Reencounter with Lumière

The sea was no longer a threat, but a refuge for its passengers. The only meaningful sound in that expanse was the constant whisper that set the rhythm of the oars.

They had escaped from Futuna, the first island of the cursed archipelago beyond the city. Now, exhausted, hungry, and wounded, the four survivors rowed in silence. They took turns in pairs, while one slept or simply stared at the horizon. The creatures had not followed them. The water was their haven, their silent protector.

That was what Alicia did. The sea felt far broader than in the world of the Lienzo. It seemed the world now fused with Antoine's writings was vastly, vastly larger. And that could only mean one thing: the power of his work was difficult to match.

"We're moving slowly," the girl said, glancing at Clea and Antoine. "This world is far bigger than I imagined at first."

"This is the terrible power I told you about, Alicia," said Clea, rowing, as it was her turn. "I told you this weird kid was a terrifying creature."

"There's no need for that, Clea…" replied Alicia, now looking at the boy.

Antoine gave Alicia a nervous, embarrassed smile. His cheeks flushed faintly—for the first time. Clea didn't even look at him, and missed the gesture. She still hated and feared him.

Clément watched the scene without much concern. His destiny—the future that awaited him—was only death. And the past, the return to his city, would be a harbinger of defeat and shame.

Antoine looked at his hands as he rested. He felt useless. He could barely row without his arms trembling as if about to rip from his torso. But then, he remembered his notebook. And he wrote himself a little stronger. Not much—just enough. He couldn't abuse it. His body, his heart, were still fragile, human. He wasn't a god, and he knew it. Only a frightened narrator. Still, he began to write, now without hesitation:

"The boy, weak and pitiful, decided to summon hidden strength. Physical power would never be his gift, but it would be enough to survive in this world, and support his companions in their adventures."

By the time it was his turn to row again, he could keep up with the others. And that strength would remain with him. It would, definitively, mark a change going forward.

On the second night, the boat scraped against the dock. The port was modest, lit by only a few croma lamps. No guards in sight—just the creak of wood under the waves.

A figure spotted them from the raised walkway. It was Maximilian.

"Who…?" he stammered when he saw Clément's silhouette. "Clément?"

Clément raised his eyes. He didn't know how to respond. Alicia, at his side, stepped back. Clea, on the other hand, froze in place. It was Renoir. Identical. Same posture, same expression when he furrowed his brow. But without the soul, without the fire of the impulsive father or the gifted painter.

Maximilian didn't recognize them. He looked at them with concern, of course. But it was the concern of a good samaritan seeing three young people in trouble, presumably rescued by his son.

"I'll take you to headquarters," he said curtly. "You look like you've been through hell. I'm sure you've got a lot to say."

They climbed the stairs connecting the dock to the city streets. Alicia could hardly contain her awe. It was identical. Identical to the Lienzo. The same buildings, the same gardens on the rooftops. Market stalls with their goods and so many, many roses.

In the distance, that twisted tower could still be seen. She remembered it in glimpses, imagined how it might look in the real world. But then came the time to focus. They were arriving at the headquarters of the expeditionary forces. It was an old structure, white-walled with gray flags. Inside, the silence was solemn.

There, waiting, was a woman with an imposing presence. She had black hair tied in a high ponytail, a firm face, and eyes that seemed to analyze every step before it was taken. Strange markings adorned her face and forearms.

"I am Lune, commander of the expeditionary forces," she said, devoid of emotion. "The fact that only one expeditionary returned already tells me something happened to Expedition 32."

Alicia observed her carefully. There was no sign of recognition in her. She didn't know who they were. Didn't remember anything, surely. Clea also remained silent. Not that she knew her, but she'd heard of her in Alicia's stories.

More important to the elder sister was the state of dehydration and malnourishment they all suffered. She hoped they could recover quickly in this place. They needed to escape the hell Antoine had created.

