The Truth

Jorgen recalled the days when he captured Abercrombie, the old alchemist, his satisfied expression, and compliant attitude. Back then, he had already completed something; this was what he had accomplished. Although Jorgen didn't understand how it could swallow all that flesh and blood, given that its own ruptured stomach was still hanging outside, Pic remained focused on eating, showing no intention of attacking proactively.

Disturbing a wild dog while it was eating was dangerous, let alone something like this. But Jorgen didn't intend to spend too much time on it; he had someone else to find.

"Both of you, go find Abercrombie now. Don't take him to Joseph; bring him here to me," he separately ordered the guards by his side. "The rest of you, keep an eye on it, don't attack it unless provoked, and don't let it escape."

"Lord Jorgen, what if it attacks?"

"Kill it. Use any means necessary."

After speaking, Jorgen walked into the classroom. He furrowed his brow; the room was filled with the stench of blood, vomit, and excrement. Clearly, the children hadn't been allowed to leave here for three days. The blood primarily came from the platform, where a corpse had once lain.

In the corner of the room to the west, Jorgen found Staven. He was facing the wall, huddled up like a black snail fully retracted into its shell.

"Staven."

No response.

"Staven Mistmantle."

He turned his head slowly, his expression vacant, his disheveled and dirty bangs dividing his widened eyes into sections. He looked thinner, his cheeks sunken, his knuckles protruding from the shriveled skin like so many buttons. 

"You still recognize me, right?" 

"Mr. Jorgen, what's happening outside? I heard chopping...and screams."

"A war. The people who locked you in here are dead now." 

"Dead?" He stared at the floor, as if wanting to witness this word fall down, collide with the ground and make a sound, in order to understand its meaning. "Dead."

"Stand up."

Staven stood up and took a look out the window, then immediately turned his head back.

"So, I'm going home now, Mr. Jorgen."

"I thought you were dead."

"What are you saying...?"

"From the first time he made demands, Mohnitz only mentioned '54 children', ignoring your existence, as if you weren't supposed to be part of the hostages. So I thought you were dead. But surprisingly, you're alive and well here." 

"I am very fortunate, and of course, all of this relies on your..."

"Do you have the key to the cottage with you?"

"I... I didn't bring it."

"Give you three seconds. Bring out the key."

"Lord Jorgen, I really don't have it."

Jorgen tightened his grip on Staven's neck with his left arm and dragged him out of the classroom. Staven couldn't break free and struggled clumsily on the ground. He tried to speak, but only fragmented, inarticulate sounds came from the depths of his throat. They continued like this until they reached the room filled with poetry collections.

"I... I have the key," Staven said, "here you go."

"No need."

Jorgen grabbed the back of Staven's collar and one of his hands and slammed his head into the windowpane. The glass shattered, and the entire man was thrown into the room. Although Staven used his other hand to shield himself, the glass shards still cut his forehead and chin. He didn't roll on the ground but collided with a towering stack of books. This affected the surrounding stacks, and thousands of blue books scattered, fell, and collided, creating a rapid flurry of flipping pages in the air. Jorgen jumped through the window and surveyed the scene, walking to the center of the room and kicking the scattered poetry collections into a corner. Half a minute later, he noticed a hole in the floor large enough for two people to enter and exit at the same time, with a piece of rope hanging at the entrance.

He called for several guards outside to bring in a light source and investigate the hole. It wasn't deep, and when the guards descended, they discovered a cramped tunnel.

"It's been recently dug," one of the guards reported from the hole's entrance.

"Continue deeper, see where it leads. Retreat if there's any danger."

After giving the order, Jorgen picked up Staven, who was hiding in the book pile. This time, he threw him into a hard wall corner. Staven fell heavily, and more than the pain, what hit him was an exaggerated self-protective instinct—covering the back of his head, hiding his face in his knees, emitting faint, trembling mutterings. He had transformed back into that black snail, but this time, it was as if he were terrified because someone was approaching with matches.

