Chapter 206

“…Ah.”

The vessel drifted slowly, its massive frame nearing the shoreline of Worthing as the heavy thrum of the engines gradually died away. The sea remained a serene expanse of dark indigo, mirroring the vast, starlit sky above. In the distance, the pastoral silhouette of the fishing village emerged from the gloom, dotted here and there with the faint, rhythmic twinkling of lanterns.

Everything was bathed in peace.

Yet there I stood—awkward, ill-fitted, and solitary. I felt like a jagged piece of static, a sudden, discordant noise piercing the otherwise perfect harmony of the world.

I was dazed, my mind reeling with the sensation of having missed a step in the dark, intensified a hundredfold. When the fog finally began to lift from my senses, I realized I was not alone.

“Lord Nemo,” a voice whispered.

The sailors on the deck were frozen, caught mid-motion as they prepared to disembark. Oitotan and Philip stood among them, their faces etched with alarm. Oitotan approached, his expression heavy with concern, and extended an arm. I didn’t resist; I leaned my swaying, leaden body against him for support.

“Do I truly look… that unwell?” I asked, my voice barely audible.

“Yes,” Oitotan replied, forgoing any pretense of courtly etiquette.

A weary, reflexive chuckle escaped my lips. I reached into my mind and began flipping the switch—on and off, again and again—resetting my psyche like a malfunctioning machine. Slowly, the world began to regain its focus. I listened to the murmurs rippling through the crew and nodded, my resolve hardening.

“As soon as we have secured our fuel from Worthing, we move,” I commanded. “We depart tomorrow. For France.”

A wave of agitation swept over the men at the sudden order, yet not a single voice rose in protest. Not one soul dared to argue. Though few among them were old enough to remember the events of twenty-six years ago, they seemed to grasp the gravity of the situation through an unspoken, collective instinct.

Twenty-six years ago, in a place my old world called Delaware, I had witnessed the doom of the Lenape. I had seen the coming of the hurricane. Though I did not speak of what I had just seen, they all sensed that a catastrophe of similar magnitude was looming.

The crew moved with singular, disciplined purpose. Only those essential for coordinating with the locals set foot on land; the rest remained on board, preparing for the grueling voyage ahead. I retreated to my cabin, collapsing onto the bed and forcing my heavy, burning eyes shut. The echoes of screams still vibrated in my ears, and sleep proved to be a stubborn, elusive thing.

When the next morning finally broke, I rose and straightened my bedding with mechanical precision, exhaling a long, shuddering breath. I had to strip away the complexity and focus on the cold facts. For reasons unknown, a disaster was set to strike the Tuileries Palace. Henri IV, Eleanor, and the other Covenant members would be caught in the heart of it.

Knock. Knock.

“The preparations are complete, My Lord. But… when you say we head for France, where specifically—”

I gave the destination without a second of hesitation. The sailor tilted his head in confusion, but he promptly hurried off to relay the command to the captain.

Less than a day later, I stood at the bow, watching the distant silhouette of Le Havre rise from the horizon. The distance was just over a hundred kilometers—a trivial span for a steamship of our caliber.

“We shall dock at the harbor in Le Havre, and then—” the captain began, but I cut him off. He bowed his head, meeting my eyes as if searching for the logic behind my next command. I leaned in and whispered into his ear.

K-RUUUUUUMBLE!

“Aaaaagh!”

“Good God! Mon Dieu!“

In an instant, the citizens of Le Havre were sent into a state of blind, gibbering panic.

***

Eleanor Dare was no longer the trembling young woman who had once stood nervously in Elizabeth’s court. She glided through the corridors of the French palace with an effortless grace, balancing the intricate demands of Gallic etiquette with a quiet, practiced authority. When she reached a particular set of doors, the attendant stationed there knocked on her behalf.

“Your Majesty, Lady Dare requests an audience.”

“Let her in.”

As the heavy doors swung open, Eleanor entered and offered a deep bow to Henri IV and the Duke of Sully.

“Your Majesty,” she began, “have you been abstaining from meat as we— ah!”

She darted across the room, snatching a bottle of wine from the table between the two men. Henri, his hand still extended toward the spot where the bottle had been, let out a dry, incredulous laugh.

“Ha! Really now!”

“Your Majesty, I was very clear. If you do not distance yourself from heavy meats, white breads, and wine, you will see no improvement in your condition.”

“And so, this morning, I forced down rye bread and fish like some beggarly serf,” Henri grumbled, though his eyes lacked their usual bite. “I actually felt pity for myself.”

“You did well. Continue this path, and you may find yourself with several more years of life.”

“…”

“I have also seen to it that the enema equipment has been removed,” Eleanor added firmly. “It is a prescription that offers no benefit to your constitution.”

“Well… I suppose I can appreciate that much. Hooo! Look at this, Maximilien. Look at the life I’m forced to lead these days.”

Maximilian de Béthune, the Duke of Sully, merely shrugged. “I have no words, Sire. Regardless, is it not true that you are showing improvement?”

Henri found himself unable to retort. By eating sparingly and simply, the nagging pains in his limbs had begun to vanish, and the persistent dizziness in his head had faded. His body felt lighter, and his complexion had taken on a healthy, vibrant hue. It was a feat no other physician had managed to achieve.

“What is the use of a long life if all joy is stripped from it?” he muttered, though even he could not deny the reality of his recovery.

Despite his complaints, Eleanor remained resolute. She was no ordinary commoner; she was a high-ranking official, a diplomat, and an invited guest of the realm. Her bearing was regal, and Henri respected her enough to refrain from further protest.

