Chapter 32

Lady Matilda revealed a past marked by captivity and exploitation. She recounted her time as a slave of the Rusted Shackles gang, a notorious group involved in human trafficking and narcotics along the southern coast, skirting the Miastan Mountain range that divided the continent. Forced to use her abilities to cast illusions, she helped conceal their illicit activities while confined to the dismal interior of a ship. Her liberation came unexpectedly, through the fortune of a storm that wrecked her floating prison.

“As I floated in that icy abyss, the encroaching darkness began to seize my heart. I surrendered to it, ready to slip into the void beyond space and time,” she narrated. “But there, in that inky blackness, I lingered formlessly. I yearned to dissipate, to embrace oblivion from every direction, yet something held me intact. It was both agonizing and terrifying. When I finally reassembled, I heard Magia. A whisper that scarred my very being called out to me, speaking of ‘Helena’. The next thing I knew, I was on the rocky shores of the continent. In time, I found my way here, to this island.”

Carrack listened with a skeptical ear, his past experiences making him wary of being manipulated once more. Yet, it was her description of the abyss that unexpectedly resonated with him, causing him to shift uncomfortably in his seat. A vague, elusive memory in his mind seemed to reach out with icy fingers, intensifying the shivers that wracked his body. This haunting sensation subdued the anger that had been simmering within him.

“That darkness,” he pondered silently, instinctively trying to grasp at the icy tendrils of memory invading his thoughts yet recoiling subconsciously as they drew too close. The memory would not be denied, evoking the harrowing sense of suspension he had felt in his own shadowy limbo between life and death. Was she manipulating him? Could she read his thoughts, implanting these reflections in his mind? Such powers were beyond his comprehension; while anything might seem possible, a part of Carrack resisted such beliefs. Nonetheless, he found himself increasingly unsettled, beginning to entertain the possibility that there was indeed something beyond their understanding at play.

Carrack’s gaze drifted toward the bookstore’s windows, where the shadowy silhouette of the statue loomed in the distance, barely discernible through the darkening air and the cascading sheets of rain.

Turning back to Lady Matilda, he posed his question with a newfound intensity. “Tell me,” he began, “do you truly believe that statue out there is your God?”

Lady Matilda briefly glanced toward the window but quickly redirected her gaze to the floor. Her jaw clenched tightly, and her knuckles turned white as she gripped her hands together.

“I’ve listened … and I heard. That’s all I can be sure of,” she said.

Carrack hummed thoughtfully, sifting through the myriad of mysteries still surrounding him. “You mentioned that your encounter was influenced by your history with the arcane. How then would you explain someone like me having such a harrowing experience? I’m no mage.”

“You’re not,” she conceded, leaning back with a hint of skepticism in her expression. “But you’ve had dealings with it, as you’re well aware.”

“Alaina?” Carrack queried, tilting his head.

“Yes,” she said with a nod, suggesting that the connection was obvious.

“Well, sure, she’s been working in the fort, trying to grow food in a basement. But I haven’t been around her spells, just seen a few minor ones here and there.”

Lady Matilda’s expression shifted, her face contorting slightly as she absorbed his words. “Growing food? No, Lord Carrack …” Her voice trailed off as she rubbed her face wearily. “You’ve been infected by her. She infected you.”

“What the hell do you mean ‘infected’?” Carrack demanded, his voice tinged with both confusion and concern. He began to rub his chest nervously. “You mean … like cancer?”

“No, not cancer,” Lady Matilda replied with a nervous laugh, her expression oscillating between bewilderment and seriousness. “Lord Carrack, from the moment you first entered my chapel seeking solace, I could sense it—the corruption. It was all around you. You were shrouded in the shadows of blood magic, the Scarlet Sorcery.”

The shivers that had wracked Carrack’s body halted abruptly, as if drained from his extremities and converging in his stomach. There, the sensation intensified, growing until it felt as though his insides were dissolving under a wave of anxiety, like acid corroding his core. A hollow void formed within him, seemingly drawing away all sensations of cold and warmth.

Leaning to one side, his breathing became shallow, his head light. He managed to rouse himself from the overwhelming rush of emotions, though the shock of Lady Matilda’s words still skirted the edges of his consciousness. He resisted letting the realization fully penetrate his thoughts, yet he couldn’t pinpoint why he was so reluctant to accept or understand it.

“Nonsense, that’s just bullshit!” Carrack vehemently dismissed, shaking his head as he mustered the strength to respond, his words less coherent than he intended. Rising to leave in a burst of indignation, he was suddenly halted by a crippling weakness in his knees and an inexplicable internal force urging him to stay.

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Torn between the desire to flee and an unspoken wish to remain, he found himself caught in a tumultuous internal battle. This struggle left him shifting in his seat, unable to settle as he wrestled with his conflicting emotions. Eventually, he managed to suppress the rising tide of anxiety, reducing his agitation to merely fidgeting feet, tapping impatiently.

“Ever since you first entered the chapel …” she reiterated, “I tried, very carefully, to dispel the shadow I saw enveloping you, to see it for what it truly was.”

“Then why didn’t you say anything about it?” Carrack demanded sharply. “Why not warn me that I’ve been ‘infected’, as you put it?”

