Chapter 39

The subtle scent of incense lingered in the air, gently pulling Carrack’s consciousness from the depths of sleep. The rush of waking was muted by a strange serenity, guiding him to rise with measured calm. As he sat up, a crust of dried mud flaked from his clothing. Blinking away the remnants of his stupor, the familiarity of his surroundings quickly returned. He was in Lady Matilda’s sanctuary, sprawled across the very altar she would kneel before in prayer.

As he stretched his joints and spread his hands to touch the comforting solidness of the earth, he felt something in his hand. It jingled slightly, feeling like a thin chain with an object attached to it. When he looked at it, he found it to be a necklace chain with a ring as its pendant. Only a moment passed before the memory of what it was found him—it was the Inquisitor’s necklace.

“Why the hell … ?” Carrack asked himself as its presence opened countless questions he couldn’t possibly hope to answer. At least not yet. Not here anyway. He examined it for any clues or hints as to why it was there but found nothing. Storing it away in his pocket, he decided that there may be an answer back at the fort. Or at least he hoped there would be.

The sanctuary was still, lit only by the sliver of light slicing through the slightly open door that led to the rest of the chapel. Around him, the remains of candles had burned down to nothingness. With care, Carrack planted his feet on the ground, steadying himself. A momentary sense of dislocation washed over him; he half-expected the endless waters from that bewildering realm to lap at his ankles. But as he took in the quiet reality of the sanctuary, memories of what he had seen and endured cascaded through his mind—the clarity of them was undeniable, striking him with the force of a newly remembered dream or, more accurately, the visceral remnants of a nightmare.

What was that? A memory? Not mine, that’s for sure, Carrack wondered as he rubbed his head as if he was trying to squeeze out the memory. But he soon was drawn to the present by the subtle creaks he heard from outside the sanctuary.

With each step, Carrack moved cautiously, eyes scanning every shadow and corner for any sign of disorder. Instinctively, his right hand drifted to his hip, searching for the reassuring presence of his sidearm—only to find the holster empty, the weapon absent. Defenseless and fresh from the grips of a nightmare that still clawed at his mind, he stood in the last place he wished to be.

The impulse to flee was checked by the chapel’s eerie stillness. Roaming through the hallowed halls, he found them deserted. No Listeners busied themselves with daily rituals; no silent figures lay in repose for the rites of death. It was as if life had abruptly departed, leaving behind only spent candles, lifeless incense burners, and holy texts scattered amidst a thin veil of dust.

Reaching the door, Carrack hesitated, his hand on the latch. He cast a final glance over his shoulder, the lingering sensation of a presence urging him to double-check the chapel’s emptiness. With no one in sight, he pushed the door open, stepping out to the relief of recognizing Helena, yet a nervous tension clung to him.

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

The familiar rain was absent, leaving an unsettling calm in its stead, a day still and silent, lacking both wind and sun. Walking to the road’s center, Carrack lifted his eyes to the sky, drawn toward the square. There, amidst the overcast expanse, hung four orbs of light, their ghostly luminescence painting the world in unreal shades. The sight rooted him to the spot, the last shreds of belief in a return to normalcy slipping away with their otherworldly glow.

Carrack averted his gaze, wary of falling under the spell of those lights and the nightmares they might bring. He steeled himself for an unseen force to grasp at him, but there was only the quiet around him. No pull, no invisible pressure—nothing. His eyes drifted back to the orbs reluctantly, and he found no malice in their glow, only a serene light that masked the fear they stirred in him. Yet, their very innocence was disquieting, unsettling him in a way he couldn’t quite explain—as it would for anyone who beheld such an out-of-place wonder.

A whisper in an unfamiliar language brushed past Carrack’s ear, fleeting as a breeze, spurring him to spin around. The street behind him was deserted, lifeless. The ground, dry and parched of moisture, was a tapestry of hardened footprints, all converging toward the square where the otherworldly lights—and likely the statue—remained. Carrack felt a cold twinge of fear; the last thing he wanted was to be ensnared by more visions of terror.

Determined to steer clear of the square, he set his sights on the lighthouse, the site of the radio array, and ventured in the opposite direction. A few blocks on, his resolve wobbled as he beheld the fate of the lighthouse: the upper section had collapsed, tumbling down the cliff into the churning sea below, leaving behind only fragments teetering on the brink.

Carrack couldn’t shake the feeling that this was all too surreal. “Another damn nightmare,” he muttered, scanning his surroundings for anything out of place, though he couldn’t quite pinpoint what he expected to find. Then it struck him—his watch.

With a sense of urgency, he whispered, “The watch!”, as if it held all the answers. Fumbling for it, the familiar chill of the timepiece’s metal was strangely comforting. He drew it out, hoping his suspicions would be confirmed. But as he watched the second hand sweep its regular rhythm, a wave of disappointment washed over him. No backward movement, no bizarre anomalies—it was just a watch, functioning as intended.

For a long moment, Carrack stared, half-expecting the spectral breeze to twist its hands once more. But reality held firm. There was no dream to wake from, no alternative existence—he was indeed on Helena, grounded in the life he knew, but twisted into something he couldn’t quite understand.

Carrack found little comfort in the situation, his options limited. He considered detouring to the fort and avoiding the square altogether but quickly discarded the thought with a sense of resignation. The best way there for certain was the way he least wanted to go. There was also the possibility that the fort had suffered a similar fate to the lighthouse since that was symbol of the garrison’s authority.

The footprints that marred the ground, seemingly leading everyone to the square, burdened his mind. What mass exodus had occurred here, and to what end? The purpose remained just out of reach, elusive, yet he felt the answer was intertwined with the persistent lights above. As his eyes lifted to meet them again, a sense of understanding teased at the edge of his perception, as if the truth lay just beyond the horizon of his awareness.

Carrack’s foot tapped a restless rhythm on the ground, his impatience clouding his judgment. It was the knowledge of what must be done—and his own vexing reluctance—that gnawed at him. With a frustrated bite of his lip and a dismissive shake of his head, he acknowledged the inevitable. The square held the keys to the enigma surrounding him. Resigned, he began his march toward it, a chill tracing its way up his spine with each determined step he took.