A soul cries in silence

It began with the sound of hooves crunching gravel. Sebastian looked up from the basin where he was rinsing clothes, the water swirling in idle circles. Outside the window, a familiar silhouette emerged, the Nachthelm & Co. carriage, painted in deep blue with silver trim, pulled up the estate's drive.

He wiped his hands quickly and made his way to the front entrance, arriving just as the driver dismounted. It was Tilney, a slight young man in a too-large cap, whose visits once brought letters, newspapers, and Arthus's favored publications with an easy smile and a boyish nod.

But today Tilney didn't smile.

"Delivery for Mr. von Nachthelm," he said, eyes flicking toward the door behind Sebastian. "The office said it was urgent. Special handling"

Behind him, two more men stepped down from the carriage, each gripping a side of a large crate. It was far bigger than any parcel Sebastian had seen come through Nachthelm's office, oaken, reinforced with iron at the edges, and sealed with thick, dark wax bearing the family crest. It looked more suited for shipping overseas than delivering locally.

"I can't lift that," Sebastian said, frowning slightly. "Bring it inside, please"

They carried the crate carefully into the foyer, boots muffled by the plush carpets, and set it down with a dull thud just beyond the threshold. The scent of aged wood and something faintly herbal clung to it. A thin, neatly folded parchment was affixed to the lid, bearing Sebastian's name in precise, careful script.

"Thank you" he said, and Tilney gave a small nod, motioning for the others to follow him back to the carriage.

As the door shut, Sebastian stood for a moment staring at the crate. Whatever it contained, it had come at Arthus's instruction, of that he was certain. And resting neatly atop the crate, under the seal of dark blue wax, was a letter without signature.

To be opened by Mr. Sebastian. For Arthus von Nachthelm.

Heart pounding, he unfolded it and read:

Sebastian,

If you are reading this, then the worst has happened. Your master foresaw it, through some extraordinary instinct I will not pretend to understand. He left these instructions for you in advance.

The package contains several rare medical ingredients. Some are fragile, one in particular, a silver-hued vial, must be kept cool and out of direct sunlight. I've enclosed a small, insulated case for that purpose. Do not touch any of the materials directly. Use gloves. They were requested by Arthus, he will know what to do with them after his condition has been cured.

There is also a sealed envelope marked "Vault". Don't read it. It is to be read by Arthus only. Give it to him after he has been cured. This is related to the materials.

Lastly, he has asked you to discreetly go to a Church of the Earth Mother. Make consistent, generous donations in his name, and attempt to gain the attention of a priest or bishop who may be able to offer healing, or… divine favor. You need not speak of his condition. Only that the offering is made from a place of faith.

A Friend of Arthus.

Sebastian lowered the letter slowly, his eyes stinging.

The paper trembled slightly in his hands as he turned to look toward the bedroom, toward the unmoving figure who had somehow, impossibly, planned for this.

That night, Sebastian didn't sleep. He laid out the mystery materials in the cellar, cataloguing each vial, herb, and preserved organ with a careful hand. The envelope marked 'Vault' he tucked away safely secure, only intending to present it to Arthus when he got cured.

The next morning, he donned his best coat, not for appearance, but because it bore the family crest. He walked the fogged streets of North Borough to the Church of the Earth Mother, a humble but dignified building of ivy-wrapped stone and weathered stained glass.

Inside, incense drifted lazily through the air. Warmth clung to the walls, and the space hummed with soft prayer and the scent of tilled soil. He waited until a young acolyte approached, and quietly requested to make a donation on behalf of Arthus von Nachthelm. It was sizable, generous enough to cause a flutter of surprise in the boy's expression, but not so large as to draw suspicion.

"Should I record a reason, sir?" the boy asked hesitantly.

"For recovery," Sebastian replied. "Of the body, and perhaps the spirit"

That first donation became a rhythm. Every day, he returned with more, smaller gifts this time, but always consistent. He inquired gently about the priests, their schedules, their interests. Never forceful, but always present. He lingered after services, assisted with offerings, and once stayed late helping rearrange the seasonal floral arrangements at the altar.

By the end of the week, one of the elder sisters had begun greeting him by name. He bowed his head each time, polite and deferential.

