7-7

Two months later, one night, Dalia lay in bed, covering her forehead with the back of her right hand. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, her heels kicking the side of the bed frame, creating a dull thud that echoed in the room. Usually, a servant or the butler would come knocking to ask what was wrong, but tonight, no one disturbed her.

She sat up. The sound of the waves was absent. The silent moonlight cautiously illuminated the two suitcases in the corner of the room. These were the result of her own selection; the luggage her servants originally packed was six times larger. They thought more belongings would better represent her status, but she was heading to a place where her former identity no longer mattered. Besides, the Wharton family had long ceased to exist. What her parents had saved back then was not the right to continue the family name, but merely her own survival.

At least for now, sleep was out of the question. Dalia didn't want to spend hours wide awake, only to fall into a brief, dream-filled sleep out of exhaustion as morning approached. That would waste an entire day of recovery, which was unhelpful for her upcoming journey. More importantly, she hoped to face everything ahead with a clear and positive mindset.

She left the bedroom. In this large house, she always recognized her own footsteps. The servants walked as lightly as possible, but from the ceiling to the stairs, the fireplace, only Dalia's own echo remained. This entire mansion once belonged to the Wattons; now it was hers alone, but she had never truly needed every brick, every carpet, every candlestick, not to mention the unused space high above, almost permanently out of reach. Sometimes, she felt the house was a theater, and she was its only actor and audience.

Leaving the hall, she walked down the corridor leading to the servants' quarters, then descended a staircase. This led to the basement, where Jorgen lived. Dalia descended the steps and arrived at the weathered, grooved wooden door. A pale yellow light seeped through the cracks around it. He was inside and awake. She knocked.

The door opened. Jorgen didn't seem particularly pleased to see her.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Let me in."

Jorgen stepped aside, and Dalia entered. The ceiling was low, and the candlelight cast a person's shadow simultaneously on both the ceiling and the floor. A small iron-grated window sat high on the eastern wall, just above ground level.

Dalia looked around. Here, at least, the furnishings were more abundant than the small shack she had lived in during her escape with her parents.

"You haven't packed?" she asked.

"There's not much to take."

Dalia sat on the bed. Jorgen pulled a chair and sat to her front left.

"How are you?" Jorgen asked.

"What?"

"I asked if you're ready."

Dalia nodded. "More or less," she said. "Dean told me there wouldn't be much room for me to stay at first. If something's missing and Stormwind can't find a replacement, someone can send it over."

"You should go to sleep. Tomorrow you'll—"

"There's no need for that; we're not leaving until noon." After a pause, she added, "Am I bothering you? If you need to rest…"

"No. This is your place. Stay as long as you want."

"…Don't say things like that."

Dalia didn't leave. She stared at the candlelight to her right.

"Do you know what he likes to call me? The conch girl."

"He mentioned it. Because you wouldn't tell him the story behind the conch."

"I can't. Keeping it with me is just a habit. I don't want him to see me as a child."

As a child, Dalia's father had told her a fairy tale. A little girl and her parents were sailing when they encountered a storm, and the waves threw the girl into the sea. When she woke, she found herself alone on a strange beach. Assuming her parents had perished, she cried, attracting the island's only resident, a giant ogre. The ogre didn't eat her but made her work hard, cleaning its palace in the cave. Around the ogre's neck was a conch with pale yellow stripes, and it told her that if she dared touch it, it would eat her. One night, the girl stole the conch while the ogre was drunk and blew it. It was a magical artifact, imprisoning a water spirit made of blue droplets. The spirit killed the ogre and, in gratitude, raised a storm that guided the girl's parents' ship to the island, reuniting them. Dalia was fascinated by the story but became afraid after hearing it too many times from her father—it seemed like something that could really happen to her. Storms and waves were familiar to her. To comfort her, her father bought her the conch, claiming it had the same powers as the one in the story. Even as a child, she never believed that, but it felt more like a true gift from her father than this house ever did.

She didn't plan to take it on her journey.

"I shouldn't have told you in the first place. Don't tell him."

"I'm not interested in telling him."

After a brief silence, Dalia spoke again.

"I'm a little scared, Jorgen."

"Scared of what?"

"This whole thing. It's happening so fast."

"If you two decided this together, it's a good thing."

"Marriage isn't just about the two of us."

"I heard his father quickly agreed."

"He just agreed to meet me."

"Either way, there's nothing to fear."

"You don't understand."

Dalia felt the urge to confess, but it wasn't something she could say aloud. After their decision, Dean wrote a letter asking his father if he could bring this girl back to Stormwind. Receiving a positive reply, Dean, unable to contain his excitement, showed it to Dalia. Of course, she recognized the handwriting. She had to disguise her instinctive fear as astonishment. "That's great," she said, hugging Dean, resting her chin on his shoulder so he couldn't see her face.

"Are you scared too? Or worried? About going there for training."

"Nothing to worry about. They say they get hundreds of trainees every year."

"After training, you'll work for the MI7, and I'll likely be his wife. Then, in a few years, he'll become the head of the division…"

"That's for later."

"…By then, will I have become your boss?"

"There's no need to think about that."

"I have to. Maybe we'll drift apart and won't have the chance to chat like this anymore."

"You're overthinking this, Dalia."

"I am."

"Then you should go to sleep—"

"Why do you keep trying to send me away? Sleep, sleep. If someone annoys you, they're either stupid, or you tell them to sleep. I've had enough."

