Chapter 1: The Call Through the Fog

A thick fog clung to Lis Port like a damp, grey shroud, as if intent on swallowing the harbor and all its secrets whole. The air was a heavy mix of briny seawater and the acrid stench of burning coal; every breath felt like a plunge into ice.

Isabella Fairfax stood on the narrow deck of the pilot boat. The sea breeze whipped rain against her face, each drop stinging like a tiny needle. In her hand, the compass needle shivered in place, hesitating under the pressure of magnetic interference.

Visibility was less than fifty meters. Ahead lay a chaotic blur of grey and white, where the dark silhouette of the steamship *The Alpe* flickered in and out of the mist. The deep, guttural blast of its foghorn slammed into her eardrums, leaving a dull ache in her chest.

Isabella took the envelope. It felt coarse, smelling of cheap tobacco and ink, with a faint, lingering trace of perfume—something like expensive lilies, but laced with a cloying, rotting sweetness. She tore it open to find a brass ring inside. Its inner band was etched with intricate patterns, the lines sharp and deep.

The chill of the metal shot from her fingertips straight to her palm, a coldness that seemed to seep through the skin and settle in her marrow, numbing her fingers instantly. Engraved on the inside was an iris emblem—the exclusive crest of the Fairfax Family Crest.

Yet, the family genealogy had never mentioned a single sailor, let alone anyone who would own such a crude piece of metal jewelry. The ring felt like a flawed metaphor, pointing toward a truth that had been systematically erased.

The steamship’s response lagged by three seconds before a heavy grinding of metal echoed across the water. The bow turned slowly, like a breaching whale, avoiding the reef zone to the left. On the docks, a crew of laborers wrapped in oilskin raincoats hoisted megaphones; raucous cheers in French pierced the fog, mingling with the roar of engines and the chaos of shouting voices.

Isabella didn't look back. She folded her nautical chart, her fingertips leaving faint marks on the damp parchment—the trail of a single drop of cold sweat. The satisfaction of a precise docking was fleeting; it was nothing compared to the suffocating unknown looming before her.

She cut the communication channel. The pilot boat’s engine died, leaving only the gurgling sound of the propeller churning the muddy water, which sounded unnervingly hollow in the sudden silence.

Walking through the cobblestone streets of the Old Town, the rain sliced diagonally into her collar. Cold water slid down her spine, sending a violent shiver through her. The heavy oak doors of Fairfax Manor were shut tight, the paint peeling in jagged flakes to reveal the grey grain beneath. Tucked under the door gap was a brown kraft envelope without a stamp, as if someone had intentionally left it there to be found.

Hans, the butler, stood in the shadows. His uniform was pressed to a razor edge, buttoned all the way to the chin—completely out of place in the damp, decaying surroundings, like a ghost drifted in from another era. Upon seeing Isabella, he gave a slight, stiff bow. He didn't step forward to greet her; he simply stepped aside to clear the path, his eyes cold and vacant.

Under the dim candlelight of the study, Isabella placed the ring beside the family ledger. The candle flame flickered in the draft, stretching her shadow into something long and distorted. It had been ten years since *The Grey Port* vanished. Every file regarding the captain had been redacted, blackened out as if the man had never existed. Only the memories, forced into oblivion, continued to scream in the dead of night.

She picked up the phone and dialed Charles Ashworth. It rang twice before he picked up. In the background, the noisy jazz of a Berlin bar filtered through—the saxophone melody carried a decadent laziness that clashed violently with the tension in the room.

When she hung up, the rain intensified, drumming against the glass with a sharp, rhythmic snapping sound. Isabella left the manor and sought shelter at a bus stop. People hurried past her, a sea of overlapping umbrellas; no one noticed the soaked tips of her shoes. A black sedan pulled up silently by the curb, the window rolling down halfway to reveal Sophia Radcliffe.

Her makeup was flawless. She tapped a finger against an expensive manicure—the polish a jarring, eerie crimson that stood out sharply against the grey gloom of the city.

Sophia narrowed her eyes. She wasn't looking ahead, but staring at a faint, almost invisible red dot to her left—the dying light of St. Nicholas Lighthouse, looking lonely yet resolute in the thick fog. The tide tables indicated high tide would arrive in fifteen minutes; currently, the current was pushing east at 0.5 meters per second.

She adjusted the rudder angle. It was a minute movement, but enough to counteract the ship's drifting inertia. The tiller trembled slightly in her hand—a clash of raw power and sheer will.

Isabella felt a wave of vertigo. If this ring belonged to the missing captain, yet bore the Fairfax Family Crest—a family that supposedly had "no sailors"—then the logic chain was broken.

Either this was a forgery, and someone was playing her for a fool, or the Fairfax family harbored a secret deeper and darker than she ever imagined—a secret that allowed them to fake their identities, dive into the deep sea, and manipulate life and death.

"This is the Fairfax crest," Hawthorne’s voice was a low rasp, as if he were afraid of waking the shadows in the corner. "Miss Isabella, do you realize what this means? The Fairfaxes have lived in inland manors for generations. Not one of them has ever set foot in the maritime trade, let alone become a captain.