“It’s hardly comforting to tell someone they’ve been hexed, especially right as they just walk in; any street fortune-teller can make such claims,” she responded. “That’s why I chose a different approach—kindness and a welcoming demeanor. Why else do you think I embraced you so readily? I hoped, perhaps, that I could gently unveil the nature of your affliction once I started to carefully unravel the shadow.”

“Gently?” Carrack let out a hollow chuckle, his expression grave. “It felt like my skin was being flayed, my bones scraped with a dull blade. Gently … bah!”

“Your reaction was as much a surprise to me, if you can believe that,” Lady Matilda continued. “Lord Carrack, the spell, the hex, whatever curse you’re entangled with, it resisted my efforts fiercely. Before I could progress further or gather any concrete evidence for you, you left, dealing with the repercussions of that exposed wound. Suffering, no doubt.”

Absorbing the gravity of Lady Matilda’s words, Carrack found his thoughts drifting back to the sleepless nights that had tormented him following his initial encounter with her. He was now acutely aware of the wound she spoke of—a wound in some intangible form. Absent-mindedly, he rubbed his chest, as though trying to feel a wound that sometimes felt all too real. His eyes closed, and he concentrated on the rhythm of his breathing, each inhale and exhale a deliberate effort to find calm.

The only respite he could recall, the briefest moment of tranquility, was tied to the rediscovery of his violin and the dreamless sleep that passed him by. It was a fleeting memory, yet one that offered a glimmer of peace. But his reflection was abruptly interrupted by a distant thud, that haunting sound jolted him back to the present moment.

“I have been suffering,” Carrack conceded, his voice tinged with resentment. “But for all I know, this hex you speak of could have been cast by you. You’ve concealed your identity as a mage; how can I trust your words now? They might be nothing but lies, a part of your deceit. Perhaps you are the source of all my suffering!”

“Please, Lord Carrack—” Lady Matilda began, only to be cut off as Carrack stood and began to storm past her. In a swift motion, she reached out and grasped his arm. Her touch was light, yet it held him as firmly as a vice. Instantly, Carrack felt a wave of calm wash over him; the shivers that had plagued him ceased, replaced by a soothing warmth that permeated his entire being, from skin to bone. He could feel her urgency seeping into his consciousness, compelling him to turn and meet her gaze, to listen to what she had to say.

“Let me prove it to you,” she urged, her voice carrying a surprising conviction. For a moment, Carrack thought he heard her speak without her lips moving, only to see her mouth repeat the same words moments later.

Carrack blinked hard, attempting to shake off what he suspected was either a hallucination or an illusion cast by Lady Matilda. With a sharp movement, he jerked his arm away from her grasp, instantly feeling the return of the unsettling sensations that her touch had momentarily quelled. “And how exactly would you prove it?” he demanded.

“You do owe me another session,” she replied simply.

Upon hearing her suggestion, Carrack erupted into laughter. It was more of a reflex than a genuine amusement, devoid of any real humor. Instead, simmering anger surged through him, carrying biting words that threatened to spill out. He restrained himself, though, holding back from uttering anything too harsh or ambiguous that might prolong their conversation.

His reply came out terse and pointed: “If you ever see me at your chapel again, I’ll be bringing handcuffs.” With that, Carrack turned and left the store briskly, not lingering long enough to hear any response she might have had, grabbing his still-filthy rain cloak before heading back out into the square.

The rain felt more intense as Carrack stepped outside, its droplets like tiny knives piercing through his cloak and chilling his skin. Gritting his teeth, he shouldered the discomfort and strode into the square. His initial burst of anger began to ebb as he caught sight of the statue still there, its ominous presence and silent stillness overwhelming.

Staring at the statue brought Carrack no comfort, akin to the terror of being buried alive. A vengeful idea started to take shape in his mind. He scrutinized the statue—its size, material, apparent strength—and began making rough estimates. How much dynamite would it take, he wondered, not just to topple the statue but to utterly obliterate it into dust?

His thoughts of revenge were interrupted by another eerie thud echoing from beyond the square, followed by another. His attention shifted toward the road he had come from, but instinctively his gaze flickered back to the statue, then toward the fort in the opposite direction. Yet another thud drew his attention back to the road. Unlike before, this sound didn’t bring a sense of impending doom. It felt almost inviting, subtly pulling at him, gently coaxing him to follow its source. Carrack resisted the urge, yet he noticed that gazing in the direction of the sound eased his shivers and anxiety, replacing them with the same strange comfort he had felt under Lady Matilda’s touch. When his gaze returned to the statue, the sense of dread crept back, intensifying as he looked towards the fort.

Turning back to face the statue, Carrack felt a surge of anger boiling within him, fueled by annoyance and a growing sense of defiance. His eyes hardened into a glare, challenging the statue in a silent battle of wills. As he stared it down, the uncertainty and anxiety that had gripped him began to wither, replaced by a burgeoning strength born of sheer spite.

His jaw clenched tightly, every muscle in his body taut with tension, he emitted a low, “Fuck you.” It was more than a curse; it was a declaration of resistance against the overwhelming dread the statue invoked. With that, he turned sharply and stormed off, heading back toward the fort.