Chapter 137 “The Bright Star”
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Nestled beyond the city-states of Pland and Lansa in the northern territories, a sweeping expanse of water stretched out like a dark abyss, ominously named the “Cold Sea.” This frost-laden maritime domain served as an indispensable waterway for the “Great Cross Route,” a labyrinthine network of trade passages that magnetized merchants and adventurers from lands near and far. In contrast to the temperate and more hospitable climates of the southern seas, the Cold Sea has been a realm of relentless and biting cold, where the sky often churned with storm clouds, as if reluctant to allow even a glimmer of sunshine.
The sea itself was a perilous landscape, teeming with sharp, crystalline shards of ice that meandered with the currents. These icy fragments had been more than mere scenery; they presented a constant navigational nightmare for even the most seasoned sailors. If these smaller icy threats weren’t enough, hulking icebergs could surface unpredictably from the ocean’s shadowy depths. These looming monoliths of frozen water not only endangered vessels that had strayed too close but also acted as formidable natural barricades, complicating passage between the smattering of islands that dotted the sea.
Yet, for all the natural hazards the Cold Sea presented, the most feared entity in these frigid waters had been neither an element nor a mythical sea beast from ancient lore. It was a man: Tyrian Abnomar, the dreaded pirate captain and progeny of the once-infamous Duncan Abnomar. With an iron fist, Tyrian commanded an undead armada that had been the scourge of these critical trade routes for half a century—and showed no inclination towards relinquishing his reign of terror.
Perched on the periphery of an isolated island, hidden from prying eyes by uncanny ocean currents and impenetrable banks of fog, laid Tyrian’s flagship—a colossal steel warship cloaked in iron-gray paint. Its architecture was imposing, featuring harsh, angular lines and a towering, intimidating bow. At that moment, the dockside was a hive of frenzied activity, as laborers, suppliers, and undead sailors rushed to refuel, repair, and restock the imposing vessel.
To those who knew the history of the Frost city-state, there was an unsettling peculiarity about these sailors. They sported naval uniforms that appeared to be a throwback to designs popularized fifty years ago. Oddly enough, they also wore white emblems on their chests—a symbolic gesture generally reserved for periods of mourning or commemoration.
Inside the sanctuary of the captain’s quarters on the upper deck of this metallic leviathan, a tall, lean figure had been deeply engrossed in a parchment scroll. Tyrian Abnomar, clad in a pitch-black naval overcoat, possessed striking features: a prominent nose and deep-set eye sockets that lent him an almost haunting visage. Despite his grim appearance, Tyrian had been well-groomed, except for the eyepatch that obscured his left eye, an emblematic testament to his piratical identity.
Perched on a sturdy wooden frame near Tyrian was a vividly colorful parrot named Perley. The avian companion appeared to be entranced by an arcane contraption sitting beside its master—a mechanical marvel composed of complex lenses, diminutive rocker arms, and an ornate crystal ball ensconced at its core.
“Perley, if you dare lay a feather on that device, I’ll banish you to the Bright Star next month, where you can mingle with restless spirits and forsaken marionettes,” Tyrian cautioned, not diverting his gaze from the scroll he was examining.
“Ah, cruelty!” the parrot shrieked, rattling its wooden perch as if mimicking a petulant child. “Ah, cruel! What a cruel captain Tyrian is!”
Somewhat irked, Tyrian furrowed his brow and muttered under his breath, “I should have inquired who in the nine hells taught you to vocalize such nonsense. Can’t you muster anything else to say?”
The vibrant parrot named Perley, a dazzling array of colors adorning its plumage, rustled its feathers energetically before extending its wings in a theatrical display of self-contentment. “Perley learned it himself! Perley learned it himself!” it squawked in a tone bursting with avian pride, almost as if it were boasting an academic achievement.
A growing sense of irritation sent a throb through Tyrian’s temple. Rubbing the spot in an attempt to dispel the annoyance, he muttered, “For heaven’s sake, not that catchphrase again…”
Before he could continue his inner lament, a distinct, formal knock on the door severed the momentary banter between pirate captain and parrot companion.
“Enter,” Tyrian commanded, swiveling his sharp gaze toward the source of the knock.
