Phillip arrived in Portsmouth after midday. The coastal road had been crowded with wagons, militia patrols, and merchant carts forced to slow their pace under the weight of rumors that had already spread farther than any official notice. By the time the carriage rolled through the stone arch of the Royal Dockyard, the air felt taut, like rope drawn tight around an unseen strain.
Henry stepped out first and looked around with a mix of curiosity and unease. "This place always makes me feel like I'm trespassing," he muttered.
Phillip didn't reply. His attention was fixed on the dry docks, where the hulls of half-completed ships loomed like dark ribs against the sky. The Navy was awake today in a way it hadn't been during his past visits. Men ran messages between buildings, officers walked in hurried lines instead of leisurely strides, and the air carried the sharp scent of tar, salt, and urgency.
