Suddenly, the quiet atmosphere above Pland was shattered by a deep, ominous rumble of thunder—re monts later, the skies opened up, unleashing a heavy, torrential downpour that swathed the small city-state, nestled in the southwest sea region in a dense, misty veil.
The fleeting “light burst,” which had streaked across the heavens only to disappear over the distant horizon of the sea, had left the citizens of Pland in a state of anxious speculation. They were left wondering about the final resting place of those massive, glowing objects that had plumted from the heavens. This abrupt deluge of rain added an additional layer of foreboding to the atmosphere, transforming the already dark night into an even more impenetrable blanket of darkness. The wind howled mournfully through the streets, and the relentless patter of rain against the windows piled up layer upon layer, stirring feelings of annoyance and unease.
Lawrence made his way through the hotel lobby, observing nurous guests who, stranded by the storm, had congregated near the windows. They engaged in subdued conversations about the mysterious flashes in the sky, the relentless downpour, and the recent departure of a guardian patrol team. Not too far away, the comforting crackle of a warm fireplace filled the space, and the bright glow of electric lights waged a silent battle against the encroaching darkness of the night outside. In this unsettling, rainy backdrop, the flas and light served as beacons of hope, bolstering the ever-weakening sense of security within the hearts of those present.
“It’s just ordinary rain…” A soft reassurance ca from the small mirror pinned to Lawrence’s chest as Martha whispered to him, “I’ve checked with the spirit world; there’s nothing to worry about.”
Acknowledging her words with a slight nod, Lawrence peered out the window. The rain sared the views of the street into a blurry tapestry, with water streaming down the glass, casting distorted patterns of light and shadow. Martha’s reflection briefly appeared on the window, offering him a reassuring smile.
“I’ve just visited the White Oak through the mirror; all is well aboard the ship. There’s no need for concern.”
“Thank you,” Lawrence responded in a hushed tone, barely audible to anyone but himself, “Please be cautious when venturing into the spirit world; our realm has grown perilous.”
“I’m aware,” Martha acknowledged before adding, “Also, I noticed several ships hastily departing from the military port, disappearing into the night heading northeast. Among them were two engineering vessels, equipped with large winches and towing arms.”
“They must be on a mission to recover the ‘fallen object’; it appears a celestial body landed near Pland,” Lawrence quickly deduced, expressing a hopeful sentint, “…Let’s hope for a smooth operation.”
With a gentle nod, Martha’s image slowly faded from the window pane, leaving Lawrence once again enveloped by the misty curtain of rain and the flowing water.
After a mont of contemplation, the old captain turned away from the window and made his way back through the hotel’s corridors and stairways, heading towards his temporary accommodations on an upper floor. He retrieved the key to his room, its paint showing signs of wear, and prepared to enter.
However, upon opening the door, Lawrence abruptly halted in his tracks.
In the dead of night, a gaunt, skeletal figure was perched awkwardly on a chair within the confines of the room. The faint glow from a street lamp outside cast its light upon this unanticipated visitor. Upon hearing the sound of the door creaking open, the figure slowly craned his head, unveiling a face as desiccated as a skeleton’s, adorned with a macabre grin: “Ah… Captain, you’ve returned.”
The pungent aroma of alcohol imdiately assaulted Lawrence’s senses.
Raising his hand, Lawrence flicked on the room’s light switch, the sudden burst of illumination banishing the shadows and rendering the grotesque figure sowhat less ominous and fearso. He eyed the intruder with a mix of irritation and concern, asking sternly, “Sailor? Why are you here rather than in your own quarters?”
“Captain…” The Sailor’s response ca as his head tilted, nearly severing from the neck, hanging grotesquely. Clutching a large bottle of alcohol, he took generous swigs, with the liquid then cascading through the crevices in his chest and neck, pooling onto the floor below. “I found this in my room. I didn’t take… hic! Didn’t take yours, I’m aware of the rules. Taking from the captain earns one a hanging from the mast…”
Lawrence’s initial reaction was one of anger towards Sailor’s state, but a feeling of unease quickly took its place. He stepped closer to the corpse-like figure, eyeing the bottle: “What entity has taken hold of you this ti?”
As he spoke, Lawrence raised his arm, and a slender thread of ghostly spirit fla danced to life at his fingertips.
Contrary to expectations, Sailor, who would typically react with vigor at the sight of Duncan’s ghost fire, showed no sign of alarm. Instead, he rely placed the bottle on the table and looked blankly at the flickering fla, taking several monts before finally lifting his gaze to et Lawrence’s: “Captain, I’m alright, just… recalling so mories.”
Lawrence’s expression grew more concerned, his gaze fixed on Sailor as he slowly articulated, “…Recalling mories?”
“I once, it appears, truly existed as a human,” the corpse made an effort to sit up straighter, an attempt to correct his slouched posture, though he struggled and ultimately failed to do so. “We ventured to a place far beyond, and then… it took an eternity to return to this cursed Boundless Sea…”
…
Frem was abruptly roused from his ditative trance, his peace shattered by a vivid, fiery vision that sent a sharp pang through his head. This towering figure, a mber of the forest folk, snapped open his eyes to find himself still in the prayer room, kneeling before the fervently burning fire pit.
The remnants of his vision seed to flicker within the leaping flas, slowly dissipating as monts passed.