Lune looked over her shoulder and gave a small nod. Two conscripts approached with blankets, two large loaves of bread, and bowls of steaming soup. It was a military welcome, not an affectionate one. But it was more than they had expected. All they needed now was something to keep them alive.

"Tomorrow we'll speak. Tonight, eat and rest. If there's something to explain, it will be after dawn."

They all nodded silently. Tomorrow was no longer a comfort. It became, minute by minute, an inevitable abyss. The abyss Antoine had created.

The next day, things had settled a little. The four survivors were more recovered, and they had all decided to change their clothes. Naturally, the only option was the expeditionary uniform.

Alicia couldn't help the feeling of nostalgia gnawing at her bones. She saw herself in the young Maelle—the one raised by Gustave, the man she saw as a father. He didn't seem to be there. No one looked like him. No one spoke of him. And if he existed, surely someone would have mentioned him. In the old Lumière, everyone did.

Meanwhile, Lune observed them from the upper level of the main atrium. The headquarters was no more than a fortress of stone and reinforced steel, but its layout allowed her to see every corner from above. Her eyes, cold as the frost that sometimes drifted in from the northern ports, locked onto the group that had just arrived. There was no greeting. No emotion. Just surgical observation.

The group looked worn, but they kept going. The uniforms made them look recovered, more composed. The two women were mysterious, yet strong. The other boy… he seemed dull. Pale, a little hunched, despite having an athletic build. He didn't look like someone who could survive. But he was here, unlike the hundreds of soldiers who went to Futuna and never returned.

When Lune descended the stairs, the sound of her boots echoed like a war drum. She stopped in front of them without preamble.

"My name is Lune. High command of the Lumière Expeditionary Army," she said, her voice dry and clear as a steady heartbeat. "You're the ones who came from Futuna. I assume only you, Beaumont, survived. Where did you find these three?"

Lune had clear doubts about these strangers. They could be from Cárpatos, the enemy nation on the other side of the world. There were stories of people fleeing the horrors of that Empire. Most of what was known came from their corpses—or their bones.

But these three were alive. Too good to be true. They could be spies. They could even be the ones responsible for the massacre Clément had told her about earlier, in the pre-dawn hours.

Lune's eyes scanned them once more. Antoine lowered his gaze. Clea showed a serious face, then a faint, biting smirk. No painted being would insult her—a painter. A creator of worlds, too.

Clément, however, was the one who met Lune's gaze. She held it. It was a familiar look. Not from memory, but from instinct: the look of a warrior who has killed and hasn't yet understood why he's still alive.

"What we faced on Futuna wasn't a standard operation," he said, voice hoarse but steady. "The island was overrun by creatures—different ones."

"Different, you say," Lune replied, almost cutting him off. "We've only encountered the Nevrons, and they're wild creatures. Neither Cárpatos nor we have been able to tame them."

"They were something else," Antoine said timidly. "Their name is… Smarrax."

"I've never heard of creatures like that. Our previous expeditions cataloged many species, but never used that label for any known type. Explain."

Antoine swallowed hard, nervous. He'd never seen a woman so similar to his father, Carlo, in attitude. But Lune wasn't empty inside. She was harsh by necessity—to survive, and to ensure the survival of her people. Of every single person in her city, in her nation.

"Smarrax… they're parasites. Indelible, ineffable. Invincible," said Antoine, with a more serious expression. "It seems they've taken over the bodies of the Nevrons. And despite the horror of the moment and the slaughter we witnessed… it gave us an advantage. Or rather, it will be an advantage from now on."

Lune listened carefully. He seemed intelligent, and braver than she had expected. She stared him down, but now her expression showed something else. A glint in her eyes. Curiosity, in fact. If there was a weakness in these unknown creatures, there was also opportunity.

"We'll talk more about that later," she said, as if breaking it into report sections, one by one. "Undeniably, it was an advantage. You're here, after all. You survived. Now, who exactly are you? That's the most important question. And I won't move until I get an answer."

