Rain pattered against the pier, thunder striking overhead. Ships of all sizes arrived from over the horizon, some with large sails, others so small they barely stayed afloat in the rocking water.

One of the medium-sized sailboats docked at its pier, and several men stepped off. However, one crew member stood out. A young man, taller than the rest, but lithe and agile in contrast to their sturdy muscles. He didn’t carry any big crates of fish, but instead, he carried a satchel on his shoulder and a horizon-measuring tool in his hand. Despite the hat he wore, his dark hair was damp with the rain.

Maël Blanchet was a young man that studied nautical navigation at the Collège nautique de Bretagne, a university dedicated to marine biology and seafaring. He was tall, pale, and thin-bodied, and frequently dressed in the sort of fashion that was popular in the time—breeches, waistcoats, and leather shoes. He came from an affluent family, after all.