It was really, really nice to be dry.

Mandricardo didn't consider himself a pampered sort of guy- not by any stretch of the imagination. After all, a man who gave up a royal crown in favour of wandering across the world couldn't really be called so. But that didn't mean he enjoyed being soggy. Or cold. Or soaked in saltwater like a forgotten low-salt Tatar cucumber.

Thankfully, salvation had come swiftly.

After their abrupt and deeply unpleasant summoning into the middle of the ocean, it had taken Bartholomew all of thirty seconds to remedy the situation. With his hands dramatically raised and his voice full of flamboyant flair, the pirate activated his noble phantasm and summoned Royal Fortune- a grand, baroque-styled galleon adorned with ornate golden carvings, rows of billowing sails and more cannons than strictly necessary or even possible for a single vessel.

Mandricardo recognized it instantly- the new argonauts had sailed this very ship together during their harrowing journey through the Atlantic Losbelt, Royal Fortune serving as an invaluable asset during their battle against Odysseus' fleet.

In the blink of an eye, the entire group of Servants had gone from awkwardly bobbing in the water to standing on a perfectly polished deck, greeted by the eerily silent assistant that came with Bartholomew's noble phantasm. Mandricardo still wasn't sure what was the exact nature of the tall, bespectacled man without personality that officially served as Bartholomew's "second-in-command", but the construct brought them all towels, so he didn't really mind its presence.

He was simply grateful. And mostly dry. That was enough to be grateful on its own.

Jason, on the other hand, was not handling things with such grace.

"Damn it! Why doesthatstupid pirate get to summon his ship, and I don't?!"

Jason stormed across the main deck in a tantrum of theatrical proportions, soaked from head to toe and flailing his arms like a conductor trying to lead a symphony of seagulls. His attire clung to his frame like wet tissue paper, and his hair—normally coiffed with the care—now hung in limp, soggy strands across his face, his eyes barely visible from beneath.

Bartholomew, by contrast, was a vision of poise. Already dry (somehow), he lounged lazily against the railing, one boot propped up, a serene smile on his face like he hadneveronce been tossed into the sea. He looked entirely at home, the kind of man who would host tea parties in the middle of a cannon barrage.

"You should really calm down, Jason," Bartholomew said, voice smooth as velvet. "I know you've got bangs now, but sadly, it doesn't do anything for me. You're not a woman, after all."

He paused thoughtfully.

"…Actually, that's not true. Bangs are universally attractive. Maybe you should grow your hair out a little more, Jason."

"Shut up, you creep!" Jason snapped, practically wrapping his arms around himself in horror, as though Bartholomew had just proposed marriage on the he could launch into another tirade, however, Charlotte Corday appeared beside him like a bullet of maternal energy armed with a towel. With absolutely zero hesitation, the woman lunged at Jason's head with a speed that would put even King Hassan to shame and began drying his hair with all the tenderness of a whirlwind.

"Wha—Corday? Stop—HEY! I can do it myself!" Jason shouted, trying to back away, but Charlotte had already locked onto him like a determined big sister cleaning up her younger sibling after a mudslide.

"You'll get sick like this," she said cheerfully, vigorously rubbing the towel into his scalp with such force that Jason's knees buckled slightly.

"I'm not a child!" he protested, arms flailing in panic. "Ow—wait, that's myeye! Are you trying to reach my brain with that towel?!"

"Stay still." she ordered, happily ignoring him as she moved on to scrubbing his cheeks with a level of enthusiasm that bordered on violence.

By the time she was done, Jason's hair was puffed up like a freshly dried sheepdog, his expression dazed and vaguely traumatized. He sat there motionless, as if trying to process the whirlwind that had just hit him.

Mandricardo would have laughed, but one glance at Corday's face, and the chuckle died in his throat. There was a dangerous glint in her eye, the kind that promised she wasn't done yet. She turned from Jason with precision only an Assassin could wield, towel folded in her hands like a bare weapon, scanning the rest of the crew like a predator seeking its next mark.

The more rational members of the group, Mandricardo included, immediately took the hint and started cleaning themselves up with most haste. The only one who hadn't caught on was Paris. The young Archer was happily engaged in a conversation with Apollo, his very own divine guardian/predator, completely unaware of the doom approaching on soft footsteps.

Mandricardo made the tactical decision to turn his back, close his eyes, and pretend he heard absolutely nothing. Whatever screams and distressed bleating echoed behind him were not his business.

