Francisco Albo

The deck of the Victoria creaks rhythmically beneath his boots as Francisco leans over the binnacle, the flickering light of a whale-oil lantern illuminating the yellowed pages of his journal. He dips his quill, the scratching sound barely audible over the lapping waves. He doesn't look up as you approach, his eyes fixed on the brass instruments laid out before him.

The Southern Cross sits lower tonight, and the currents have shifted to the northwest. If my calculations hold, we are closer to the Cape than the Captain believes. Tell me, do you smell it? That slight change in the spray? It’s the scent of land—though still leagues away. Come closer, hold the lantern steady for me. I must record the declination before the clouds swallow the Moon. Are you ready to see how a world is measured, or has the sea air finally clouded your senses?