After reading the cryptic Latin quote, Jack turned the page. More words, also in Latin, stared back at him.
He read slowly, the translation forming in his mind:
"They called it the Aegis—not a shield of bronze, but a living engine of the gods. When Zeus raised it upon the battlefield, the skies broke with thunder, and all who looked upon it trembled. Armies scattered, kings bent the knee, and not a single blade could touch the one who bore it.
The poets say it was forged from the hide of a monstrous serpent and edged with bronze. But the oldest tablets speak of something else—spirals of fire and water bound into metal, gears hidden beneath plates of gold, a machine that could both protect and destroy.
Those who faced the Aegis did not merely see a shield. They felt dread coil in their hearts, as though the earth itself warned them to flee. To hold the Aegis was to hold dominion. To wield it without wisdom was to invite ruin."
Jack's fingers tightened on the page. His father hadn't just written about the Aegis—he had seen it, or at least believed he had.
The next sheet was covered in sketches: spiraling glyphs, fractured tablets, and a map of an island ringed with jagged cliffs.
Written at the top was a name Jack knew instantly—Santorini (Thera).
Beneath it, in dark, hurried ink:
Ruins of Atlantis.
A chill ran down Jack's spine. Atlantis—the myth his father had obsessed over, the obsession that had driven him to vanish—was laid out here as though it were real.
As he flipped more pages, he noticed something unsettling: not all the text was in Latin.
Greek, Hebrew, and even stranger scripts—angular and mechanical—filled the margins.
It wasn't random. It was a puzzle, a key for someone clever enough to follow it.
Jack leaned back, the tavern's noise fading into a dull hum. His father's notebook wasn't a record. It was a map, and somehow, Jack felt it was meant for him.
A Few Days Later
(A/N: Jabari Kante did not go with Jack because, technically, he was the head butler of Hale Manor, even though Jack refused to live there. He will later appear in the next adventure.)
Jack stood at the harbor with a heavy duffel bag hanging on his left shoulder, staring at the massive ship.
Painted across its iron nose in bold white letters was its name: The Daedalus.
The vessel was a hybrid of steam and sail—a dark, iron-bellied hull reinforced with riveted plates, built to withstand the open ocean.
Two towering masts stretched skyward, square-rigged sails furled tight, backed by a midships steam engine whose smokestack belched a plume of black coal smoke into the gray sky.
The air was thick with salt and smog. Dockworkers shouted as they hauled crates aboard, steam hissing from the ship's iron belly.
Jack followed the line of sailors along the fog-slick pier, his boots echoing on the planks.
And then, through the bustle, he saw her.
She stood near the ramp leading to the ship, her leather duster hugging close, fitted in a way that suggested strength rather than frailty—more muscle and curve than the fragile silhouettes of London's high-society women.
Her stance was steady, hips set firm. Knee-high boots laced tight, built for climbing ruins rather than strolling cobblestones.
A satchel and brass harness crossed her chest, tools and journals clinking softly at her side.
But it wasn't just the tools that caught Jack's eye. A revolver rested on her hip, its polished grip catching the weak morning light.
Not decoration. Not a gentleman's trinket. She wore it like someone who knew how to use it.
Strapped across her back, a short climbing pick gleamed faintly, completing the impression of a woman prepared for anything.
Her chestnut braid snapped in the harbor wind.
But it was her eyes—hazel, sharp, unflinching—that held him. She didn't look like she was waiting to sail. She looked like she already belonged to the horizon.
Before Jack's thoughts could wander further, a familiar voice called from behind.
"Jack finally found a woman he's interested in."
Jack turned. Standing behind him was a tall, broad-shouldered man. Age and hard labor had trimmed his once-powerful frame, but he still carried himself with military stiffness—a habit that had never left him.
His stride was calm and measured, the walk of someone who had seen battle and survived.
His gray hair was cropped short, a neat officer's mustache lining his upper lip. A faded scar traced along his jaw, the mark of old campaigns.
Reginald Arthur Ashford—once a decorated officer in the Royal Navy, now reduced to working among dockhands and laborers.
To Jack, he was a mentor, a teacher, and often, an unwelcome voice of reason.
Jack's eyes flicked back toward the woman as another figure joined her: a second woman, dressed in a bright yellow gown, frills and all, completely out of place on these docks.
A society girl. Jack almost laughed.
"Not now, old man," Jack muttered, still staring as the first woman ascended the ramp onto the ship. "Can't you see I'm busy?"
Ashford shifted a heavy crate onto his shoulder with ease, his scar pulling as he smirked.
"Busy staring, you mean. And what am I doing here? Making sure you don't throw yourself into trouble headfirst. Someone has to take care of you. Besides—" he nodded toward the ship "—I'm the one who gave you those flyers. Couldn't let my only student sail off on a grand adventure without me."
Jack grunted, grabbing a crate of his own and heaving it onto his shoulder. He started toward the ramp.
"Did Jabari put you up to this?" he asked over his shoulder.
Ashford's smirk widened as he followed. "Let's just say, between the two of us, you're not the only one with something to prove."