Eventually, with most of the crew dried—either by their own efforts or through surviving Corday's assault—the group moved into the captain's quarters to discuss their next move.

The room was a lavish blend of nautical opulence and flamboyant flair. Rich mahogany wood panels framed velvet-upholstered chairs, golden trim curled along the edges of the furniture, and scattered maps gave the impression of purpose amidst all the indulgence. In the back of the room stood a grand desk, behind of which was the captain's throne- a plush, overstuffed seat that Jason threw himself into with all the possessiveness of a housecat its favourite cardboard box.

As the crew filed in, claiming seats around the room with varying levels of comfort and grace—Achilles lounging with his boots on the nearby table, Chiyome kneeling on the floor like a weirdo—Jason rose with theatrical flourish and slammed both palms onto the table.

"My Argonauts—" he began, gesturing to the room with the flair of a stage actor. "—I want you all to apologize."

Mandricardo blinked.

He knew he wasn't the sharpest blade in the scabbard when it came to social cues, but he was pretty sure no one had done anything to warrant an apology yet.

He looked around to see if maybe everyone else understood what Jason was getting at, but the expressions around the table ranged from puzzled to exhausted. Good. He wasn't the only one in the dark. That would have been embarrassing.

Clearing his throat and hoping this counted as 'being involved in a conversation' Mandricardo spoke. "Uh… apologize for what, exactly?"

Jason whirled to him, scandalized.

"Do you even have to ask?! My Noble Phantasm, obviously!" He glared at the entire group as though personally betrayed by each of them. "You bastards contaminated it!"

"Contaminated…?" Charlotte echoed, tilting her head like a confused puppy.

"Yes! Contaminated!" Jason jabbed a finger at the ceiling, indignant. "It's supposed to represent my grand legend, my glorious exploits! Normally, I'd be summoning the likes of Heracles! Heracles, for crying out loud! But now? You know what I get? You guys!"

He jabbed a finger toward the group in turn, his face flushed with righteous fury.

"You all tainted my Noble Phantasm with your loyalty! All these emotional bonds you chained me with! And now it's ruined! Ruined, I say!"

Mandricardo nearly choked, not out of offense, but out of sheer bewilderment. "Wait, wait. You're mad because… we became too good of a team?"

"Exactly!" Jason shouted, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "I'm supposed to be the brilliant captain with a ship full of legendary figures! Not a captain of misfits who didn't make it to the Olympus, but found companionship along the way! You've corrupted the narrative! Apologize for making me care about you!"

If it weren't for the fact that Jason was completely, devastatingly serious, Mandicardo thought it might have actually been heartwarming.

"You're kind of an asshole, aren't you?" Orion commented airily, a lazy grin spreading across his face as he stretched his massive arms behind his head. The chair beneath him gave a tortured creak under the strain, the mountain of muscle not an easy adversary for the furniture. It held, however, proving the strength of Bartholomew's Noble Phantasm.

"Yeah, well, what else is new?" Jason scowled, before once again slapping his palms against the table. "Anyway! Now that you've all acknowledged your blunders, it's time to commence the first meeting of the Argo!"

Bartholomew raised a hand, his tone unbothered and dry. "It's the Royal Fortune, actually. I'm the one who summoned it."

Jason's eyes bulged. "It's the Argo, because I'm the captain, and I sailed long before you were even born, you flamboyant bastard!"

"Now, now…" Achilles interjected, his voice full of exasperation.

As they bickered, Mandricardo sat in the corner, arms crossed, gazing around at the oddball crew surrounding him and trying to decide what would be the right name for the relationship he had with them.

Comrades? That, they definitely were. After everything they went through in the Atlantic Lostbelt, there was no denying that. Fighting, bleeding, dying together… that made you comrades, without a doubt.

But were they friends?

Mandricardo wasn't sure. He never really felt like he belonged among legends. He was just a guy who got remembered for the worst moments of his story—a thief, a coward, a placeholder villain for bigger, better heroes to overcome, the narrative speed bump before someone better came along.

Could someone like that really call people like Achilles, Orion or Bartholomew his friends?

He sighed and dragged a hand through his hair, irritated by his thoughts. He didn't even know how to tell if someone was your friend. What did that even look like? How could you be sure?

In all his time as a Servant, he'd only felt that connection once. One person who saw past the mess of his history. Who sat with him during late-night watches and talked like he mattered. One person who treated him like a man, not a footnote.

