Port of Brest, France.
June 12th, 1836.
The sea was calm that morning.
Not perfectly still, but steady enough that the harbor reflected the sky in long, broken lines. Ships moved in the distance, some anchored, others preparing to depart, but none drew attention the way the vessel at the center of the dock did.
The Rivoli.
It dominated the harbor without needing to move.
Guizot stood at the edge of the dock, his gaze fixed on it. His aide stood beside him, silent for the moment, allowing him to take it in without interruption.
The ship did not resemble anything that had existed even a decade ago.
Its hull was long and narrow compared to traditional warships, designed for speed rather than brute mass. The lines were clean, the structure refined, as if every part of it had been shaped with purpose rather than tradition. It sat lower in the water than older vessels, its profile reduced, its surfaces angled in ways that broke up its silhouette.
