59. A Journey to Set

City of Morhat — Island of Esteem

Year: 1626

The fog drifted low over the wooden dock. Ships rocked gently, ropes creaked, and the smell of salt and fish filled the cold morning air. A man stepped off one of the boats, his steps slow, quiet, careful.

He wore a brown-blackish cap that covered most of his messy, dark hair. His beard was rough, his face tired but sharp. A long black cloak hung over his shoulders, covering the dark vest he wore underneath. In one hand, he clutched a worn suitcase. The leather was cracked and tied with an old rope to keep it from opening.

The man looked around as he walked past the stacked crates and busy workers. No one paid him much attention. He moved like a shadow, blending into the quiet hum of dock life.

This was Morhat, also known as the Island of Esteem. Unlike Prada Town, Morhat had pride in every stone. The streets were cleaner, the people stood straighter, and the buildings made of thick stone and iron that carried the weight of history. It was the first place to be freed during the war for independence. Flags still hung from old towers, and statues of past heroes stood on every corner.

Here, the air was different. It felt safe. The tentacles—whatever strange force had begun creeping through Prada—had not touched Morhat yet. There were no whispers of madness. No missing people. No strange dreams.

The man kept walking, stepping off the dock and onto the main road. The morning sun was weak, hidden behind clouds, but it lit the iron signs above shops and homes. People passed by with purpose—soldiers, traders, and fishermen. Everyone here seemed to belong.

But he didn't.

A steam carriage pulled up beside him, hissing as it came to a stop. The driver, an older man with grease on his cap, looked down from the seat.

"Need a ride?" the driver asked.

The man nodded. "Clifftown Square."

"That's a long way. What's in the case?"

"Just some old books."

The driver smirked but didn't ask more. "Hop in then."

The man climbed inside, sitting near the window. As the carriage moved forward, he watched the city pass by stone bridges, wide roads, and iron fences. Soldiers marched in pairs. Children played in alleys without fear.

He held the suitcase close, fingers tight around the handle. He could feel it again—that strange warmth inside. The thing inside the case was no longer quiet. It moved when he wasn't looking. It whispered when he tried to sleep.

But he said nothing.

He wasn't here to bring trouble. He was here to wait, to watch, and to find something the Father spoke of. A box, hidden in Morhat. Something tied to a beggar, for reasons not yet clear.

He looked out at the tall clocktower as they passed beneath it.

"Soon," he whispered. "Just a little longer."

The carriage rolled to a stop near Clifftown Market, its wheels crunching over the stone-paved road. The man stepped out quietly, suitcase still clutched in hand. Morning had brightened into noon, and the square was now alive—filled with vendors shouting over carts of spice, cloth, and smoked meat. Bells rang from a nearby church tower, while gulls cried overhead.

He walked with calm steps, eyes scanning every corner. His cloak dragged slightly behind him, unnoticed by the rush of feet around him. A pickpocket brushed past his shoulder.

He felt it.

The man didn't flinch. His hand darted back, grabbing the boy's wrist like a clamp.

The young thief—a street boy no older than twelve—froze. His eyes went wide as the stranger stared down at him with quiet cold.

"You're quick," the man said. "But too greedy."

The boy trembled. "I—I'm sorry, sir, I wasn't gonna take much—!"

Just then, a woman's voice cried out from nearby.

"My purse! Someone stole my purse!"

The man turned his head. A noblewoman in fine silks stood near a fruit stand, clearly panicked, surrounded by curious onlookers. She wore a velvet cloak, her hair braided with pearls, eyes frantic as she looked through the crowd.

The man glanced at the boy, whose free hand clutched a pale blue coinpurse—silver thread and all.

With a sigh, the man took it gently from the boy's grasp.

"Lesson for today—don't steal from people who wear perfume," he muttered.

He walked to the noblewoman and offered the purse without a word.

She blinked at him in surprise. "That's—! That's mine!"

He nodded once.

She reached out and took it, her gloved hands trembling. "I—thank you, sir. I thought it was gone. The guards here are never fast enough. I didn't even see who—" She looked past him. "Did you catch him?"

"No," the man replied. "He ran."

She frowned, then offered a soft smile. "Well, you're quite brave. Most men would just walk away."

He didn't respond. His eyes drifted to the crowd. The boy had disappeared.

The noblewoman stepped closer. "Do you have a name, stranger?"

He looked at her with calm, unreadable eyes. "Names have weight, madam. You can address me as Albert Newton." The Man said gently putting his cap off.

The Woman took a invitation card out from her bag. " Overmorrow, we have a party in my mansion. You can come here if you are free, gently man."

Albert accepted the invitation card to maintain their connection respectfully. She could be useful in future plans....

Before she could ask more, he gave a small nod and stepped back into the moving crowd, vanishing between shoulders and stalls as if he'd never been there.

The woman stood still, purse in hand, watching the spot where he vanished.

....

The wind swept in from the sea, salty and rough, pulling at the man's cloak as he stepped off the cobbled street into the quiet shadow of an old inn's alley. He leaned back against the wall, suitcase at his side, and tipped his brown-blackish cap downward as the low hum of Morhat's midday calmed behind him. Carriages passed with soft clatters, and a merchant's bell rang faintly from afar.

