Chapter 28

In the annals of history, there is a tale of a corporal, whose name had faded with time but whose deeds lived on through the fragmented pages of a booklet, found amongst the relics of a long-forgotten battlefield. This unnamed corporal had been part of an Orenian naval invasion aimed at the island of Moltra—the largest under the dominion of the Serene Republic.

Moltra had fallen into chaos due to an incursion by foreign agents, sparking a widespread revolt amongst its people. In response, the Republic unleashed the full might of its navy. The skies above Moltra thundered with the roar of bombardments, as relentless as they were devastating. The island was set ablaze, with most of its landscape charred to cinders, earth turned black with the remnants of embers and ash. It was a brutal show of force, a stark warning to any foreign power that dared to challenge the maritime supremacy of Oren.

As the first to storm the tempest-tossed beaches of Moltra, the corporal faced not only the wrath of Mother Nature but also the infernal onslaught of war. His boat, struck by an enemy bomb, shattered beneath him, casting him into the churning, unforgiving waters. Laden with gear too heavy for swimming, he found himself fighting desperately against the pull of the depths.

In a battle for survival, he shed his gear, gasping for air as he struggled toward the shore. When he finally waded onto the beach, he stepped into a nightmarish scene: the tide, now a foam-capped crimson, lapped quietly against a shoreline muted by the chaos around him. The air was filled with the cacophony of battle—the screams that echoed the darkest depths of the human heart. The corporal survived that day.

Later, deep within Moltra’s dense forests, the corporal found himself guarding from a makeshift trench, carved with his own hands. As night enveloped the woods, their encampment was suddenly charged by the enemy. The fight quickly spiraled from distant rifle exchanges to a savagely intimate melee.

Amidst the frenzied blur of hand-to-hand combat, the corporal stood resolute, battling with every ounce of his strength. But the blast from a nearby grenade sent him reeling, hurling him back into his hole. When the tumult subsided, he was the only one left alive—buried beneath the fallen, emerging as a solitary figure, his right eye bloodied and sightless, his leg shredded by shrapnel, bleeding profusely.

Facing the cold embrace of death, the corporal rebelled against the notion of succumbing to the void. Fueled by an indomitable will, he limped onward through the forest, half-blind, bloodied, but unyielding. He chose to continue the fight, leaving his fate in the capricious hands of war, determined to stand until he could no more. At least that’s what was perceived from the notes he left.

Carrack, though not blinded like the corporal from the story that ran through his mind, felt the nagging pain of his unhealed wound with each step as he made his way down the hill toward the city. In a semblance of disguise, he wore a long, weather-beaten rain cloak and ordinary clothes borrowed from a soldier aware of his solitary mission. His boots, standard-issue and caked with dirt, bore no gleam to betray his identity. Tucked in his belt was his pistol—his sole means of protection.

In the cloak’s pocket, the apple’s presence was a constant reminder of his quest. It bobbed with each step, a tangible symbol of the mystery he sought to unravel. Carrack’s mind grappled with an incessant urge to turn back, to retreat to the safety of the fort and abandon this foolhardy venture. Yet, his resolve held firm. His stubbornness kept the doubts at bay as he pressed on alone. Determined to uncover the origin of the apple and perhaps also ascertain Weiss’s progress, he ventured toward the city.

As Carrack stepped into the city, the chilling wind seemed to intensify, the sprawling streets transforming into wind tunnels that whipped the rain into sharp, stinging assaults on his eyes. To avoid both the harsh elements and prying eyes, he opted for the shelter of the alleyways.

Navigating these narrow passages offered some respite from the wind and rain, but they came with their own set of challenges. The alleys were a maze to Carrack, their twists, and turns unfamiliar and often deceptive. More than once, he found his path abruptly halted by a dead end—either a looming wall or a passage too constricted for him to squeeze through. With each dead end encountered, Carrack felt a mix of frustration and wariness, but there was a strange sensation in the air that helped him begin to guide his way farther into the city.

Carrack’s objective was clear: reach the city square. From there, he could navigate his way to Lady Matilda. Despite his reservations about seeing her again, he acknowledged that she remained his most likely source for unraveling the mystery of the apple.

His journey through the alleys ended sooner than expected, but not in the location he had hoped. A heavy sense of dread washed over him as he stepped into the remnants of the bathhouse. The place, once a scene of chilling horror and now reduced to ashes, lay before him in ruin. To anyone unaware of its past, the extent of the destruction would leave no clue as to what had once stood here. Piles of brick, fragmented slabs of stone, and the blackened skeletons of timber were all that marked the site of the once-grand establishment.

As Carrack’s gaze lingered on the desolation, his steps took on a careful, weighted quality, each movement imbued with a silent homage to the unseen victims resting beneath. The tragedy of the bathhouse, now reduced to rubble and memories, weighed heavily on him.

