Chapter 89 : Whispers of the Past and the Silent Threshold
Chapter 89 — Whispers of the Past and the Silent Threshold
At first glance, the village seemed but a gathering of the aged, their bent forms and silvered hair telling tales of years long endured. The youth—those restless spirits—had fled to the distant city lights, leaving behind a hushed hamlet wrapped in the heavy cloak of solitude.
No wonder the wary gazes fell upon us with sharp suspicion.
For what else could a pair of strangers be in this forsaken place, so far removed from the bustle of the world? And Johannes, clad in his naval uniform, wore an armor not just of cloth but of threat—unspoken and palpable.
The tattered Docilian banners, torn with ruthless disdain and hung as silent sentinels upon the village’s entrance, bled hostility into the very air. It was only natural that a soldier of that fallen nation would stir the embers of their mistrust.
Yet, powerless to strike, their eyes merely pierced us with unyielding vigilance.
“Follow me silently. Speak no word,” I whispered to Johannes, sensing that to linger unaccompanied would only stoke the fires of their suspicion.
Thus, we pressed onward—two souls navigating a labyrinth of narrow lanes and guarded stares, our footsteps weaving the fabric of a fragile truce.
The village was small, a handful of streets stretching like veins, and my gaze sought a house of red brick crowned by a blue roof—the cryptic signature of a long-lost refuge.
Then, a voice cracked through the stillness—aged and sharp as shattered glass.
“Hey, you two. What brings you here?”
I spun reflexively to meet the source.
Before me stood a man bent with years, his white hair dulled of shine, his spine curved like the bow of a weathered ship. His eyes, sharp and suspicious, studied me with the caution of a sentinel.
A gnarled cane gripped tightly in his hand, he was the embodiment of this wary village.
The others, equally aged and equally cautious, dared not approach; their glances mere shadows upon my back.
I sensed this elder bore the mantle of authority here.
I braced for questions about my intrusion, but not for such open hostility—nor such raw, unmasked distrust.
Perhaps rightly so.
For the wounds of the massacre that scarred these lands still bled fresh, and trust was a fragile luxury.
“I seek a house,” I answered, my voice measured, every syllable weighed to veil suspicion.
“A house?” he repeated, scrutinizing us anew, his brow knitting deeper.
“Yes. If you know where it stands, would you show us the way?”
I presented the note—an address inked in worn strokes.
His narrowed eyes traced the words, then widened in startled recognition.
“This place…!”
His hand trembled, gripping the cane like a talisman.
“Why does the lady wish to go here? What is this matter? And you—dressed in the royal uniform—are you one sent by the crown?”
The accusation, thick with bitterness, hung in the air like a storm.
“I am no envoy of the royal family. I merely seek a favor,” I replied hastily, the truth faltering on my tongue.
A search for my father, a desperate quest—but such inquiries only sowed seeds of suspicion.
“What favor can you ask of a house where death lingers, both inside and out?”
His voice rose, drawing the eyes of the village upon me like a weight of judgment.
What haunted this house, so feared and shunned?
Most of Herzburg’s souls had lost kin in the Alchemist Massacre. Yet, this place held a deeper shadow.
I narrowed my eyes as the old man pressed on.
“The door remains locked, barred to all. No force can pry it open.”
“But I must enter. Circumstances demand it—and I hold the key.”
At this, the old man’s lids lifted, revealing startled pupils that danced between my hand and my face.
“Did you truly receive this key yourself?”
His sudden change unsettled me, yet I nodded with quiet resolve.
“And what name does the lady bear?”
“Edith…”
I hesitated—Schultz or Prim—but the moment called for truth.
“Edith…”
The old man inhaled deeply, eyes sweeping the circle of watchers.
“Everyone may lower their guard. She is Candice’s daughter.”
Candice’s daughter…
If Candice Prim was the mother he spoke of, then this was my own bloodline laid bare.
Confusion warred within me as I met the old man’s gaze—now unguarded, burdened with memories.
“Do you know my mother?”
The question slipped from my lips, tentative and trembling.
In response, the old man clasped my hand firmly.
“Then you know well—your father, too—we all do.”
“…What?”
Around us, the villagers leaned closer, their eyes alight with recognition.
“Come to think of it, you bear Isaac’s likeness.”
“And Candice’s features as well.”
“We parted when you were but a child, I suppose.”
It was as if the village itself breathed in remembrance, welcoming me in fragmented whispers.
I had come merely to find my father, unaware that this welcome carried the weight of history.
“How do you know me?”
I asked once more.
The old man closed his eyes, lost in thought.
“I know well, very well.”
Awakening from his reverie, he motioned me to follow.
The whirlwind of revelation spun too fast for me to grasp, but trust was scarce, and ignorance more perilous.
We ventured further, and soon the house emerged before me.
A weathered wall of faded red bricks, crowned by the familiar blue roof—the sanctuary of my parents’ youth.
No living soul had tended this place for long; spider webs clung to corners, the yard overrun with wild grass untamed by human hand.
“It has been forsaken. No one may enter,” the old man muttered, stepping aside.
“This is where Candice and Isaac lived, once upon a time.”
His words hung like a fragile thread between past and present.
“Your parents lived here?”
He nodded, his eyes clouded with memories.
The realization settled—this note, this guide, the one who led me here—he must be my true father.
“…Huh?”
The old man halted before the door.
“Signs… someone has visited recently.”
“Signs?”
“Not long ago, the doorknob was untouched, new,” he murmured.
With that, he ushered me inside.
No grand hall awaited—only the quiet breath of dust and shadow.
“I think we should enter,” I whispered, glancing toward Johannes.
“Alone,” he replied.
“As you wish.”
Remembering Giltheon’s insistence that I come unaccompanied, I nodded.
The key with its scarlet ribbon turned slowly, the door creaking open as if awakening from slumber.
A cloud of dust billowed forth; I coughed, eyes watering.
Inside, white powder lay thick upon old furniture.
Why had my father brought me here? Why had they lived in this village of secrets and silence?
Amidst the debris, a single sheet of paper rested upon the kitchen table.
I lifted it, fingers trembling, and began to read.
I know not how to begin.
The weight you bear must be immense.
If you have come this far, the code I sent through Giltheon has surely been deciphered, and your resolve solidified.
I wished to be a father worthy of pride, yet failed in this.
I can tell you nothing more—for now.
Do not seek knowledge beyond this; live your life.
If regrets still haunt your heart, know this—marrying that man was a grave error.
When the time is right, I shall come for you.
Burn this letter upon reading.
It was my father’s own hand.
That marrying that man was wrong?
A code.
I reached into my pocket and retrieved the other note—the second cipher I had yet to decipher.
Army uniform…
I brushed the dust from the worn table and chair, seating myself carefully.
The golden hues of sunset spilled through the window, bathing the room in melancholic light.
Eyes drawn repeatedly to the reflection of Johannes’ naval coat outside, I pieced together the message.
My face drained of color as the final words unveiled themselves.
Run away from…
Run away from someone…?
