After reading Miss DeLuna’s journals during the voyage, I unexpectedly developed the urge to attempt writing myself.
This is unusual.
Normally, when I feel inspired, I reorganize trade routes or renegotiate shipping contracts.
According to Miss DeLuna, writing only requires three important principles.
The first was:
“Never write what you want to say.”
“Write what you are afraid to say.”
The second:
“People do not remember facts.”
“They remember feelings.”
And the third:
“One day, your writing will be read by someone who is desperate.”
“Write as though you are speaking directly to them.”
I believe I understand the general direction she intended.
Though admittedly, the third principle seems largely irrelevant in my case.
If someone someday becomes emotionally dependent on my shipment reports, then society has likely collapsed beyond recovery.
Miss DeLuna also admitted she does not consistently follow these principles herself.
When I asked what topic I should begin with, she simply told me to write about anything.
So after some consideration, I decided my first entry should concern Miss DeLuna herself.
Mainly because I followed the first principle.
“Write what you are afraid to say.”
Though in my case, I am not particularly afraid of saying these things.
I am more afraid of asking them directly.
Or worse—
Discovering the questions themselves might be considered impolite.
I have known Miss DeLuna for approximately one year now.
From the moment I first met her, it was obvious she was not ordinary.
Not merely educated.
Not merely intelligent.
There is a difference.
The way she speaks.
Walks.
Greets people.
Even the manner in which she interacts with lower-ranking crew members feels completely natural.
Not performed humility.
Not politeness calculated for reputation.
Genuine familiarity.
That alone is enough to suggest noble upbringing.
Or at minimum a family with extremely old traditions.
Oddly enough, this is also the first time in my life I have met someone from a clearly higher social stratum who made me feel socially smaller without intentionally trying to.
Even now, despite her repeatedly insisting I call her “Reine,” I still cannot do it comfortably.
It feels incorrect somehow.
I suspect if I attempted it naturally, my ancestors would personally emerge from the afterlife to criticize me.
There are several things I wish to ask her directly.
I simply have not gathered enough courage yet.
For example—
Her quill.
That thing is absolutely an artifact.
The ink never runs dry.
Never.
Do people understand how absurd that is?
Based on rough estimation, the value is likely around one thousand gold minimum.
Possibly higher depending on origin.
That is approximately equal to three wagons of premium silk.
She uses it to doodle while lying sideways inside moving wagons.
Then there is the infinity bag.
A small bag with near-limitless internal storage capacity.
Theoretically, as long as an object fits through the opening, it can be stored inside.
The difficult part, according to most accounts, is retrieving specific objects intentionally afterward.
Yet Miss DeLuna accesses items from inside it as casually as breathing.
If the rumors regarding market value are accurate, one infinity bag inside the capital could cost upward of twenty thousand gold.
With twenty thousand gold, I could purchase an entire village and convert it into private warehouse property.
Which I have considered before.
Purely academically.
Most concerning of all—
Miss DeLuna uses these artifacts with complete indifference toward their value.
She once used the infinity bag as a pillow during caravan travel.
During the swamp expedition, she wore her waterproof robe directly through mud, rainwater, mangrove roots, and swamp residue without visible concern.
Meanwhile I nearly suffered emotional collapse simply watching this happen.
I have experienced many strange situations together with Miss DeLuna.
She is sincere.
Kind.
Often unintentionally thoughtful.
And simultaneously one of the most alarming individuals I have ever met.
Especially when telling stories.
At one point she casually narrated something before sleep that caused me nightmares for several consecutive nights afterward.
I do not believe she noticed.
Miss DeLuna insists her homeland is ordinary.
According to her description, Isla de la Luna is merely a small western island with “nothing special.”
I do not trust this statement whatsoever.
Specifically because she phrased it so casually.
More importantly—
The island belongs to her family.
Her family.
Do people understand how insane that sounds?
I shamelessly insisted on accompanying her there.
Officially, I justified this decision through “future trade opportunity assessment.”
Unofficially, I need answers.
I would confidently wager my entire personal savings that Miss DeLuna is some form of runaway noble daughter.
Potentially worse.
The way she handles conversations with nobility and powerful merchants is far too natural.
For me, those skills required years of deliberate training.
Miss DeLuna behaves as though such environments simply existed around her since birth.
And that is merely etiquette.
The knowledge itself is even stranger.
Why oranges are called oranges.
Why chickens cannot properly fly.
Ancient burial rituals.
Trade-era linguistic drift.
What exactly has this woman been reading?
Forbidden national archives?
Royal libraries?
Who even taught her these things?
Most people capable of reading and writing properly are already considered unusually educated.
Meanwhile Miss DeLuna speaks as though entire hidden libraries accidentally leaked directly into her brain.
At any rate, I believe this journal entry was reasonably productive.
Miss DeLuna said writing regularly is important.
I remain unconvinced.
Still, I admit the process feels… unexpectedly useful.
I will continue writing again after personally observing Isla de la Luna for myself.
At that point, I suspect several of my current theories will either be confirmed.
Or become significantly more concerning.
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