was warm, smelling of brass polish, bitter black tea, and dry parchment.
Elara Vance stood at the drafting table, her dark charcoal wool coat unbuttoned at the throat, her silver-grey eyes fixed on a thick, silk-bound scroll that lay flat between two brass paperweights. The scroll was made of heavy, unbleached cream mulberry paper, woven with red silk thread along its margins. It bore no corporate mark or European bank seal—only a single, deep crimson wax impression featuring a double-headed crane resting upon an iron balance.