The day’s routine began. Eleanor measured the King’s blood pressure, guided him through various exercises, and ensured he consumed a specially prepared “slow-aging” vegetable tonic. It was this disciplined, if begrudging, adherence to her regimen that had sparked rumors throughout the capital regarding the King’s remarkable recovery.

“We are finished for now! Well done, Your Majesty!”

“A ‘Saint of London,’ they call you,” Henri mused as he wiped his brow. “I think ‘governess’ would be a more accurate title.”

“This is a Catholic nation, Sire,” Eleanor countered with a faint smile. “You need not concern yourself with what the Anglicans might say.”

“That is… a remarkably precise point.”

Henri IV washed and changed from his light exercise attire into his formal robes. As Sully and Eleanor watched him with satisfied expressions, a servant suddenly burst into the room. Exhausted from his workout, Henri glared at the man with irritation, prompting the servant to hastily adjust his posture.

“Your—Your Majesty! A massive, unidentified vessel has suddenly arrived at Le Havre!”

“Is that all?” Henri snapped. “Tell the Mayor of Le Havre to handle it. I am far too busy—”

“Sire, the vessel attempted to enter the Seine and has become wedged! It is stuck fast in the riverbank, and the citizens are in an absolute state of chaos!”

“What? How is that even poss—”

“Your Majesty! Your Majesty!”

Another servant scrambled into the room, gasping for breath. He didn’t even stop to offer the proper salutations, his voice rising in a panicked shriek.

“The mysterious giant ship in Le Havre…!”

“The man standing next to you already told me,” Henri interrupted dryly.

“…The Crown Prince of the Continental Covenant has emerged from it!”

At that news, the Duke of Sully choked, spraying a mouthful of the wine he had been surreptitiously sipping. Eleanor and Henri could only stand there, their mouths agape in stunned silence.

***

“What on earth is that? Is it even a ship?”

“Is it on fire? Look at the smoke coming from those pipes!”

The harbor was a scene of utter bedlam as thousands of citizens converged on the mouth of the Seine to catch a glimpse of the intruder. From the deck of the Nautilus, we watched them in return. Oitotan sipped a cup of coffee at my side, his voice calm despite the surrounding madness.

“Plowing a ship straight into the bank of the Seine… truly, a move of absolute insanity. Not to mention a ‘Noble Heir’ of a foreign nation arriving in person without so much as a word of prior notice.”

“And?” I asked. “What do you think of it?”

“I love it,” Oitotan replied with a smirk.

I expected as much. This was the fruit of the Oitotan-style solution: when a problem arises, when time is of the essence, and when deliberation is a luxury you cannot afford—you do something completely and utterly mad.

It had been surprisingly difficult to cause just enough damage to ground the Nautilus without compromising her hull. But we had succeeded. The sheer, monstrous majesty of the vessel, jutting out into the Seine, had left the populace paralyzed with awe and terror.

As I regained my composure, the Mayor of Le Havre approached, bowing low and keeping his gaze directed toward my chest in a gesture of profound respect.

“Your Highness, it is… an incomparable honor for our city to host you. The citizens are in awe of your perfect French and your refined carriage, and they tremble at the sheer majesty of the Nautilus.”

“Think nothing of it,” I replied smoothly.

“However, we are entirely unprepared. We lack the facilities to properly host a royal of your stature—”

“I shall remain on this vessel. It is more than sufficient for my needs.”

“…”

“As the ship has sustained certain… complications, it seems we will be unable to depart for some time.”

The Mayor looked as though he were barely holding onto his sanity, having been handed the political equivalent of a live grenade: an unannounced foreign Crown Prince. Taking pity on him, I presented him with gifts of Joseon porcelain and Chinese silk before dismissing him.

“And now, My Lord,” Oitotan asked once we were alone, “what exactly do you intend to do here?”

“Hmm? Nothing in particular.”

“Pardon?”

It was difficult to endure the look Oitotan and Philip were giving me—as if I were the madman. Coming from a father-son duo of coup-plotters and ledger-forgers! I kept my thoughts to myself, taking another sip of my coffee.

“We wait,” I said.

***

“Summon Louis immediately. It is only fitting that he accompanies me. The meeting of two Crown Princes will make for a magnificent spectacle.”

Henri rose with renewed vigor, donning his heavy coat as servants scurried in and out of the room to execute his commands. The Duke of Sully handed the King his cane.

“Your Majesty? Do you truly intend to travel there personally?”

Henri nodded, a vibrant, energetic smile spreading across his face. “Of course. When else would I step before my people to calm their fears and demonstrate my vitality if not now?”

“May… may I accompany you as well?” Eleanor asked. “I feel I must be there to assist Lord Nemo… I mean, His Highness.”

“By all means, Lady Dare! Let us prepare the procession at once!”

Henri moved with a level of energy that would have been unthinkable for the dying old man he had been only months ago. Between his sudden recovery and the arrival of a foreign prince, the Tuileries Palace was in a state of joyous uproar. Under the King’s direct supervision, everything was coordinated with lightning speed: a magnificent procession of carriages and favorites, replete with all the ornate ceremony the French court could muster, was readied within days.

And so, Henri departed for Le Havre.

“…The apostate King is on the move. What is the plan?”

“A grand procession, perhaps, but a hastily assembled one.”

“Do you intend to target the Covenant’s Crown Prince as well?”

“Perhaps. I have heard from merchants that their church actually defends the Catholics…”

The conspirators, gathered in the shadows, dispersed once more. With daggers concealed within their sleeves, they set out for Le Havre.

It seemed blood was destined to flow at the mouth of the Seine.