The deck of Hope was alive with quiet purpose.
Not loud, not chaotic—but filled with the steady rhythm of people absorbed in their work. Quills scratched against parchment. Measuring tools clicked softly. Ropes slid through gloved hands as depth was tested once more. Somewhere near the mast, two researchers debated over a set of numbers in hushed but intense voices, while a sailor nearby adjusted a sail by instinct rather than instruction.
The ship itself barely moved.
Anchored in a stretch of unusually calm water, Hope rested upon the sea as if floating on glass. The waves were small, almost lazy, rising and falling with gentle patience. There was no violent rocking, no unsettling sway. Just a slow, reassuring motion that lulled rather than disturbed.
For Luke, it was a relief.
