Langsung ke konten utama

📖 Aeryn Valeria Roderick Journal Page 22

It has now been four days since Miss DeLuna disappeared inside Grimhaven.

Two days ago, Spathian and I finally managed to gather proper information from a cheese pastry vendor near the lower market district.

Apparently several guards from the Dark Citadel dragged Miss DeLuna away shortly after she wandered too close to the inner sector.

This city truly is dangerous.

I am writing again because today has been deeply exhausting.

Actually no.

Terrifying.

Two days ago I attempted to hire mercenaries.

My original plan was simple:

gather enough armed men, storm the citadel, retrieve Miss DeLuna, leave immediately.

I was fully prepared to spend absurd amounts of money if necessary.

Unfortunately I discovered something deeply inconvenient:

fear is economically stronger than gold.

No mercenary company would accept the contract.

None.

Not even the desperate ones.

At first I assumed this was ordinary superstition.

Then the stories started.

Apparently the League of Eternal Darkness possesses a reputation severe enough that even frontier mercenaries avoid provoking them directly.

And the worst part is—

the stories sound ridiculous.

Completely ridiculous.

Yet somehow still difficult to dismiss entirely.

One mercenary told me that years ago Lord Nyctharios publicly declared:

“We shall summon eternal darkness that devours this city whole.”

Shortly afterward, the strange purple fog surrounding Grimhaven began appearing.

It still covers portions of the city even now.

Another claimed Lord Nyctharios once proclaimed:

“No human hand shall claim our deaths.”

And according to them, even Dunskar hunters refuse direct confrontation with the League whenever possible.

Which honestly sounds absurd.

Then again…

after Isla de la Luna, my standards for “absurd” have deteriorated considerably.

The stories regarding Lady Valthyria are somehow worse.

One woman swore she witnessed Lady Valthyria curse an entire crowd after a market dispute.

According to witnesses, she declared:

“One day you will all feel the emptiness within me. I shall weave it into your souls myself.”

The people supposedly affected by her curse still live within Grimhaven.

Smiling.

Working.

Speaking normally.

Yet everyone describes them the same way:

emotionally hollow.

Like something inside them quietly disappeared.

And then there is Baron Zorvathian.

Apparently several years ago he announced publicly:

“One day I shall fracture your world itself. Everything will crack before me.”

Soon afterward a series of disasters struck the outer districts.

Ground fractures.

Collapsed buildings.

Small landslides.

Destroyed homes.

The damaged areas still exist today apparently, preserved almost like monuments.

All of this information appears recorded inside cheaply printed books spread throughout nearby regions.

Possibly propaganda.

Possibly fabricated.

Yet the physical evidence remains difficult to dismiss entirely.

I hate this city.

This morning became even worse.

Shortly after sunrise, armed members of the League began moving throughout the market districts.

Closing shops.

Seizing goods.

Driving civilians inward toward the citadel.

At first I thought it was a purge.

Panic spread almost immediately.

Even Spathian looked alarmed.

Which frightened me far more than the armed guards themselves.

We retreated beyond the outer wall while the streets descended into chaos.

I watched entire groups of civilians forced uphill toward the citadel gates.

Old people.

Children.

Shopkeepers.

Everyone.

The guards did not appear selective.

Rumors spread quickly afterward.

Apparently Lord Nyctharios had become enraged after learning an infiltrator entered the city.

Meaning Miss DeLuna.

I genuinely believed they were preparing executions.

Then, while writing this entry—

an earthquake struck Grimhaven.

Not small.

A real earthquake.

The ground shook hard enough to topple several crates beside our temporary shelter outside the walls.

Even now I can still hear distant shouting from the city.

Under normal circumstances I would dismiss this as coincidence.

But after Yggdra…

after the Flesh Bargain…

after Isla de la Luna…

I no longer feel confident deciding where coincidence ends.

Ents exist.

Undines exist.

Ancient bloodlines alter reality itself.

The First Veil exists.

Why would supervillains with catastrophic powers somehow be impossible?

Dunskar tolerates Grimhaven’s existence despite clearly possessing the military capability to erase it.

That fact alone deeply concerns me.

Kingdoms do not tolerate unstable threats without reason.

Spathian has also become increasingly quiet.

This is perhaps the most disturbing development so far.

Normally he dismantles at least three spoons per hour while discussing impossible engineering concepts.

Today he barely touched his tools.

Several times I noticed him staring silently toward the citadel instead.

I think he is frightened too.

Though he would never admit it directly.

Tomorrow I will continue searching for assistance.

I do not care how much it costs anymore.

I refuse to leave Miss DeLuna inside that place indefinitely.

Because lately—

for the first time since meeting her—

I have started imagining the possibility that I may fail to bring her back.

And I find that thought far more unbearable than I expected.

Komentar

Postingan populer dari blog ini

📖 Journal of DeLuna — Entry 2: The Powers Beneath the Crown

If the king of Dunskar stands at the peak… then beneath him lies a web that never truly rests. There are four powers here. Not equal—but none insignificant. The Nobility came first. Old families, their names carved into the foundations of the kingdom itself. They do not rule outright, but their bloodlines built Dunskar. Land, wealth, influence—most of it flows through them. Some smile at the crown. Others measure it. Then, the Church of the Sun. They worship Solus, the ever-burning eye above the world. Their temples are quiet, but their reach is not. Faith here is not forced… yet somehow, it is everywhere. Even soldiers bow their heads before battle. I cannot tell if they serve the king… or if the king simply allows them to exist. The third is… unusual. The Guild. Not a government body, yet somehow essential. They write the guidebooks—records of monsters, ruins, forbidden paths. To adventurers, it is survival itself. To the crown? A tool, perhaps. Or a risk. Information is ...

‎📖 Journal of DeLuna — Entry 1: Dunskar

‎Dunskar is not ruled by age. ‎It is ruled by presence. ‎I arrived expecting a kingdom bound by tradition—an old king, a fixed line of succession, predictable order. I was wrong. ‎ ‎The throne of Dunskar does not belong to the eldest child, nor the firstborn. It belongs to the one who can take it… without tearing the kingdom apart. ‎Every ruler must carry the blood of the previous king—this much is sacred. But blood alone is not enough. Among the royal lineage, they choose. ‎ ‎Not by simple decree, but by a form of judgment. Influence. Strength. Charisma. The ability to command not just soldiers… but belief. ‎ ‎They call it a “vote,” though it feels less like democracy and more like quiet warfare. Alliances form in whispers. Loyalty is tested long before the crown is placed. ‎ ‎A weak heir is never crowned. ‎A strong one is rarely unchallenged. ‎The current king—whoever he may be—does not simply inherit power. ‎He survives for it. ‎ ‎And perhaps that is why the people do no...

📖 Journal of DeLuna — Special Entry: The Weight of Knowing

We left the gathering behind. The colors faded first. Then the voices. Then the sense that the world was… wider than I could follow. For days, we walked. The ground changed slowly. Red gave way to something softer. Not yet green—but no longer harsh. And still—I found my attention returning to the same person. Sondre Eldar. Though no one calls him that unless they must. To most, he is simply the Caravan Master. I had watched him before. Everyone does. But not like this. Not with questions that refuse to settle. It began with a memory. A sound I could not place. Clicks. Tongue against teeth. The language of the Siltfang. I had heard it clearly. And I had heard him answer. Just as clearly. For several days, I said nothing. It felt… inappropriate to ask. As if the answer would not be given freely. Or worse—as if it would. He noticed before I spoke. “Something on your mind,” he said. Not a question. Just an observation. I asked anyway. About the language. He did not answer immed...