"What did they give you?" Jorgen asked. "Or, what did they promise you?"

Staven's rapid and muffled breathing slowly subsided. He raised his head slightly, revealing his eyes as he glanced at the hole and then fixed his gaze on Jorgen. His eyes showed a strange excitement, mixed with a dark gleam that suggested that despair had not entirely faded from his heart. It was like a condemned criminal convinced of a pardon or a fly caught in a spider's web, watching a mantis about to pounce. On one hand, he panicked because Jorgen had discovered the hole, but on the other hand, he seemed to derive a perverse satisfaction from the release of negative emotions. He spoke, his voice lower than usual and tinged with a vague self-assuredness:

"They agreed to take me away."

"That sounds ridiculous. You can't be one of them."

"As long as I can leave with them, it doesn't matter. I'll be anything... even if I can only help them carry things."

"You're willing to be a slave? Are you betraying Darkshire for the sake of being a slave?"

"I haven't betrayed anyone!" he shouted, purple-black veins appearing at the edges of his eyes. "I am Staven Mysteriomantho, not some beggar who can be mocked by these lowlifes. Darkshire, this ugly, stinking place... I'm sick of it. I should be a free man, listen—Stavenn Mysteriomantho, a free poet, not some damn literary history teacher, lecturing to a bunch of bastard kids! Look at them, and their parents, how they treated me. They don't deserve that privilege."

Staven stood up fully, but his back remained against the wall, knees bent, and feet firmly rooted to the ground. Indeed, Darkshire's black soil had pinned him down for too long. He wanted to leave, but he had lost the courage to do so on his own, and he needed the help of a group of desperados. And these people, with their propensity for violence, had infected him, making him believe that he could also acquire a bit of it, forever detaching himself from this town that had subjected him to shame.

Either way, you're a slave. Jorgen thought. But Staven would rather be a slave to a group of predatory beasts that excelled in plundering than continue being a slave to Darkshire, this endlessly dark, stagnant, purple-black sky. It wasn't as glorious as it sounded; it was self-destructive foolishness and madness. He no longer concealed his sins, and he was using this madness to disguise his chaotic emotions as noble passion.

"And... revenge. Yes. Look at what they've done to the child I cherished the most!" He picked up a poetry collection and flipped through it, sometimes slowly and sometimes frantically, his fingers trembling. "These poems, every word, every space between words, are my life's blood, my everything... and those vulgar, mundane people not only think they have the right to judge them but also mock and ridicule their creator. I want those beasts to feel what it's like to have their flesh and blood plunged into the abyss..." He suddenly threw the poetry collection against the wall. "I've endured this pain day and night, for so many years! But those animals only endured it for three days. Look at them now, completely lost and terrified! They don't even understand what's more terrifying than death."

"That's enough, shut up. You wanted to leave with the help of others, and that goal has been achieved. The only difference is that the person taking you away is me."

"'Every era constantly extinguishes genius—mediocrities release hounds to sniff around—digging up those seeds of brilliance in the soil—nourishing them with their filthy paws and foul tongues,'" he recited from his poetry. "See, my verses have finally been confirmed within me. Take me with you, take me to the heart of MI7, that vile and despicable organization. Bring on whatever torture you want; I will show you what the so-called spirit of freedom is. I've breathed life into these verses, making them masterpieces, and these masterpieces will return strength to me..."

Although Staven had madly confessed to all his crimes, Jorgen suspected that once his fervor subsided, he might revert to the nervous, hunched poet who spoke in hushed tones. While he knew he shouldn't let personal emotions interfere with his investigation, Jorgen did feel a certain anger and disgust towards Staven that went beyond the scope of proper procedure. The man before him was trying to regain a semblance of false pride by inflicting severe harm on others, all because he couldn't find recognition. Once that false pride was exhausted, Jorgen suspected that Staven might deny all the motives he had just confessed to in MI7's interrogation room, even claiming ignorance about the criminals digging the tunnel into his house or asserting that he was being threatened. The latter might not even be a lie, as during the entire ordeal, he would undoubtedly be under a threat to his life. Given the complete annihilation of the criminals and the autonomous nature of Darkshire, Jorgen wasn't sure if Staven could be punished sufficiently through regular channels. The old man wouldn't allow him to spend too much time on this matter.