Their blood flows with the laws and dignity of the land, not the freedom and death of the ocean."

"And one more thing," Hawthorne suddenly leaned in, his voice dropping, his eyes flashing with an undeniable urgency. "Inside the ring, next to the crest, is a tiny number. '1840.' That was the year your grandfather, old Thomas, sailed on *The Grey Port* for the last time. It was the year he 'died.'

But the craftsmanship of this metal... this was clearly polished within the last ten years."

Isabella didn't argue. She simply placed the rain-soaked, ice-cold sailor's ring in the center of the dust-covered counter. Hawthorne narrowed his eyes, his cloudy pupils circling the ring before a look of almost fanatical awe crossed his face. He donned gloves, handling the ring as if it were a holy relic, lifting it to the light for a closer look.

Isabella snatched the ring back and bolted for the door. Just as she yanked it open, Hawthorne added coldly from behind her: "Don't believe any talk of 'personal effects.' Tucked into the lining of page three of the *Maritime Code* is a list. It is the final gift your grandfather left you—and the key to hell."

Hawthorne didn't answer immediately. He carefully flipped the ring, using the dim glow of the oil lamp to point out a microscopic, yet perfectly preserved, notch on the inner wall. It wasn't an official or personal mark, but a complex emblem—two facing Xiezhi beasts holding a broken sword, encircled by an Ouroboros.

"The rain has stopped outside," Hawthorne said suddenly, his tone turning grave. "But I suspect for some things, the rain is only just beginning. Henry Fairfax is currently in the church bell tower three blocks from here. He isn't waiting for the rain to stop; he's waiting for the prey to walk into the trap. And right now, you are the fuse."

Late at night, the sign for Hawthorne's Used Bookstore creaked in the wind like a skeleton stripped of its flesh. Isabella pushed the door open, greeted by a wave of damp mildew and the scent of decaying old paper. The proprietor, Mr. Hawthorne, stood with a hunched back, polishing a dim oil lamp with a piece of buckskin.

"I'm being watched," Charles finally spoke, his voice hoarse and laced with suppressed terror. "The Colonial Archives Bureau is squeezing me for an alibi. Without that ring, I'm the scapegoat. Isabella, don't trust Sophia. She is the instrument of Henry's will."

Isabella's heart hammered against her ribs. Her grandfather was dead, the captain had vanished, and yet the Fairfax crest had appeared on a modern imitation of a sailor's ring. This meant that for the last decade, someone had been meticulously orchestrating a scam across time—or a vendetta.

"Miss Isabella," Sophia smiled, though her gaze was like a blade, coldly slicing through the air. "Mr. Henry is willing to pay two hundred thousand Swiss francs for your assistance in handling some... personal items. Giving up that ring is the wisest choice you could make."

Isabella stared at the trembling hand, her voice steady. "I came for the truth, not to flaunt a trophy. Why is Henry Fairfax making a comeback? Just how big is the secret hidden in that ring?"

"Because you're the only one who can crack the code. They want you to do the dirty work." Charles's tone was urgent. The music in the background cut out for a split second, as if someone had approached him. "Be careful. They're more dangerous than they look."

"Contractual spirit implies trust, Sophia," Isabella replied calmly. Her voice wasn't loud, but it cut through the sound of the rain. "And your employer is trying to sign a contract using fear. That's not a business I'm interested in."

"The captain of *The Grey Port*," Hawthorne murmured, his fingers trembling as he brushed the inside of the ring. "Missing for ten years. Everyone assumed he was a corpse in the surges of the North Sea. But you... how did you get this?"

"You're here. Seven minutes later than agreed," Hawthorne's voice was raspy, like sandpaper on rough wood. "In this place, time is money—and it's a lifeline."

Pressed to the bottom of the envelope was a note, the handwriting scribbled and the ink blurred: *Tomorrow night, Zurich Old Book Street, 'Hawthorne's'. Bring the ring. — Richard Hawthorne.*

Sophia's smile froze. A flash of coldness crossed her eyes. "You'll regret refusing a kindness. Some doors, once closed, never open again."

Isabella looked at her. Rain dampened the ends of her hair, clinging to her cheeks, cold and heavy. She felt her heart racing, but her expression remained a mask of calm.

"Left three degrees," she commanded calmly into the radio headset, her voice fragmented by static, sounding like glass grinding against grit.

"The mistress is out," Hans's voice was low, mechanical and flat, like sandpaper on wood. "This was just delivered to the door."

"Sophia? Why is Henry looking for me?" Isabella pressed, her knuckles white from gripping the receiver.

"Charles," Isabella's voice turned hard. "That ring—do you know who else is looking for it?"

There was a long silence on the other end, only the hiss of static, as if something were closing in.

The air froze instantly, colder than the winter night outside.

The wind swept a surge of damp fog into the shop, making the oil lamp flicker. Isabella vanished into the curtain of rain, while Hawthorne stared at the empty counter. He slowly pulled a heavy volume of the *Maritime Code* from the shelf behind him and with trembling fingers, flipped to page three. Tucked inside was a yellowed telegram draft.

The recipient's name was Isabella.