Deep Sea Embers

As the fleet journeyed farther north, the chill in the air intensified, suggesting that the coldness had become an inherent characteristic of the sea that lay before them. Despite the warmth of the flames or the layers of winter clothing they wore, these measures only managed to fend off the biting cold temporarily, failing to provide true warmth.

During one particularly frigid and endless night, the Storm Church delivered its last set of documents to the Church of the Flame Bearers’ Ark. This exchange occurred under the cover of darkness, with the vessel from the Storm Church docking alongside the Flame Bearers’ Ark for several hours before it retreated back into the obscurity of the night.

Frem, positioned atop the Ark’s high tower, watched as the departing ship’s outline grew increasingly indistinct against the distant sea. The sound of steam whistles from the ship lingered in the night, blending with the wind before fading away completely.

“This may well be our final glimpse of others from the civilized world,” remarked the towering pope of the forest folk, turning to address the priestess by his side. “Following this exchange, our temple will remain in the north. The Ark is not just our vessel; it is our archive, and the archive, in essence, is the Ark itself.”

“We are fully prepared for what lies ahead,” the priestess responded with a calm demeanor. “We will make our stand amidst the eternal ice, witnessing the last embers of light pierce through the darkness until this prolonged night comes to an end… It is a profound honor to be here with you, Your Holiness.”

Frem paused momentarily before replying softly, “The honor is mine as well.”

At the edge of his vision, far ahead of the Ark fleet, a faint white mass began to emerge from the sea.

This was the frozen expanse in the farthest reaches of the Cold Sea, the world’s most frigid region, where everything is ensnared by ice, achieving a form of eternity within its grasp. This is the final destination for the Flame Bearers.

The city-state they left behind had lost its fragment of the sun several days prior when a tugboat transported the enormous glowing object to a place where it was needed more. Now, the city relied solely on artificial lighting. The bright glow of street lamps and the lights from countless homes merged together, creating a luminous flow that traced the city’s contours, maintaining the semblance of order and tranquility that civilization clings to.

The newly implemented curfew system is functioning without a hitch, and after an initial period of unrest and confusion, factories and markets have resumed their orderly activities. Though residents have limited the frequency of their outings, they continue to uphold their daily routines within the constraints allowed. Despite a few acts of sabotage orchestrated by dissenters in the shadows against the city, these were swiftly quelled by the combined efforts of the guardians and the sheriff’s forces.

The “Sunlight Fleet,” tasked with transporting a fragment of the sun, navigates the vast ocean between city-states. Accompanying this fleet, a massive convoy of cargo ships traverses the night, successfully restoring sixty to seventy percent of the inter-city bulk logistics transportation. The periodic arrival of the “sunlight” brought by the fleet has significantly alleviated the pressures that have mounted on each city during this prolonged night. Despite the increasing occurrences of distortions and mutations, the guardians, for the first time in a long while, find a moment to catch their breath—

They are grappling with unprecedented challenges, yet it’s a welcome change from the relentless despair that once shrouded them in darkness.

At times, Tyrian finds himself contemplating the sustainability of this new status quo—a delicate balance seems to have been struck. Civilization has demonstrated remarkable resilience and adaptability throughout this enduring night. The populace has grown accustomed to the prolonged darkness, bolstered by the solidarity among city-states, the implementation of the curfew system, the establishment of a new night watch order, and the itinerant rays of sunlight. These measures appear sufficient to sustain this semblance of normalcy, potentially for an extended period, if not indefinitely.

However, such thoughts are fleeting, as Tyrian soon comes to a stark realization: this sense of tranquility is but an illusion, a temporary reprieve from the reality that the world is inexorably spiraling towards its demise, at a pace far exceeding anyone’s expectations.

This awareness stems from his understanding of the “decay” afflicting the gods, the gradual yet irreversible deterioration at the world’s foundation—knowledge inherited from his father.

But what about others? Tyrian wonders about the perception of city-state governors, church administrators, guardians, sheriffs, and the ordinary citizens. Do they, too, harbor this false sense of peace, unknowingly ensnared by this deceptive calm?

“…Maybe it’s not a bad thing,” Tyrian mutters to himself.

Caught off guard, Aiden inquires, “Huh? What’s not a bad thing?”

“Nothing, just thinking out loud,” Tyrian replies, shifting his focus from the distant city lights to gaze upon Aiden’s gleaming bald head. “What were we discussing?”

“We were talking about the need to adjust production in several factories in the lower city district,” Aiden begins, before quickly adding, “The Coordinating Committee has raised concerns about a slight shortfall in fuel production capacity. While it’s not a pressing issue at the moment, they predict it will become more severe over time…”

“I’m aware; I reviewed the report earlier today. Inform the Coordinating Committee that City Hall will provide a response by tomorrow morning,” Tyrian dismisses the topic with a wave of his hand. “Is there anything else?”

A moment of hesitation creeps into Aiden’s voice, tinged with uncertainty, “Well, there’s something… unusual reported by the Great Furnace.”