But looking into those malicious eyes, Jorgen saw roots of corruption, ashes after a fire had burned out, and the nest of a parasite. The man before him was someone you'd be glad didn't have more power. Now, he was frail, without any physical resistance, yet he had already committed such acts.

Should he kill him now, to avoid trouble?

Jorgen saw Staven suddenly fall silent and step back, his heels crushing the poetry collections, causing his entire body to sway. He realized I want to kill him. Jorgen could do it; there were only the two of them in the room. Even if there were one or two witnesses, it wouldn't be a big problem.

But he didn't draw his blade. There was a steel cable hanging there, allowing Jorgen to hold on and not sink. If he killed Staven now, this line would wear out a bit; the next time he did something similar, it would wear out more. Beneath the cable was an abyss with no visible bottom, but to fall into it wouldn't take a second. At the bottom of the abyss, there were no sword mountains that would kill him, only a river that would contaminate him with the pervasive poison of another person. He couldn't sink down; at least not now.

Subsequent investigations revealed that the exit of the tunnel was in a cave in the woods outside the town, far from the sight of the Night Watch. It had taken a month to complete this project, and it was only after Dalia received orders to go to Darkshire that Jorgen was able to confirm that the criminals had changed their plans and targeted her. He couldn't help but imagine how Staven had convinced the criminals to redirect the exit towards the poetry cottage: perhaps it was because of my terrible poetry, and no one wanted to get close, and the piles of books around had a concealed effect. Maybe that was it? Regardless, the fact was that this exit choice had been very successful. As for whether Staven realized that his act of revenge, claiming to be the "most precious child," had turned the poetry collections into worthless criminal tools, that was not Jorgen's concern. He only hoped that after he escorted Staven back to Stormwind, other officials would take notice of his madness and have a way to impose heavier penalties.

After Pick had devoured most of Mohnitz's head and suddenly lost its vitality, it disintegrated into separated flesh and bone fragments in front of numerous Night Watch members. As for what Abbercombe did to Pick, there was no clear answer. It was widely rumored among the people that he had used dark magic to transplant another dog's heart into Pick's body, turning it into something neither alive nor dead. This answer was acceptable to Jorgen, firstly because of Abbercombe's identity as an old alchemist and the anesthetics he took, which were essential for surgery, and secondly because Jorgen recalled that a woman had complained to him that Abbercombe had stolen her dog when he went to search the ruined house for Dalia. When Abbercombe saw Pick's dismembered corpse, his face displayed both excitement and regret, which led Jorgen to think that perhaps the old man was merely experimenting with something. Not being familiar with dark magic and alchemy, Jorgen had no intention of delving further. As for how Darkshire would deal with the old man, who had caused some panic, that was up to them.

On this morning, before Jorgen and Dalia left Darkshire, they went to the Everlock family's mansion to bid farewell. Elro, who continued his eighteen-hour-a-day cleanup work, was not present, and Althea was also not at home. In fact, since the incident ended, she had been avoiding Jorgen and Dalia. They didn't blame her; the girl needed more time to learn how to balance her emotions, and her quirky side wasn't going to disappear overnight. After surviving a disaster like that, she needed to recover her former self as quickly as possible.

So, only Joseph and Morticia were in the piano room to meet with them, just as they had done the last time. They sat on opposite sides of the tea table. The lighting in the room was just like last time—though it would never be bright, it was inclined toward a low, gentle tone that made one feel comfortable.

Morticia had already learned the details from Joseph about what had happened.