And they wouldn't be summoned. Not while they were still alive.

Figures.

The doors creaked open, drawing him back to the present as the mute assistant stepped in, bearing a silver tray of drinks with eerie grace. Corday moved without a word, smoothly intercepting the tray and taking over the task of serving as if it was her own job in the first place.

It didn't take long for her to redistribute the beverages around the crew, a satisfied smile appearing on Corday's face as she finished the task.

Mandricardo glanced down at the bottle placed in his hand. It smelled strong and… piratey, he guessed. Rum, most likely, given the ship's host. A quick glance around the table confirmed that most of the others had received similar drinks… except for two. Jason and Paris both had steaming cups of freshly prepared tea instead.

Paris didn't seem to mind. The boy smiled brightly and thanked Corday, then sipped his tea like a polite boy he probably was in his childhood. Jason, however, glared at his cup with clear disdain.

"Hey! Corday!" he snapped. "What's this? Why do I get the kiddie cup? Give me the rum like the rest of these degenerates!"

Corday's smile didn't waver an inch. "I'm sorry, Jason. But whenever you drink alcohol, you become a useless drunk. I thought it best to preserve your dignity."

Jason recoiled as if physically struck. "What?! I know I told you to be less friendly, but this is too much, don't you think?!"

"I don't know what you mean, Captain!" she replied with the same angelic smile.

A voice from the floor interrupted, calm and composed.

"My apologies, Lord Jason," Chiyome said, speaking up from her kneeling position. Her hands were folded in her lap, posture straight, expression unreadable. "I, Mochizuki Chiyome, find the improvised comedic display moderately amusing, as I suspect the others do as well." She then glanced around the room, receiving several nods in response, before continuing. "However, it is my humble opinion that we ought to redirect this gathering to more pressing concerns. Namely, the nature of our—or rather, your—summoning, Lord Jason."

Jason, somehow managing to ignore the entire content of her statement, latched onto her way of addressing him like a starving man to bread. "See?! That's what I'm talking about! 'Lord Jason.' Finally, some proper respect! None of this destructive familiarity the rest of you insist on. She already sees me as her lord, just like a proper kunoichi like she would. Isn't that right, Chiyome?"

Chiyome inclined her head slightly, as if weighing the question.

"Indeed, Lord Jason. I believe that improper familiarity is ill-advised in professional environments. " Her voice remained completely flat. "However, I must engage in deeper meditation to determine whether you, specifically, are worthy of being my lord."

Jason blinked. "Wait, what are you-?"

"I shall contemplate it thoroughly. For the time being I shall call you 'Lord Jason' out of formal courtesy, but please await further notification in this area." She bowed again, calmly cutting him off. Then, with the same serene formality, she looked up. "Now then—may we please proceed to the matter of your summoning, Lord Jason?"

"Unbelievable…" Jason groaned, slumping back into the captain's chair. With a dismissive wave of his hand, he continued, clearly annoyed, "Truth is, I don't know why I was summoned. One moment I didn't exist, and the next—bam—I was falling out of the sky."

"The sky?" Achilles repeated, brow furrowing.

Jason's eye twitched. "Yes, the sky. And I was up high enough to get real introspective on my life and afterlife choices before gravity remembered I exist. It sucked!"

"That's… bizarre," Achilles muttered, folding his arms. "That would mean there are leylines in the sky. Which implies something's seriously off with this place." He paused, then added, "Do you even know if this is a Lostbelt or a Singularity?"

"Nope. I literally know nothing." Jason said flatly. "The only reason I know there is a purpose to this mess is because I'm a rogue Servant. The world's providing my mana—barely. And I doubt it would let me leech off it for no reason."

Bartholomew raised a brow. "So what, you've got enough juice to keep us going, or are we going to run on fumes?"

"Ehhh…" Jason grimaced. "I receive just enough to keep everyone materialized and capable of basic combat. Don't expect luxury. If you want to use anything flashy, you'll have to tap into your own reserves—like you did with the ship. Honestly, I don't care how you recharge: eat food, drink blood, find Chaldea, whore yourself out—whatever works. Once we hit dry land, feel free to get creative."

"Charming," Mandricardo muttered.

Jason pointed at him. "Hey, I didn't sign up to be a mana battery! If I drop dead from exhaustion, you'll have no one to complain to but yourselves!"