With a growing sense of unease, the Pope’s gaze lingered on the fire, his brow furrowing in concentration. Then, as if struck by a sudden realization, he abruptly rose and made his way to the door.
His unexpected ergence took the priests stationed outside the prayer room by surprise. One priest, adorned in a robe of black and red, quickly stepped forward, concern evident in his voice: “What’s wrong?”
“I’m heading to the archive,” Frem responded curtly, not pausing in his stride. “There’s no need for anyone to accompany . Ensure the fire of the Chronicle Pillar remains guarded.”
The priests shared a look of confusion among themselves.
But Frem was already advancing down the corridor, leaving the sacred confines of the prayer room behind. His form then seamlessly transford into a stream of fiery light, weaving through the sanctuary’s myriad of candlesticks, fire pits, and bonfires. In what seed like an instant, he traversed the entirety of the Ark’s upper reaches, arriving at the heart of the Fla Bearers Ark, beneath the “Great Bonfire,” and into the archive guarded by a massive stone do. This repository held an imnse collection of historical docunts, scrolls, and precious stone tablets.
The archive was a well-lit expanse, its heavy, wall-like shelving units arrayed in neat rows within the vast hall. Unlike ordinary bookshelves, these shelves were built on long tracks equipped with hidden traction chanisms powered by steam engines, enabling them to move between the internal library and the external reading area as needed.
However, Frem’s destination lay beyond these massive shelves, in the “Secret Chamber” nestled deeper within the archive. He bypassed the shelves and tracks, approaching a solid stone wall at the hall’s end, where two knights clad in heavy armor and wielding fla-shaped swords stood guard.
“The Secret Chamber is locked,” one knight declared, his voice muffled by the helm yet unwavering even in the Pope’s presence, diligently adhering to his duty. “May I ask the reason for your visit?”
“I need to consult the stone tablets left by the predecessors,” Frem stated with a gravity that matched his role, “I suspect we are facing an event of historical tiline penetration.”
The knights’ armor clinked softly as they shifted.
“…Ti range?” inquired the second knight.
“New City-State Era 1600 to 1755,” Frem specified.
The knights exchanged knowing looks, each taking a synchronized half step to the side while simultaneously raising their fla-shaped swords. They positioned the tips of their swords above designated slots on the ground in front of the stone barrier, one knight casting a cautious glance towards Frem: “Please confirm the current date.”
“New City-State Era 1902, 22nd of the first month.”
As the swords were inserted into the ground slots, the sound of gears and chanisms echoed through the chamber, and the stone wall began to slowly withdraw, revealing the path forward.
“Confird, New City-State Era 1902, 22nd of the first month,” the knights of the Fla Bearers announced with a formal solemnity, “Please ensure your return before today’s end. May your path be safeguarded.”
…
“We have lost communication with the Sea Song,” reported a middle-aged man, his attire signifying his role as a priest of the storm. He stood before Helena, his voice laden with both concern and regret, “After it surpassed the critical distance of six miles, it managed only sporadic contact with the temporary lighthouse for about an hour before silence ensued.”
He hesitated for a mont before continuing: “Following the failure of psychic attempts at communication, we ventured to activate the radio, yet still, no signals were received from the Sea Song.”
Helena remained silent for a mont, absorbing the news, then gave a slow nod of acknowledgnt.
“You may leave.”
“Yes, Pope.”
With a respectful bow, the priest exited the room, leaving behind a palpable stillness.
Ti passed quietly until Helena stood up, her movents deliberate as she approached the statue of the Storm Goddess Gomona. She offered a sea breath wood amulet to the flas at the feet of the statue, then lifted her gaze towards the deity, shrouded in a sheer shawl.
Beneath the veil, the goddess’s visage remained hidden, as mysterious and unfathomable as the ocean’s depths and the threads of fate.
“…The emissaries we dispatched in search of your domain, have they arrived safely within your realm? Or… have they vanished into the vast, unknown void beyond our world?”
The statue offered no response, and not even the semblance of wave sounds filled the silence.
After what felt like an eternity, Helena exhaled softly, her attention shifting back from the enigmatic statue to the fire pit before her.
“Lune, the vanguard fleet of the Storm Church that we dispatched beyond our borders has ceased to communicate,” she spoke softly into the flas, “Will you still proceed with our plans?”
“Proceed,” ca Lune’s voice, erging from within the fire, “‘Mathematical Law’ is ready and will set sail for the southern boundary in twenty-four hours. We’ve detected a stronger signal in that direction, potentially more promising than the Sea Song.”
As Helena absorbed this information, mulling over her thoughts, her contemplation was suddenly interrupted by an unexpected crackling from the fire pit.
Her eyes widened in surprise as Frem’s voice unexpectedly broke through the flas: “Apologies for the intrusion, but I co bearing crucial intelligence regarding the Sea Song.”
“Frem?” Helena’s voice carried a tone of surprise, followed quickly by realization, “You’re referring to the Sea Song? You’ve co with news?!”
“Yes,” the fire responded with a crackle, Frem’s voice erging sowhat distorted from the flas, “The Sea Song has made its return.”
“It has returned?” Helena’s astonishnt was palpable, her voice tinged with disbelief, “But when? How co I wasn’t inford…”
“1675, the twelf month,” Frem clarified with a calmness that contrasted the bewildering nature of his news.
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