The door creaked open in a foreboding manner, and into the room walked Aiden—a towering, bald figure whose appearance was profoundly unsettling. Aiden’s skin possessed an ashen pallor reminiscent of a long-drowned corpse, and his eyes looked as though they were shrouded in an everlasting, cloudy mist. The air around him carried a faint, brackish aroma, suggesting he had just emerged from the watery depths of an oceanic grave. In truth, Aiden was an animated corpse, a undead whose existence was confined to this mortal realm but absent the gift of life.
Casting an inquisitive eye upon his first mate, Tyrian questioned, “Aiden, what is the status of our fuel reserves?”
“Almost at full capacity, Captain,” Aiden replied, his head bowing subtly. His voice was imbued with the coarse, guttural timbre one might associate with the undead. “The boiler chambers are in the process of preheating.”
“A job well done,” Tyrian responded, nodding his approval. “How do things stand at Cold Harbor?”
“Silent as the depths of a forgotten crypt,” Aiden sneered, a note of disdain lacing his otherwise flat voice. “Their spineless leaders wouldn’t dare venture into our waters. Even if only a fraction of our Mist Fleet patrolled the Cold Sea, they would think twice before interfering with our activities.”
Tyrian chuckled sardonically. “Their pragmatism hasn’t wavered since we started making their trade routes into our hunting grounds. Get everything ready; we sail at the appointed hour.”
“As you wish, Captain,” Aiden rasped. Turning with a shuffling gait that emphasized his zombified condition, he exited the room. The door shut with a final, echoing thud.
In the ensuing solitude, Tyrian pondered the chilling reality that his crew—save for himself—were the undead. Yet, on some existential level, he too was a man suspended between the realms of the living and the dead, his own existence elongated unnaturally by arcane forces from subspace. The thought was deeply unsettling but mitigated by the comforting fact that he had shared this uncanny existence with a fiercely loyal crew for over five decades.
Shaking his head as if to physically dislodge these ruminations, Tyrian refocused his attention just as the enigmatic brass contraption beside him sprung into action. The gears clicked, the rocker’s arms rotated, and lenses shifted and refocused, culminating in a mesmerizing mechanical ballet. Gradually, the grand crystal ball at the heart of the device began to luminesce, eventually unveiling an indistinct image within its glowing core.
Emerging from the misty obscurity of the glowing sphere was the image of a young woman adorned in long, cascading locks of obsidian hair. She wore a form-fitting black dress crafted from silk, and an ethereal aura enveloped her, strongly hinting at her magical origins—perhaps a witch or a sorceress.
“Lucretia,” Tyrian intoned, a tinge of surprise and suspicion lacing his voice as he peered intently at the apparition of the young woman materializing within the glowing sphere of the crystal ball. “What an unexpected pleasure. I hadn’t anticipated you’d make an appearance to send your well-wishes, especially on the eve of my upcoming expedition.”
For a split second, Lucretia’s expression faltered, giving way to a momentary look of genuine astonishment. “You’re setting sail today?”
A furrow etched itself between Tyrian’s eyebrows, deepening his confusion. “Wasn’t the purpose of your call to bid me a safe journey?”
“Actually, no,” Lucretia said, swiftly regaining her habitual aura of unruffled composure. “I’ve experienced a bit of a mishap. My ocean detection device has exploded.”
A muscle in the corner of Tyrian’s jaw twitched involuntarily, betraying his mounting consternation. Before he could formulate a response, Lucretia pressed on, “The damage is mostly reparable, but I’ve encountered difficulties sourcing a replacement for the core crystal lens.”
Managing to keep a lid on his mounting frustration, Tyrian wore a mask of impassivity even as he absorbed the details of Lucretia’s increasingly incredulous narrative.
“Would you happen to have a spare lens at your disposal?” she continued. “In exchange, I could offer you a sample of a rare mineral I unearthed near the border.”
Finally releasing a pent-up sigh, Tyrian countered, “Lucretia, only two city-states possess the technology to craft spirit lenses to the specifications you demand. Furthermore, distribution is tightly regulated by the Truth Academy. You’re well aware of the scarcity of such items. And let’s not forget, it hasn’t been more than two months since your last… incident.”
“But this mineral sample might be of great interest,” Lucretia insisted, clearly grasping at straws to entice her brother. “It likely originated from some subterranean oceanic layer.”
Tyrian was unyielding. “As fascinating as they may be, ocean floor minerals, even ones that could fetch a high price at the Truth Academy, don’t justify the risk and rarity of the lens you seek.”
Seemingly undeterred, Lucretia added another bargaining chip. “I also have some residual phantoms gathered after a recent collapse at the border.”