Alicia raised her face. She had only recently regained her voice, and still treated it like fragile glass. She spoke softly but with clarity and resolve.

"We're the only ones who knew what we were going to face. Not because of visions, but because of creation. Some of us are intimately linked to what gave birth to those creatures."

Lune stepped forward.

"Creation?" she asked, more confused now. "This is becoming circular. Don't dance around the point. A lot of people just died."

Clea intervened. She knew she couldn't stay silent.

"The Smarrax. We know their form isn't natural. They're made of ink, of corrupted ideas. And that corruption comes from a very specific source."

Antoine, still with his head lowered, nodded. There was no point in hiding the truth anymore. They were the creators. It was their responsibility to give dignity back to this place and its people.

"From me," Antoine said, with a pressure in his chest that didn't ease with the confession.

The silence was absolute.

Lune slowly turned, studying him. She measured him. Undressed him with her gaze. In that moment, her coldness turned into inquisition.

"Then you're the origin of the Expedition 32 massacre as well, I assume," she said without blinking. "Give me one good reason not to take you to the gallows right now."

Alicia, Clea, and Clément froze. Things were turning dire. It might be inexplicable how these two women and this pale, wiry boy ended up here—but they had faced an invincible demon and returned. They had brought a sliver of hope.

Yet the weakest among them found strength. He couldn't hesitate now. If this was the beginning of his redemption, then he would stand firm.

"No," Antoine said, lifting his gaze for the first time. "It's something else… A magic that was unleashed. It broke free when we arrived here. We're not from this place. We come from another land—beyond the Great Abyss."

"The Great Abyss," Lune repeated, intrigued. "We never expected anything to exist beyond the abyss that surrounds this world. If you want me to believe you, give me proof."

And then, Antoine performed magic. Magic through prose. He wrote in his notebook. His face went blank. His eyes emptied again. His wrist moved in a frenzy. Everyone witnessed how the boy wrote furiously for several seconds.

"The woman leading the armies demanded proof. The boy gave it. He touched her forehead. She saw it all. The terror of Cárpatos, the eternal prison. Two men on their thrones above, and two gods in the depths of the earth. These gods, bound, were the source of the Smarrax. They had to die. And these strangers had come to do it. It was the only way for Lumière to finally know peace."

There was a pause. Not only Lune witnessed the vision—everyone did. And thus, this mission became their own. From that moment on, everything changed. There was a real enemy. No longer just assumptions about a cruel invading kingdom. There was purpose. Evil lay beneath Cárpatos, in a nightmarish hall, on the threshold of an abyss containing those two gods—gods that were beginning to weaken the mythical being that barely held them at bay.

Lune held her forehead. Her head throbbed. Maybe all those deaths could finally make sense. Generations of women and men had carved their way through that archipelago. They had gotten close—perhaps even to the far edge of the great trench of sea and land. Now, that was a path. Those who gave their lives had passed the torch to this group, who would now venture into that land and face calamity incarnate.

"Then we have much to discuss," Lune concluded. "You won't go to the gallows. But you also won't leave this place. And clearly, you'll be on the front line. I will not send more people to die for nothing on the archipelago. If you've come to bring us this revelation… then you'll be the ones to fight for victory."

Alicia, Clea, and Antoine exchanged glances. The youngest didn't hesitate—it was an adventure, after all. Clea sighed. She wouldn't be leaving anytime soon, it seemed. Her mission to expose Carlo's plan would have to wait. At least she could keep an eye on Antoine, who still stared at the floor. Clément looked at everyone present without much reaction.

"That includes you too, Beaumont," Lune concluded, taking her leave. "Use today to recover. We set sail at dawn."

There was little to say. The iron woman walked off briskly. No one looked her in the eye as she went. No one saw the faint, almost imperceptible smile that appeared. The same phrase spoken by the Lune of the Canvas echoed in her mind.

"Tomorrow comes."

And she would go in search of it too. It couldn't be any other way. In that, Lune would never change.