"Any news on the recovery of the one you spoke of?" she asked once.

Sebastian didn't answer at first. He only looked toward the glowing figure of the Earth Mother in stained glass, arms outstretched, vines curled around her wrists like living offerings.

"I have faith" he said softly.

…

Feynapotter Kingdom.

The roots were breathing.

That was the only way Matriarch Roland could describe it. Deep in the cavern beneath the High Grove of Harlonde, where only the Matriarchs were permitted to walk, the roots of the thousand-year-old Divine Oak trembled faintly, as if drawing in some vast, unseen breath.

She knelt barefoot on the moss-covered stone, her arms outstretched to the twisting canopy above, where no light pierced save for the faint green shimmer that bled from the heart of the tree itself.

Her prayer had ended long ago.

But she did not rise.

She could not, not with the weight pressing gently upon her shoulders, not with the scent of blooming loam and windless rain filling her lungs as if the forest itself were speaking.

And then… it came.

A voice, not heard with ears but felt in the marrow. Warm, ancient, tender.

"A branch broken must be bound"

Roland's breath hitched. Her lips parted, but no words came.

"A seed left in stone will sleep. Take it to tilled earth, to offered hands"

She bowed forward, forehead touching the moss. Tears streamed down her cheeks. She felt the Earth Mother, not as goddess, not as idol, but as Presence. As the whisper between leaves, as the hush in a child's first breath.

"A soul cries in silence far from this land. Guide the hands that seek. A pact shall grow"

Then it was gone.

The roots stilled. The air turned cool.

Roland raised herself slowly, brushing earth and dew from her brow, her heart surged like spring.

Somewhere, far from Feynapotter, a soul bound in flesh had cried out. And the Earth Mother had answered.

She stood, steadying herself against a gnarled root the width of a man's torso, and closed her eyes one final time. Then she turned and ascended the winding path back toward the temple proper, the stone stairs worn smooth by centuries of devotion.

By the time she reached the sanctum, the pale dawn light had begun to warm the high windows. Acolytes in linen robes were tending the outer shrines, whispering morning hymns to the soil and sky. But Roland did not pause.

"Summon Bishop Agrippina," she told a waiting novice, her voice soft but immovable. "Tell her it concerns a foreign thread now rooted in the weave of life"

She returned to her chambers, a high room nestled beneath the living canopy, where windows framed the rising mist of the forest. With a quill in hand, she began to write, letters marked with her seal and the sacred vine of the Matriarchy, to be sent westward through holy channels. One to the Church's liaison in Backlund. Another to a merchant-priest in Pritz Harbor. A third, cryptic in its wording, was meant for the mysterious, unofficial courier she trusted when divinity demanded discretion.

As she wrote, her script never faltered. The words came with clarity.

"To where stone binds a seed… There, a pact must be watered. Trust in the hand that trembles, for it holds the vessel of promise. Send the vine-bearer to tend it."

She sealed it with wax pressed into the shape of a blooming bud, a rare mark used only for revelations. She then turned to the center of the room, where a small pot of sacred soil rested in a glass dish, its top unmarred, unsown.

From her robe, Roland withdrew a single seed, no larger than a grain of rice. It pulsed faintly in her palm, warm despite the cool air.

With reverent care, she planted it.

It would not sprout in this kingdom, no. But its twin, the one lost in stone, would know it had been given a chance.

She rang the brass chime that summoned her aides. "Prepare my escort," she said. "I will see to the rites, but Bishop Agrippina must depart by sundown"

…

Somewhere unknown.

In a place untouched by direction or decay, where thought alone lent shape to reality, he sat in perfect stillness.

The air, if it could be called that, hummed with a quiet tension, like the breath held before a revelation. There were no walls, no floor, no sky, and yet the space around him felt enclosed, intimate, sacred.

His eyes were half-closed, golden lashes casting faint shadows against porcelain skin. Nothing moved. Nothing needed to.

And then, he smiled.

It was a slow, delicate thing. A smile not of joy, nor cruelty, nor even satisfaction, just inevitability. As if the final piece of a pattern too vast to comprehend had clicked silently into place.

Far below, the world turned. A candle flickered. A thread pulled taut.

He did not speak. He did not move.

But still, he smiled.