Baal's headache intensified, throbbing in sync with his growing unease. The bed beside him was still empty, its sheets tangled in a sad imitation of Nord's usual restless sleep. She'd mumbled something about needing the bathroom, but how long ago was that?

"Nord?"

Too long, he decided.

He swung his legs over the bed with a low groan, planting his feet on the cool floor. He had a headache. Shuffling out of the bedroom, he stepped onto something in the hallway that crunched underfoot. He looked down. Particles that resembled red salt were scattered across the floor, spreading through the hallway to the bathroom.

"What is this?" he muttered, giving his foot a shake, "Where did this come from?" An unsettling sensation washed over him like he had crossed an invisible, forbidden line. Almost the feeling of a worn-out summon. But nobody summoned him.

The discomfort crept its way into his chest as he approached the closed bathroom door. "Nord? Are you in there?" he called, knocking on the door.

"Nord?" His voice hung in the air, heavy and unanswered, a palpable tension that seemed to cling to the walls.

Uneasiness settling into dread, Baal paused, his hand hovering over the doorknob. "Nord! I'm coming inside!"

Something was not right. A gut feeling, perhaps, but it gnawed at Baal.

"Nord, I don't care if you're doing a number two! I'm coming inside!"

He took a deep breath, fortifying himself for whatever might lie on the other side of that door—hoping, praying it was just his imagination running wild. With a trembling hand, Baal gripped the knob, twisted it, but before pushing the door open, Kirara suddenly appeared.

"Kitten! Come here!" Baal called out, beckoning her with his voice tinged with urgency.

Kirara's slippers, padding softly against the floor, walked towards Baal, her eyes wide with curiosity. "What?"

"Could you check if Mama is inside?" Baal gestured toward the bathroom door.

Kirara hesitated, taking a cautious step back. "No, she doesn't like me going in the bathroom when she goes..."

"Please, Kitten."

"No, no..."

"Kirara! I'm asking... me!"

"I learned my lesson, Papa!" Kirara said, nodding her head with her eyes wide open, "Last time I bothered her in the bathroom, she showered me with cold drops... of water! Drops! Of water! It was awful. Terrifying!"

"Come on, Sweetheart, I just need to know she's okay," Baal coaxed, his voice tinged with desperation, "For me?"

Kirara shook her head, her feline eyes narrowing. "No, no, no..."

"How many chickens?" Baal resorted to bribery, a note of hope in his voice.

The Nixbob's ears perked up. "Hmm, five... no, three? Two! I want two!"

"You get two chickens; just go inside and make sure she's okay," Baal promised.

Seemingly satisfied with the deal, Kirara cautiously nudged the door open with her hand and slipped inside, shutting it behind her. Baal waited, the seconds stretching into minutes, each thickening the anxiety inside him.

Eventually, Baal succumbed to impatience and pressed his ear against the door, straining to hear any sign of life. Finally, the unmistakable sound of a toilet flushing broke the tense silence. The door creaked open, and Kirara reappeared.

"So?" Baal looked at her expectantly.

"So?" Kirara echoed, seemingly oblivious to his worry.

"How is Nord?" he pressed, his patience fraying at the edges.

"Oh, she's not there," Kirara said nonchalantly.

"I heard a flush!" Baal exclaimed, his voice rising with confusion and concern.

"That was me. I'm a very tidy cat. I even washed my hands!" Kirara lifted her hands to show off her immaculate cleanliness.

Baal's eyes locked onto Kirara's, a turbulent storm of emotions churning behind his gaze. "Kirara, Nord's missing. I can't find her anywhere."

Without waiting for her to reply, he pivoted on his heels, angry and strode away, his face taut with lines that seemed to etch deeper into his skin with every step.

His eyes darted to the staircase, an unsettling hunch gnawing at the corners of his consciousness. He took the steps two at a time, his palm grazing the polished wood of the bannister as if it were a lifeline pulling him back from the edge of an abyss.

He landed on the ground floor, eyes flicking around the salon. Cushioned armchairs sat unclaimed, the window's light casting flickering apparitions across opulent wallpaper. The tables and chairs held no occupants, no guests since the attack; the small stage was a barren platform of silence.

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His ears strained for any murmur, a sigh, a rustle of paper—anything to suggest that Nord might be tucked away in a corner, her thoughts spilling into one of her many sketchbooks. But the oppressive quiet only tightened the knot inside him.

Pushing the heavy door open, he stepped into the kitchen. The aroma of soap mingled with the scent of freshly scrubbed porcelain. Finnea stood at the sink, her hands submerged in soapy water, her movements reduced to mere mechanics. Her face wore a facade of hard-earned fatigue, a mask that had become her second skin since the undead claimed the little Bram. She covered for Perdita's work, and he didn't recall seeing her rest, perhaps consumed by guilt.

"Finnea, have you seen Nord?"

Her hands ceased their rhythmic scrubbing, and she looked up, her eyes catching his. "No, Master Baal. Not for some time. What's wrong? Did something happen?"

Feeling the weight of his own helplessness pull his shoulders down, Baal searched for the right words. He didn't want to burden the elf more than she already was. "I don't know... I can't put my finger on it, Finnea, but something's not right. It's not just me being paranoid. I... I have a terrible headache..."

For a brief moment, Finnea's mask cracked, and her eyes narrowed with something that looked a lot like worry. Baal cursed himself.

"If you're feeling this way, Master, perhaps we should do something about it."

"Agreed," Baal nodded, his pulse quickening. "You check the cellar; I'll search the study and the store."