Tyrian visibly winced, running his hands over his scalp in exasperation as if grappling with an invisible headache. “Lucretia, the blunt reality is that I simply cannot procure a replacement lens for you at this stage.”
Pausing to consider her options, a new idea dawned on Lucretia. “What about a heist?”
“The Mist Fleet is shifting its focus towards more legitimate avenues,” Tyrian said, a gust of resignation blowing through his voice. “We’re increasingly deriving our revenue from protection fees, not plunder.”
Lucretia offered a casual shrug, her demeanor turning flippant. “Fine, forget it then.” But her subsequent remark nearly sent Tyrian into paroxysms of disbelief. “I suppose I’ll just inquire again tomorrow.”
Defeated and emotionally drained, Tyrian let out a long, resigned sigh, one he felt was the last in a series of sighs that had characterized this confounding conversation. “Very well, my indomitable sister. Your relentless pursuit of knowledge is both your curse and your charm. So, how have you been, the revered explorer of the unknown? Have you journeyed to more uncharted terrains recently? Discovered any new omens portending the downfall of our world?”
“I can’t help but detect a modicum of sarcasm in your tone, dear Brother,” Lucretia observed, her face an impenetrable mask of neutrality. “Your skepticism towards my unquenchable thirst for the mysteries that lurk on the peripheries of our world has never been a secret. But while you may not share my zeal for uncovering mystical anomalies or unfathomable phenomena, I do appreciate that you offer me your grudging support, all the while focusing on your own immediate and pragmatic concerns. Let us not forget, however, the prophetic warning our father left us with years ago.”
Tyrian reclined in his ornately carved chair, his fingers lightly tapping an uneven rhythm on the armrests as if signaling a symphony of complicated thoughts. “Our world is but a dying ember in the eternal night, slowly fading into darkness,” he muttered, articulating the words as if they were an incantation or a verse from a long-forgotten scripture. “I’ve often wondered what cryptic horrors or apocalyptic foresights drove our father to voice such a bleak prophecy. By that time, his mind was already fraying at the edges, deteriorating in sync with the haunting realities he had unearthed. Your endeavors now, your forays into these arcane mysteries and forbidden realms, eerily echo his own ill-fated quest. And we both know the calamitous toll that quest took on his mental well-being.”
His eyes rose to meet the ethereal depiction of his sister in the luminescent crystal orb, the amber light casting eerie shadows across his drawn face. His expression was a kaleidoscope of conflicting emotions: concern etched into his furrowed brow, resignation settling into the corners of his mouth, and a glint of dread lurking behind his remaining eye. “Lucretia, we’ve already lost one member of our family to the bottomless chasm of the unknowable, to a spiral of obsessions that consumed him utterly. The thought of you becoming the next Abnomar ensnared by such dark fascinations is a prospect too harrowing to entertain.”
So the world is one large illusion, a gestalt mind?
The world is composed of the flotsam of ruined worlds tied together into a makeshift island of order.
The sea is representative of a sort of primordial chaos outside the boundaries of any world and largely undefined. It erodes everything, but powerfully established beings can maintain their existence long enough to possibly “wash up” somewhere, just likely gone mad in the process. Flame, on the other hand, is representative of both order and civilization. The core of this world is a handful of destroyed civilizations that collided together probably by coincidence. They’re “embers,” sparks that escaped other flames. Without igniting a true flame of its own, the embers can only slowly die out and sink into the depths.
Duncan, called the usurper of the flame, came back from the depths of subspace. When he did, he brought along the consciousness of a being from a world thoroughly ruled by order: Earth. In a world of embers, he brought a tiny but vigorously burning match to light it again.
Most of this has a pretty heavy speculative element, but it’s what I think the story is trying to express, here.
Wow, thank you for the well-crafted explanation! I wasn’t really thinking about the rest of the symbolism in the story, which you’ve done well to describe.
Your explanation somehow really inspired me till I get a goosebumps like I was literally proud to be a human. After all our civiliziation is indeed built by a spark and it then turned into what we have now.
Ik right! There’s a collection of stories written by a large online community called Humans, Fuck Yeah! Or HFY for short. In them, humans are the boogeymen of the universe, essentially like the Hulk comparatively in levels of strength/toughness. Earth is classified as a hellworld, one that would wipe out any other spacefaring species that landed on it. I have a hard time getting into it because it’s not one whole story but a semi-disjointed collection of small ones, but it’s fun for a while.