"Hmph, speaking of dry land…" Bartholomew muttered, tapping his chin thoughtfully. "…once night falls, I might be able to pinpoint our location from the stars. Assuming we're in a region I actually know."

"Oh!" Orion chimed in, stretching his arms behind his head. "If it's Greece, I can help too. I just have to look for my own handsome mug." He grinned and rubbed his chin smugly. "The Archer constellation. Modeled after yours truly. Can't miss it."

"Since you're already talking, Orion…" Achilles leaned in, raising an eyebrow. "Weren't you the Grand Archer? If you're here, maybe we are supposed to fight some sort of Beast?"

Orion awkwardly scratched the side of his face. "Ah, yeah… see, I'm not the Grand Archer anymore. I sort of… resigned?"

"You resigned?" Mandricardo asked, blinking in confusion. He didn't exactly know what happened after he stopped Artemis' shot with Durendal (He wielded Durendal! Hector himself gave him permission! How cool was that?!), being busy getting disintegrated and all, but something major must have happened if Orion lost that title. Also… wait, he'd been a Grand Servant to begin with?!

Orion nodded, still smiling.

"Yup. Gave it up to send my final message to Artemis. My status, the divine bow, Paris turning into a divine arrow—it was just enough to reach her. I have no regrets." He gestured lazily toward Jason. "And even if I hadn't stepped down, I was summoned by him, not the Counter Force. Private contract. So unless Jason's secretly the Grand Rider…"

"I am not," Jason growled, teeth clenched.

"Then," Orion finished with a shrug, "we're just a bunch of standard Servants with a normal mission to stop the end of the world. Probably. Maybe."

Jason let out a long, theatrical groan and buried his face in both hands, dragging them down his cheeks in despair. "Perfect. Just perfect. A completely random summoning with no plan, no guidance, and absolutely zero support. We're just tossed here like dice and expected to stumble into the enemy by accident."

"Well," Paris piped up brightly, completely undeterred by Jason's misery. The boy's eyes sparkled with innocent enthusiasm, and he clenched his small hands into fists in an attempt to look fierce. The effort would've been more convincing if he didn't look like a ten-year-old wrapped in ribbons, with a miniature sheep bouncing gently atop his head like a fuzzy crown. "It is kind of exciting, isn't it?"

"No," Jason said flatly, voice deadpan. "It's horrifying."

"Don't listen to him, Paris!" Apollo chimed in from atop the boy's head, his tone warm and infuriatingly chipper. "This is a grand adventure! Just like you always dreamed of! Embrace it! Smile wide! Be cute while doing it!"

"Don't try to play doting dad now, you creep," Orion said, and for once, the usual grin had vanished from his face, replaced by irritation and disgust. "Maybe worry about your actual family, like Asclepius you almost burnt in his mother's womb, before you project your twisted fetishes on Paris?"

"Orion? So harsh! You wound me!" Apollo gasped, spinning around Paris' head with exaggerated puffing motions, little clouds of cartoonish offense steaming from his sheep body. "If you keep talking like that, I'll never accept you as my brother-in-law!"

"Oh no, what a loss." Orion muttered, tone cold. "I think we burned that bridge the day you tricked your sister into killing me, you narcissistic man-child."

"Oh right! I definitely did that!" Apollo exclaimed brightly, as if just now remembering. "Well then—screw you, Orion! You are not good enough for my pure, adorable sister!"

With lightning-fast reflexes, Orion's hand shot up and snatched the sheep deity off Paris' head. In a blink, he hurled Apollo clean through the open window. The little god soared like a star in the daytime sky, disappearing beyond the horizon.

There was a brief, stunned silence.

Then, as if nothing had happened, Apollo reappeared instantly on Paris' head again—smug as ever, striking a triumphant pose with his stubby hooves raised in victory.

"Haha! You can't get rid of me that easily! You see this, Paris? We're bound! Where you go, I go! Forever and ever!"

"Gross…" Orion muttered, shuddering. He didn't make a move to throw him again, however.

Jason clapped his hands loudly, regaining control of the room by sheer force of frustration. "Focus, you imbeciles! We're stranded in the middle of nowhere with no idea when or where we are, and possibly surrounded by enemies who haven't shown themselves yet. Until we know more, we have to keep moving. We can't simply wait for the nightfall and hope any of you recognize a particularly shiny star!"

"And where should we sail then, o fearless leader?" Bartholomew asked, leaning lazily against his chair, clearly unimpressed.