His breath misted lightly as he looked up toward the distant sky. For a moment, a face passed through his mind.

Officer Andrew Fritz.

A strange man, really. The kind who always walked with a slow limp and carried eyes that had seen too much and yet spoke too little. They'd met once during a Vanguard intelligence sweep. Andrew had offered him a light and a rumor—both were hard to find in Prada Town back then.

And the rumor had lingered.

"You ever heard of the Staff of Revolution?" Andrew had said that night, his voice low like a priest whispering in a tomb.

Henry had tilted his head. "Old myth?"

Andrew chuckled. "Older than myth. It's real. From the early centuries of the Age of Fire. Used in the first rebellion against the High-Blood Dynasties. They say the one who wielded it could turn voices into weapons. Songs into storms. Hope into a fire strong enough to burn the sky."

"Sounds dramatic."

"It was," Andrew had replied. "Back then, it was called a divine relic. Now? A forgotten object collecting dust in some museum. The world moved on, but the Staff never did."

Henry had raised a brow. "You think it still works?"

Andrew leaned in, smiling. "That's the funny part. Every year, there's a secret auction. Different places on Earth. Underground only. Private invites. Last I heard, some fat tycoon from the Southern Barracks won it—bid twelve fifty Gaus for it. And that's just the price for what people think is a useless stick."

"Twelve-fifty?"

"Mm-hmm. Makes you wonder. Why pay that much unless there's still something in it?"

Albert Newton blinked, returning to the present.

The Staff of Revolution.

Buried by time.

Traded like junk.

Maybe not so junk after all.

His fingers tightened slightly around the suitcase handle. He didn't know why the thought surfaced now. Maybe Morhat's air brought it back—this island of esteem, where every wall held stories of rebellion and resistance. It had been the first place freed in the Independence War. Perhaps the city had stirred something inside him.

Or maybe it was the Third Ritual Father spoke of—the box that must be found by a homeless beggar. That part still made no sense. Why not a priest, or an agent, or someone with hands clean enough to hold sacred things?

The Man had learned not to ask questions. But something itched in his chest, like the hum of threads pulling together.

Maybe the box… maybe the Staff…

He shook the thought off, pulling himself away from the alley wall and stepping into the moving streets once more. He had things to do. A contact to meet. And a city to sweep quietly, like wind through leaves.

But as he walked on, the memory of Andrew's smirk and that strange story followed like a shadow.

"They'll all forget it," Andrew had said, "but some artifacts don't like being forgotten. They whisper. Wait. And they always find their way to the right hands."

Albert said nothing, but his hand grazed the hilt of the knife beneath his coat. He didn't believe in fate.

The air smelled of fish, sweat, and old smoke. Albert Newton adjusted his collar.

He walked with slow steps down the narrow stone path behind Dockway Alley, away from the oil-lit streets of Morhat. His boots tapped on wet cobblestone, the mist curling around his feet like curious fingers. The suitcase in his right hand bumped against his knee with every other step. His other hand remained tucked beneath his black cloak, near his vest, fingers close to steel.

At the end of the alley stood a crooked wooden door carved into the base of a cliff wall. Moss clung to the wood like veins, and a single hanging bell—cracked and silent—swayed slightly in the wind. He knocked three times, paused, then knocked twice more. From inside, a heavy latch slid open. The door creaked.

A hooded figure with a stitched mouth mask peered out.

"Who walks?" the figure asked, voice muffled.

"Me and the Devil."

The figure nodded and stepped aside. Albert passed through.

The door closed behind him with a final thud. The world of Morhat faded. He now walked beneath it.

The tunnel ahead was damp and lit by floating fungal lanterns in glass jars. The passage sloped downward, deep into the underbelly of the city. Graffiti scratched in old tongues marked the walls—symbols of trade, secrecy, and things best unspoken.

He entered the Underworld Market.

Stalls lined the cavernous space, haphazard and crooked. Lanterns swung from rusted chains. The smell of bloodied fur, metal, old paper, and perfume floated in thick layers. A merchant hawked silent flutes carved from bone. Another sold cursed coins in velvet bags. Creatures in coats too long for their limbs watched from the shadows, their interest never kind.

Albert moved past them without turning his head.

A child in a rat mask offered him a vial of violet dust. He waved her off.

At a far corner of the market, he stopped. An old table—flat stone laid over crates—held scattered relics: broken rings, shrunken heads, cracked compasses pointing nowhere.

Behind it sat a blind woman with silvered eyes and dozens of necklaces coiled around her thin neck.

"You move like a man chasing something," she said.

He replied calmly, "I'm looking for what shouldn't be found."

"The market's full of such things." She grinned.

He opened his suitcase just slightly. A glimmer of old gold and folded parchment shone within.

"I need words. Where things end up. Forgotten things."

The woman's eyes flickered.

"Everything has a cost."

Albert didn't hesitate. He reached inside his coat and placed a single black coin on the table.

The market around them kept breathing.