“Something unusual?” Tyrian’s expression shifted to one of mild irritation, his brow furrowing in frustration. “Please, let’s not dance around the details. Who reports in such a vague manner?”

Aiden hastily cleared his throat, realigning his posture and demeanor before responding, “There’s been a report from a department stating they’ve been without tasks for some time now. The head of that department has expressed… a sense of oddity about the situation.”

Tyrian’s concern visibly deepened, a sense of disquiet washing over him as if crucial pieces of information were eluding his grasp. “A department? What exactly do you mean by ‘a department’? Which department are we talking about here?”

“The report was somewhat disorderly, and it landed on my desk in a state of confusion. It’s unclear who sent it. Many parts of the document are illegible…” Aiden’s explanation grew increasingly befuddled, his expression turning into one of utter bewilderment. His speech slowed, his words coming out as if he were a machine grinding to a halt, painstakingly forcing out each word: “…I just recall… they… were in charge of… incineration…”

He paused, his expression vacant, as he stared blankly at Tyrian.

After a brief moment of silence, Aiden appeared to snap back to reality, a tremor running through him before he proceeded as if the previous exchange hadn’t occurred. “…The production capacity of the metal ore mine has returned to pre-night levels. The surplus ore is currently being prepared for shipment. Upon the Sunlight Fleet’s next visit, it will be transported as scheduled…”

However, Tyrian seemed to have tuned out Aiden’s update regarding the metal ore mine. From the moment Aiden resumed speaking, Tyrian’s gaze had fixed on him with an intensity that bordered on alarming, causing Aiden to falter under the heavy, unspoken question hanging in the air: “Uh… did I say something wrong?”

“Aiden,” Tyrian’s voice was laden with a gravity that underscored the years of loyalty and service between them, “do you recall what you were just reporting to me?”

Aiden, taken aback, reviewed their conversation with a puzzled look. “The… the production capacity of the metal ore mine, adjustments in the factory production in the lower city districts, the Coordinating Committee’s concerns about fuel shortages? Before that, we discussed the Flame Bearers fleet heading north…”

He trailed off, noticing the increasingly perturbed look on Tyrian’s face.

“The Great Furnace,” Tyrian stated, his voice and demeanor conveying deep seriousness, “do you remember telling me about a report from a department in the Great Furnace?”

Aiden’s expression blanked: “…What report?”

Tyrian remained silent, his gaze drifting toward the outskirts of the upper city district, in the direction of a particular cemetery.

As a gust of wind wound its way through the night, stirring the streets and venturing into the heart of the cemetery, it carried with it a mist of gray-white dust. Within the swirl of the wind, the figure of Agatha began to coalesce from the dust.

Today, Agatha had forsaken her bishop’s solemn black attire in favor of the light armor and combat jacket she wore during her tenure as a gatekeeper. The cracks adorning her cheeks and arms, reminiscent of the fissures on a fragile doll, emanated a soft, green glow. She made her way hastily from the Silent Cathedral in the upper city district to the cemetery, yet upon her arrival, she was met with an unexpected sight.

Duncan, the towering figure wrapped in bandages who served as the cemetery’s caretaker, was positioned beside a mortuary table located on a narrow path within the cemetery. He was assisting a figure that appeared to have recently been a corpse, evidenced by its neck bent at an odd angle and its head lolling to one side. The figure clumsily descended from the table, its movements rigid and accompanied by the disconcerting sound of cracking joints.

The gravekeeper Duncan, while helping the reanimated corpse down, maintained a serene demeanor: “…Yes, experiencing some headache is to be expected. Perhaps you’ll feel better once you’ve returned… Your neck needs to be stabilized, either a wooden brace or fire tongs should suffice. Try to remain positive. Think of this as if you’ve simply wandered off after having a bit too much to drink. Your family won’t hold this against you—they’ll be glad to have you back. After all, there are many others like you.”

While he was speaking, another mortuary table nearby creaked as its coffin lid was pushed open. An elderly man with white hair sat up, looking around in confusion: “Why am I lying here? My chest feels tight…”

“I’ll assist you in a moment,” Duncan promptly responded, moving towards him. “Please, don’t try to get down by yourself. A broken limb might be somewhat more… problematic to deal with… Yes, breathe. Feeling tightness in your chest is normal after being in there for so long… that’s it, deep breaths, inhale the air—”

Duncan halted mid-sentence, turning his head to acknowledge the gatekeeper, Agatha, who stood on the path, her expression one of utter astonishment.

“Oh, you’ve arrived,” he greeted her with an air of nonchalance.

“…Mr. Duncan,” Agatha, still trying to process the scene before her, managed to say, “What exactly are you doing?”

“It seems your understanding of the situation hasn’t fully adjusted yet,” Duncan remarked indifferently before returning his attention to his peculiar task. “As you can see, I’m helping my temporary ‘guests’ find their way back.”

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