"Right away," Finnea said, shedding her domestic armour for a moment to become what truly was her role, the Protector.

A new sense of urgency propelled Baal out of the kitchen and through the maze-like hallways of the manor, his feet barely making a sound on the lush carpet. Skirting past the imposing main entrance, he stopped in front of a nondescript door that most guests wouldn't give a second glance.

This was the rear entrance to Nord's tattoo store. He twisted the doorknob, half-expecting to find Nord hunched over her work, lost in intricate designs.

But what met his eyes were black curtains partitioning the room from the world outside, almost as if in mourning. A "We Are Closed" sign dangled from the front door, its message a gut punch. He paused, his hand frozen in mid-air, uncertainty clouding his thoughts.

Stepping into the store through the back, he navigated around a counter cluttered with supplies. Darkness enshrouded him as he crossed into a realm devoid of life, where even time held its breath. Rows of vivid inks stood untouched on shelves; sterilization equipment lay in dormant readiness. The artist's chair sat empty. Sketches and designs on the walls looked as if they, too, were searching for their missing creator.

"Nord?" His voice quivered an awkward note that bounced off the walls and fizzled out, smothered by the thick quiet of the room. He scanned the counters, desperate for any sign of Nord—a hastily left sketch, a fresh ink stencil, even a simple note. But there was nothing, just an unsettling void.

With a sigh that felt like defeat, he left the store exactly as he found it, and he retraced his steps to the manor. The feeling that had started as an insidious whisper now roared in his head, a migraine of unease that refused to be dismissed.

His hands fidgeted, alternately clenching and unclenching as if trying to grasp the elusive peace that seemed to be slipping further away with each passing second. When he arrived at the door to Nord's study, his heart sank a little further; the closed door offered no clues.

He took a deep breath, turned the handle, and swung the door open.

Instead of finding Nord nestled in her creative realm of sketches and texts, it was Adamastor who looked up, his eyes widening in surprise as they locked onto Baal's.

"Mr. Berith?" Adamastor set down his quill and pushed away from the desk, papers rustling in his wake. "You're the last person I'd expect to find here at this time. Isn't Miss Morningstar on her training with you at this time?"

Baal's eyes scanned the room, flicking over stacks of papers, assorted drawing utensils, and worn leather books. There was no sign of Nord. "I was actually hoping to find her here," he said, struggling to keep his voice steady. "She's not in the shop, and it's unlike her to just disappear. You haven't seen her, have you?"

Adamastor leaned back, his hands gripping the arms of the chair, concern etching lines onto his usually impassive face. "No, Mr. Berith, I haven't. And now that you mention it, she was absent at breakfast as well."

The knot of worry in Baal's stomach twisted tighter as if wringing out the last drops of his composure. "She missed breakfast? That's completely out of character for her."

"Yes, quite," Adamastor agreed, standing up from behind the desk. His eyes, now mirroring Baal's own sense of urgency, scanned the room one last time as if hoping Nord would materialize from the clutter.

"You might want to ask Perdita and Merlin. Last I saw, they were lingering by the porch, looking like they were waiting for something—or someone or a bloody miracle."

"Yeah, those two don't give up... Thank you, Adamastor," Baal muttered, his eyes meeting the other man's for a brief moment—a moment that conveyed more concern and solidarity than any amount of words could. And with that, he turned on his heels again, his feet echoing on the hardwood floor as he left the study.

As he made his way toward the porch, Baal's steps quickened as he navigated through the winding hallways of the manor, his heart beating inside his skull with mounting dread.

Just as he rounded the final corner that led to the porch, the unthinkable happened—the ground beneath him lurched violently. An Earthquake - now.

"Damn it, not now!" he snarled as he lost his footing and stumbled. Years of training kicked in, and almost automatically, he lunged toward an antique wooden table, diving underneath it for cover. He gripped the legs of the table, his knuckles turning white as the earth shook, rattling the chandeliers above and sending loose ornaments crashing to the ground.

His eyes clenched shut as if not seeing it could make it less real. "As if today needed this too," he muttered under his breath, cursing the cruel timing of this seismic treachery, "Gimme a break, Atua!"

The rumbling seemed to last an eternity, but it was probably mere seconds. Then, as suddenly as it had started, it ceased. Eerily, instead of hearing the screams or cries of panic one would expect, he heard exclamations of what sounded like... astonishment? Intrigue, even.

His ears caught the voices of Perdita and Merlin from the direction of the porch, and their tone was devoid of the fear he'd anticipated. Confused, he extricated himself from his makeshift shelter and dusted off his pyjama.

His eyes narrowed, and Baal cautiously made his way toward the voices, prepared for just about anything.

Or so he thought.

As he reached the doorway leading to the porch, his gaze lifted, and his eyes widened in disbelief.

There, walking in the distance but growing ominously closer, was a tower. A walking tower—its enormous stone legs moving with uncanny grace, its turrets and ramparts teetering but somehow not falling. His Tower was walking in his direction, disobeying him.

The Tower finally sat on the ground, still as it should, and a door opened.

His jaw dropped, and suddenly Baal heard a cry, Perdita's cry. He ran into Merlin's and Perdita's direction to see the Tower parked at the very entrance of the Morningstar. Perdita was on her knees crying, and Merlin was almost jumping like a five-year-old, shouting, "It works! It works!" When Baal saw it, Bram, like a lucky charm, ran to meet his mother's arms.

"It worked! It worked again!"