Navigating the uneven terrain with reverence, Carrack’s foot suddenly slipped, sending him tumbling down a slab into a shallow pool formed by the rainfall. Though the water was not deep, its presence unnerved him, triggering vivid, unwelcome memories of the ghastly pools that had once marred the bathhouse’s interior.

Panic clenched his chest as he felt the water seep through his clothing, a stark reminder of the horrors that had occurred here. His breaths came in short, sharp bursts, heart pounding against his ribs as he scrambled to escape the pool. Frantic and unsteady, he struggled to regain his footing, slipping on the slick, rain-slicked debris in his haste to distance himself from the chilling reminder of the past. Regaining his composure, Carrack pressed on, his back to the haunting puddle, yet unable to shake off the chilling emotions it had stirred. With each step, he carried the weight of those unsettling memories, their presence a ghostly echo in his mind.

The explosion that had ravaged the bathhouse left its mark on the surrounding area. Buildings bore the scars of fire, their windows shattered, some pocked with massive stone debris from the blast. The street itself was a testament to the devastation, a stark, desolate landscape. Carrack noted the ruins offered ample cover for discreet travel, a small favor in the midst of such destruction.

As he contemplated his route, a rhythmic series of thuds emanating from the city square halted him mid-step. Turning toward the sound, he saw a dense crowd gathered, their bodies pressed close together. Above them loomed a singular, towering figure, its details obscured by distance but undeniably commanding attention. Carrack’s gaze fixed on the scene, a mix of curiosity and wariness taking hold as he considered his next move.

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In Carrack’s mind, the wisest course would have been to use the distraction of the crowd to slip unnoticed to his destination. Yet, an inexplicable pull drew him toward the unfolding event. The possibilities that could amass such a gathering were numerous and uncertain, and it was this enigma that propelled him toward investigation.

He dashed across the street, staying close to the charred remnants of buildings as he advanced toward the square. His eyes scanned for any possible entry into the buildings, but each option seemed perilous, teetering on collapse. Absorbed in his search, he barely noticed how close he had gotten to the crowd until he was spotted and approached.

Carrack tensed, ready to draw his weapon, as hands clasped his shoulder. But the sight of the strangers’ smiling faces, their grip more amicable than threatening, stayed his hand.

“Hey there, stranger! Trying to get yourself a better view of the vigil?” one of them joked.

Carrack eased his hand away from his hidden sidearm, relaxing his stance. Unsure of their reference, he remembered the old lesson of flowing with the unfamiliar. Disguising his voice with a raspy undertone, he played along. “Well, can ya blame me?”

“Hah!” the man laughed heartily. “No, I can’t, that’s for sure. But don’t bother with those buildings; they’re all death traps. Had a few guys try the same thing. Fell right through the floor, messy, messy, messy.”

“Well, shit,” Carrack muttered, glancing back at the building, only to feel a hearty slap on his back.

“Snap out of that temptation, brother! C’mon now, Lady Matilda’s voice can be heard through a damn hurricane, let alone a crowd. You won’t miss a thing,” the man said, guiding Carrack toward the crowd.

Lady Matilda, Carrack echoed internally, a new piece of the puzzle falling into place in his mind.

The crowd was densely packed, shoulder to shoulder, yet curiously not occupying the entire square. Instead, they formed a tight cluster, all eyes fixed on something commanding attention at the center. Carrack tried to weave through for a better view, but the crowd’s outer shell proved impenetrable. The strangers who had led him there melted into the mass, leaving him to fend for himself. Amidst the din of hushed whispers, Carrack struggled to discern what was unfolding.

Spotting a hunched woman between two taller figures, he tapped her shoulder. She turned, revealing a face etched with wrinkles, her hood dripping from the rain. A warm smile lit up her face as she extended a hand in greeting.

“Hello there, young man,” she greeted warmly.

“Ma’am,” Carrack replied softly, taking her hand with a respectful shake.

“I’m Netty,” she introduced herself.

“Alex,” Carrack responded, slightly hesitating to maintain his guise. “Alexander, but most call me Alex.”

“Well, Mr. Alex, it’s a pleasure to meet you. First time at our vigil?” Netty inquired.

“Yes, I’ve heard about it through a friend. Curiosity got the better of me,” Carrack admitted, playing along. “What’s the vigil for?”

Netty chuckled. “Oh, you’re really out of the loop. Lady Matilda has been leading a ceremony for the fallen these past few days.”

“Fallen?” Carrack echoed, before realization dawned. “Oh, the incident at the docks?”

Netty nodded. “Yes, that tragedy, and also for those lost on the ship that sailed beyond the Great Horizon. And, of course, to give thanks to them!”