"I made Joseph tell me everything in great detail, even though he was worried it might not be good for my health," she said. "But I had to know what happened around Althea and with all of you. I might not have been of any help, but at least I can't remain completely ignorant. As a resident of Darkshire, I don't know how to thank you. But what I want to say most is, as a mother, I will always remember what you've done for Althea." She exhaled slowly and continued. "That's all I can say, even though I know it's far from enough. So much has happened... it doesn't even feel real. I can only hope Darkshire can shake off the influence of this event as soon as possible."

"It's alright," Dalia said. "I feel the same way."

Jorgen saw that Dalia was smiling. It wasn't a post-disaster survival smile, devoid of genuine warmth; instead, it was a smile born of a connection she felt with Morticia's words.

"I really hope that Darkshire can move on from this," Jorgen said. "Although, strictly speaking, the seeds of all this were sown a year ago. As a detective, I'm very curious to know exactly what happened back then, but these personal interests, beyond my job, aren't as important. Of those directly involved in the events a year ago, either they have died or..."

"Jorgen, why are you saying this now?" Dalia looked at him.

"It's okay," Morticia said. "Please continue, Lord Jorgen."

"...What I want to say is quite simple. The events of a year ago are still on record with MI7, and now, only the two of you are directly related to that case. So, if I ever reopen this case and return here to investigate, I hope you both will cooperate. Of course, it's not appropriate to talk about this now. But I should at least give you a heads-up. By the way, Joseph." Jorgen took out a small booklet from his pocket and handed it to him. "A few days ago, while arranging the search operations, I made some notes about Darkshire's defense arrangements. Take a look; it might have some useful insights. I originally intended to give it to Elro, but I think it's more appropriate to give it to you for now."

"Thank you," Joseph said, taking the notebook and starting to flip through it. "Oh, these maps are quite detailed..."

"The attempted assassination of Tunnadus... I've been pondering the significance behind that. At the very least, it shows that Darkshire is still not secure enough, and there are issues with patrol route arrangements—none of the witnesses were Night Watch members. Plus, although it appears to be an isolated incident, sometimes I can't help but feel it's connected to everything that's been happening. Joseph, you can flip to around page forty; that's where I made notes on this case."

Joseph did as Jorgen instructed. He glanced at the pages, placing his left hand on the paper, then looked up at Jorgen.

"Ladies," he said. "I'd like to have a brief private discussion with Mr. Jorgen about this case."

"Joseph?" Morticia said. It didn't sound like a question.

"Just for a moment... utilizing Mr. Jorgen's last few moments before he departs."

"Alright. But it's about time..."

"Oh, you need to take your medicine. Alright then, Mr. Jorgen, please wait."

Joseph closed the small notebook and walked to a nearby medicine cabinet. A moment later, the group heard the sound of a cup and tabletop clinking.

"What happened?" Morticia asked.

"Nothing... It'll be alright in a moment."

Jorgen stood up and approached Joseph. The cup had tipped over, spilling half a cup of hot water, and some of the powdered medicine was scattered on his right hand.

"Your hand is trembling," Jorgen said in a voice too quiet for the two women to hear, then grabbed Joseph's right wrist. Joseph clenched his fist, attempting to push Jorgen away with his left elbow, but refrained from making too much noise.

Jorgen could feel Dalia turning on the couch, trying to see what was happening. He moved closer to Joseph, blocking what was happening on the table, then removed Joseph's right glove. During the battle with Kaelaman, Joseph's right hand had been subjected to various tortures, resembling an unfinished puppet discarded by a puppeteer. Most of the skin had become thin, covered in small and large pits, with parts of the bone clearly visible. His nails were gone, and the main creases in the palm had deepened into black cracks.

Jorgen held Joseph's hand in a tight grip, and the message was clear: It was you who injured Tunnadus. He didn't say this out loud, but Joseph understood what he meant. On page forty of the notebook Jorgen had handed him, there was a list of patrol areas that overlapped with the location where Tunnadus was attacked, and Joseph's name was among them. But that wasn't the key; the assailant had pierced the vial containing corrosive chemicals around Tunnadus's waist, and the liquid had splashed onto his hand. That's why the blow only left the black-market merchant with minor injuries and why Joseph's right hand had become such a grotesque deformity. He didn't know what substance had splashed onto his hand at the time; only Jorgen, who had witnessed Tunnadus's treatment process, knew.