Jason didn't even hesitate. He thrust his arm out dramatically, pointing to the side with the self-satisfied air of a man convinced of his own brilliance. "We are going… left!"

A beat of silence followed.

Bartholomew blinked. "Left…" Bartholomew repeated blankly. "How the hell did this guy even become a captain?"

No one answered.

But lacking any better options—and not particularly eager to remain in their place of summoning with night approaching and potential dangers lurking—they begrudgingly set sail in the direction Jason had chosen.

…Left.

As the hours slipped by, the sky gradually shifted from the radiant blue to the golden dusk and then to a deep, endless indigo. The last traces of sunlight dissolved beneath the horizon, and the open sea embraced the night with quiet reverence. Above, the sky stretched out vast and unbroken, cloudless and impossibly clear, revealing the full majesty of the stars. They glittered like tiny, ancient watchfires scattered across a canvas of black velvet—distant, eternal, and oddly comforting.

The moon reigned in the center of it all, grand and luminous, casting its silvery glow across the waves. The ocean reflected it like polished obsidian, a mirror to the heavens, each crest of water shimmering with moonlight. The ship glided across the dark surface like a ghost, its white sails tinged with silver, every rope and plank softly illuminated by the pale light.

Unfortunately for the argonauts, none of the constellations above them matched the ones they knew. It didn't mean much, however- there was a chance that they found themselves in some unfamiliar part of the world, but it was equally possible that whoever was responsible for this Singularity/Lostbelt simply didn't arrange the constellations the same way it was done in the Proper Human History. Something like that had already happened in the Atlantic Losbelt, after all.

As the Servants required no rest thanks to their nature, most of the crew was awake, scattered around the vessel. Some explored the ship's nooks and passageways, curious about their surroundings or simply killing time. Others worked on their equipment or fiddled with rituals, preparing themselves for incoming battles. Only two figures had surrendered to the sleep's embrace: Paris and Jason, who were both currently snoring in the hammocks below deck.

With his armor and shield already in pristine condition—and his only weapon being a wooden sword that hardly warranted upkeep—Mandricardo soon found himself at a loss for how to pass the time. The restless stillness that came with having nothing useful to do settled in his chest like a stone, so eventually, unable to bear the idle waiting below deck, he wandered up toward the main deck, drawn by the quiet promise of the open sea and sky.

The moment he stepped out into the night air, it washed over him like a balm. The sky stretched above in an endless canopy of stars, dazzling and delicate. Moonlight bathed the ship in a soft glow, casting gentle silver shadows across the deck and glimmering along the calm surface of the sea. The ocean around the ship was silent, save for the quiet lap of waves against the hull and the occasional creak of wood and rope.

Mandricardo then noticed he wasn't alone.

Near the ship's edge stood a tall, broad-shouldered figure, unmoving and silhouetted against the moonlight. Wind tousled his brown hair, and the curve of his back was relaxed, contemplative. Orion stood like a statue carved from the finest marble, his eyes fixed skyward—not on the stars, but on the luminous moon, which hung above the sea like a watchful eye.

Mandricardo paused, unsure for a moment if speaking to the man would be socially acceptable. Was this a moment of private reflection? Was it rude to intrude? He shifted his weight, hesitating, before deciding to risk it. He stepped closer with careful, measured steps.

"Hey, Orion," he said softly. "You out here to watch the stars too?"

Orion didn't look away from the moon, but a faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"I'm actually more interested in the moon," Orion said with an easy chuckle. "No matter how many times I look, it's always more beautiful than the last time. The shape, the glow, the way it just… hangs there with such grace. Everything about it is perfect."

Mandricardo didn't reply right away. There was something behind Orion's words, something deeper than simple stargazing. He wasn't just describing a celestial body, and considering his history…

"So, uh… safe to assume you're talking about a woman?" Mandricardo asked awkwardly, already regretting the words as they left his mouth. His voice was stiff, unsure—because really, what business did he have bringing up girls? Conversations like this always ended in embarrassment.

"Hah! You got me." Orion grinned, voice bright. "My Artemis—she's the most beautiful in the whole world. No contest. Still…" He rubbed his chin mischievously, "maybe I should do a little more research, just to be sure—hehe…"

As if in direct protest, the air around them suddenly turned cold, the sky dimming for the briefest second. The moon itself seemed to glare down with disapproval.