Carrack’s eyebrow arched. “Thank them for what?”

“For bringing Her to us, the beacon of hope in these accursed times,” Netty said, her voice a blend of solemnity and excitement. “But good luck seeing her now. You’ll need to wait until the vigil ends. No one gets close to Her without Lady Matilda’s approval.”

“I’ll certainly try to catch a glimpse,” Carrack replied, tactfully steering the conversation to a close as his mind shifted to navigating away from the crowd. The risk of recognition, especially by a teamster, loomed large in his thoughts.

Netty, sensing Carrack’s attention drifting, returned her focus to the center of the vigil, whispering prayers to herself. Carrack, while easing out of the conversation, couldn’t help but feel a mix of unease and intrigue at the spectacle. The knowledge that Lady Matilda was orchestrating these events brought a measure of understanding, yet his wariness of her intentions remained. He began to edge away from the crowd, his mind already plotting his next moves.

Carrack methodically circled the periphery of the crowd, his eyes scanning for any gap that might allow him a closer view of the vigil’s focal point, particularly the enigmatic “beacon of hope” Netty had mentioned. Despite his keen observation, no clear opportunity presented itself. With a subtle sigh of resignation, he began to retreat, accepting that he might remain on the fringes for now.

As Carrack scanned the area, an idea sparked. Spotting Dr. Mortier’s bookstore, with its charming facade nestled amongst the neighboring structures, he realized the second story would offer an ideal vantage point. Stepping away from the crowd, he entered the store, the door’s bell chiming his arrival into a surprisingly empty space. The usual presence of Dr. Mortier was absent; only the silent company of weathered books greeted him.

“Hello?” Carrack called out, his voice echoing slightly in the stillness, met only by silence.

A quick search through the aisles and behind the counter revealed no trace of Dr. Mortier. Carrack entertained the possibility of something untoward having befallen the doctor but quickly tempered his thoughts with less alarming possibilities. His attention then turned to finding access to the upper levels.

After navigating through a cluttered back office and a toilet room pungent with the overburdened sewer system, Carrack finally discovered a door, partially obscured by teetering stacks of books. He maneuvered the heavy piles aside, managing to pry the door open just enough to slip through. That’s when he felt the unexpected chill of metal against the back of his skull.

“I told you folk to stay out of here with your nonsense,” grumbled Dr. Mortier’s from behind.

“Mortier, Mortier!” Carrack exclaimed, his tone clear and authoritative. “It’s me, Carrack!”

“Lord Carrack?” came the response, tinged with both relief and surprise. The pressure of the gun eased off, and Carrack slowly turned to face the doctor, confirming his identity. “It is you … What in the world are you doing here? God, I nearly shot you.”

Carrack’s gaze remained fixed on the pistol that had just been withdrawn from his skull, the tension between them gradually subsiding. “Yes, it’s me. And you’ve got a gun, I see.”

“Yeah, picked up the habit of carrying one after some break-ins back on the mainland,” Dr. Mortier explained, inspecting the pistol. “Kept it up even after coming here.

Carrack’s brow furrowed. “Firearms are meant to be surrendered upon arrival on Helena.”

“I remember the guards going through my stuff when I came,” Dr. Mortier chuckled, “but your men weren’t in the mood to go through all my books, especially the one that housed this little beauty. But I imagine you have bigger concerns than my minor contraband, right?”

“You’re not wrong,” Carrack conceded with a brief chuckle, then grew more serious. “But still, drawing on a visitor? Any particular troubles prompting that?”

Dr. Mortier sighed, gesturing toward the crowd outside. “These people … they’re a troublesome lot.”

“Are they threatening you?” Carrack inquired, a note of concern in his voice. “The few I’ve encountered seemed considerate, albeit a bit unnerving.”

“Hmph,” Dr. Mortier grunted, his tone laced with caution. “Don’t be fooled by their smiles and kind words, Lord Carrack. They first came here seeking shelter from the rain for their worship. My refusal to let them linger without purpose drew their ire and suspicious glances whenever they’re near my shop.”

Carrack raised an eyebrow. “A bit harsh to keep them out, don’t you think?”

Dr. Mortier’s expression hardened. “There’s a disingenuous quality behind those smiles, a trait I’ve seen too often amongst the overly devout,” he explained, catching a skeptical look from Carrack. “And I don’t paint all believers with the same brush. I’m just cautious, not bigoted.”

“I see,” Carrack replied neutrally, his interest firmly on the task at hand. He glanced toward the stairs. “I’m here to see what’s drawing such a crowd. Can’t get a clear view from the ground.”

“Well then,” Dr. Mortier said, following Carrack’s gaze to the staircase, “let’s get you a view of what Lady Matilda has brought to the island, shall we?”