"What else do you want to hear from me?"

"I don't know. Something else. Something new."

"You're about to get married. You shouldn't be spending late nights in another man's room."

Dalia turned to look at Jorgen and laughed.

"Jorgen, please tell me you're joking. Even if you are, that's the worst and most awkward joke I've ever heard."

"Think whatever you want."

"Are you nervous too? The candle was already lit when I came in."

Jorgen didn't respond. After a while, Dalia continued.

"You… and Shelley, how are you two?"

"I made things clear to her."

"Clear? About what?"

"That I have to go to training."

"So, you two…"

"We won't be in contact anymore."

"That was your decision, wasn't it?"

"Trying to convince her now would be impossible anyway."

"I… I want to hit you, Jorgen. That's too cruel to her."

"Do you have a better solution?"

"You should… at least…" She paused. "Never mind. It's between you two. And no matter how angry I am at you, it's useless. I've known for a long time that things have been awkward between you two for quite a while."

"Do you want to know why I didn't bother convincing her? Because she thinks I'm going to Stormwind to follow you."

Dalia stared at him.

Well…

"She shouldn't think that," she said.

"Of course."

Are you?

A self-centered, arrogant fantasy.

"You know, nervousness can also be a sign of excitement."

"What? …I thought we'd dropped this, Jorgen."

"Right now, you're restless, unable to sleep. But once you're on the road, you'll realize there's nothing to worry about."

"I don't know. The MI7 sounds like a scary place."

"You're marrying Dean, not the MI7."

Dalia understood. She was secretly hoping Jorgen's words could calm her down, and he was trying. It wasn't fair because Jorgen didn't actually know the real reason for her fear.

She stood up.

"I should go back."

He escorted her to the door.

"Goodnight," he said.

"Goodnight."

Dalia climbed the stairs; Jorgen closed the door and listened as her footsteps faded away, then sat back on the bed.

Earlier, before opening the door, Jorgen had hidden something in his desk—a small portrait of Shelley that he had commissioned during one of their dates. He had kept the candle burning because he was debating whether to take it with him.

Since that night on the grass, Jorgen and Shelley had gone through a period of awkward distance, but in the past two weeks, they had begun to meet more frequently again. Although they never discussed what had happened that night—a sign that the wounds were still there—Jorgen knew that the hope of drawing closer had never left either of them. For Shelley, who was usually shy and timid, facing the risk of stirring up new distress by bringing up the incident seemed less appealing than quietly waiting for its ill effects to fade away. This truly wasn't the right time for a breakup. She didn't want him to leave. He had only said that he must go to Stormwind, and that there was no room to reconsider the matter.

On the day the Antiphus couple left Menethil, Jorgen saw them off as they boarded their ship. It was perhaps at that moment that Jorgen felt he, too, needed to leave. Dean had told him that to become an agent of the MI7, one must follow orders, but as long as one demonstrated capability, there would be great freedom in how the work was carried out. Antiphus believed Jorgen's life had once been controlled by others; he didn't want to delve into that—there was no way to, after all—so he looked forward to the future Dean had described, even though he didn't explicitly crave the word "freedom." When he made the decision, his heart was still filled with regret over that night—not just for having hurt Shelley, but because he realized he was still struggling to face certain unpleasant memories. Perhaps the years spent in Menethil hadn't changed him much. If there were a way to transfer the moment he made the decision to this present hesitation over whether to bring Shirley's portrait, the outcome might be different. But that was just a meaningless fantasy.

Dalia had been right: he was nervous. He could even admit to himself that he was scared. People, to resist this feeling, would light torches and grasp their blades. What he had to do, first and foremost, was leave Menethil. In those years of drifting with bandits, thinking about the future had been a futile endeavor. But now, he could give himself a bit of time to ponder what his life ahead might be like.

After all, it was something no one could predict.

One morning. Top floor of the MI7 headquarters.

"Father, I've brought him."

"Let him in. You wait outside."

"Yes."

Panthonia sat behind his desk, watching his son exit the room while another young man standing outside brushed past him and entered.

"Lord Shaw," the young man said after coming to a stop in the middle of the room.

"You are Jorgen?"

"Yes."

Panthonia had seen many newcomers hoping to serve the MI7. They usually tried their best to appear calm, wanting to show confidence without seeming overly eager. Quite a few struggled to hide their nervousness—or even fear—when facing him directly. A rare few showed ambition, as if they were already thinking from day one about how they would someday take his place in this room. Panthonia found this man before him a bit different: he clearly possessed a strong resolve but appeared too composed. Regardless of one's background, anyone willing to come to the MI7 must have some expectations, whether it was loyalty or a desire for fame. But this person seemed to lack the natural urgency to prove himself.

—Of course, Panthonia thought, perhaps this was merely an illusion born of anticipation. After all, he had promised her that he would take care of this former child and give him the life he deserved.

I will provide sufficient opportunity in my own way. What comes of it will be up to him.

"Agent Dean believes you have potential. But before you get the chance to prove that, you must first pass the academy's training. I trust you've prepared for that."

"I believe so, Lord Shaw."

"You may leave."

After the young man left, Panthonia moved from behind his desk and walked over to the window. For most in Stormwind, it would be a slightly chilly day. But for him, it was perfect. He had many important plans in motion—no one had ever, and no one would ever, be able to interfere.