"Ack! I was kidding!" Orion yelped, leaping back in mock alarm, arms raised in surrender. He looked properly spooked, and yet—there was a grin tugging at his lips. A spark of giddy satisfaction danced in his eyes, like he'd gotten exactly the reaction he wanted. "Oof, close call!"

He wiped at his forehead dramatically, as if brushing off non-existent sweat, and turned his gaze to Mandricardo with a curious glint. "So? You alright? You've got that gloomy look."

Mandricardo blinked. He hadn't realized it was that obvious. He tried to keep his face neutral, but he supposed someone like Orion—someone called the greatest hunter—would pick up on even subtle tells.

"I just don't have anything to do," he replied with a half-hearted shrug. "Kinda useless while we're at sea."

It wasn't even a lie. While Bartholomew charted stars and Chiyome quietly honed her ninjutsu, Mandricardo had nothing to contribute. No planning, no spells, no craft. Even the thing he was supposed to be good at—fighting—felt lackluster beside people like Achilles.

"Yeah. I get that," Orion replied with a light smile. He jabbed a thumb at his own chest. "Look at me. I'm a hunter—good for tracking, spotting danger, shooting stuff. That's about it. On a ship in the middle of the ocean? I might as well be furniture. Sometimes it sucks being ordinary, right?"

Mandricardo didn't reply. He couldn't—not to that.

Orion might've meant well, but… there was no way someone like him could call himself ordinary. He was a demigod. Son of Poseidon. A hunter so skilled he could wrestle lions barehanded, a man whose love had captivated a goddess. A constellation had been named after him. What part of that was ordinary?

Mandricardo on the other hand?

He was a footnote in a hero's legend. A minor villain meant to be overcome. His greatest achievement was stealing Roland's sword and horse while the man was in one of his 'furioso' episodes—and even then, he didn't earn either of them. He ran from Roland, too scared to fight the knight even when the man was naked and without a weapon. In the end, he didn't even die facing one of Charlemagne's paladins. No, it was Ruggiero, the husband of one. He didn't even earn a noble end.

And that pathetic legacy carried over into his current self.

He'd been summoned into the Rider class—a class completely incompatible with his story. His mount was Brigliadoro, the very steed he once stole. The horse despised him, and frankly, Mandricardo wouldn't be surprised if it ditched him the first chance it got.

And then there was the matter of his weapon. Because of some dumb vow he made in youth—I won't wield a sword until I have Durendal!—he was stuck with a wooden blade. Yes, he could project Durendal's power through it with his Noble Phantasm… but it was still wood. It broke with every use, leaving him weaponless in the aftermath. Every time.

"I… don't think you should call yourself ordinary," he said at last, managing to sound more diplomatic than bitter.

Orion's smile faded into something quieter, more thoughtful.

"Shouldn't I?" he murmured. "I was just a guy who was good at hunting. That's it. Then I met a girl who was better. Faster, smarter, stronger. She outshone me in every way. I never caught her—not really. I just tried to walk beside her for as long as I could. That's all. I was, and always will be… just a human. A man who fell in love with the moon."

The words lingered in the air like mist.

The ship creaked gently underfoot, sails rustling in the wind. Above them, stars glittered silently, and the moon—undeterred—bathed the world in its glow.

"Being ordinary doesn't make you weak," Orion added after a pause. "It just makes you someone."

Mandricardo didn't answer right away. He didn't know how. But the tightness in his chest—something heavy and constant—eased, just a little.

Then Orion suddenly straightened and let out a theatrical groan, stretching his arms wide. "Speaking of someones, I've got some good news."

Mandricardo arched an eyebrow. "What kind of news?"

"Take a look," Orion said cheerfully, gesturing toward the open sea.

Mandricardo followed his gaze. Far on the horizon, barely distinguishable from the soft silver of the waves, something shifted. A faint silhouette against the dark. A shape.

He squinted. Even with his Servant-enhanced senses, it was hard to tell. The outline was vague, distant. A ship or an island, maybe?

"You see it?" Orion asked.

"Yeah," Mandricardo murmured. "I think so. Is it…?"

"It's a ship." Orion confirmed. "And it's flying a flag."

Mandricardo narrowed his eyes, straining to see what Orion apparently already had. "Well? What kind?"

Orion's grin widened, sly and satisfied.

"Jolly Roger." Orion's grin widened, sly and satisfied. "Looks like we can narrow down our time period."