Jorgen turned slightly to look at the two women. Dalia was turning towards them, trying to figure out what was happening, her right hand poised to stand up. Morticia, however, remained seated with her back straight, her head lowered.

Joseph tried to pull his hand away, but he couldn't. He endured the pain, but there was no malice in his eyes. He was breathing heavily, but he suppressed any noise; deep within the ever-resolute, almost inhumanly determined gaze, something fragile yet heavy was spreading.

He shook his head slightly, not as a warning but as a request. This request was not only earnest but also an instinctual defense against the impending despair, like a non-swimmer flailing desperately just before drowning.

Jorgen pondered what to do. Before coming to this house with Dalia, he had admonished himself to treat this meeting as an ordinary farewell, to avoid stirring up trouble. Any questions about what had happened could wait for a more appropriate occasion. But what would be more appropriate? A one-on-one conversation with Joseph? No, that was a terrible choice. Firstly, it was their last meeting. Secondly, he considered the presence of Morticia and thought that this was the best opportunity, and he acted upon it. But what came next?

Joseph reached for his glove, and Jorgen didn't stop him. As he slid the tip of his first finger into it, he shuddered as though someone had quickly slashed in front of his finger. As he went further in, his trembling worsened, and he shut his eyes tightly.

"Joseph," Morticia said.

"Sorry... Just... a moment. I accidentally spilled some water."

"I think," Morticia paused, "we shouldn't keep this from Mr. Jorgen any longer."

"Morti!" Joseph turned his head.

"I just said, as a Darkshire resident, as a mother, I'll forever remember what Mr. Jorgen and Mrs. Dalia did for us, but I don't want to enact these things as liars. Elro and Altayra aren't here, and besides, Mr. Jorgen probably already has an inkling. Didn't he just allude to it? Come here, Joseph. Sit beside me."

Jorgen released his grip on Joseph's hand. Joseph moved to sit beside Morticia.

She gently held his right hand. "I can sense how much pain you're in. Perhaps... we deserve all of this. I've always wondered if over this past year, we've gradually blinded ourselves. Maybe Mr. Jorgen can help us see more clearly and guide us in our future choices."

"I'm tired," Joseph said. "But even if I'm exhausted, I can only persevere. However, if you think this is the right thing to do, I won't oppose it."

"Jorgen," Dalia stood up, "what have you done?"

Jorgen replied, "It's nothing." He could see the disappointment and barely concealed excitement in Dalia's eyes. Though she didn't yet understand what had transpired, seeing someone she had formed an emotional connection with suddenly embroiled in an atmosphere of uncertainty and harshness was difficult for her to accept. Both Jorgen and Dalia were familiar with this atmosphere, having experienced it many times, and they were always forced to experience more.

"Dalia," Morticia said, "it's all about what happened a year ago. Although this can hardly be considered a farewell gift, I hope it helps you understand."

"Dalia," Jorgen said, "as I mentioned earlier, today's events have their roots in what happened a year ago. Of the people directly involved back then, only Joseph, Mrs. Morticia, Bower, and Eliza remain. The innkeeper told me that just before the battle started, Gondore dismissed Eliza, supposedly for her own safety, and whether this reason is true or not doesn't matter. Joseph was involved in the battle and its planning, Mrs. Morticia fell into the hands of the enemy, and Bower was the weapons supplier. These are still scattered pieces of information, but they only make sense when linked to the traitor's claims. I don't believe he was lying. It must be said that since the battle ended, we've been avoiding this question—whether Gondore's victory was achieved at the cost of betraying his former associates. When this question is answered with 'yes,' things become clearer—there are four people who have been concealing this fact. Joseph aimed to wound Tunnadus, not primarily the black-market merchant or Abercrombie but Eliza. The day before the assassination, I just happened to mention to Joseph that to further our investigation, I needed to know more about what happened a year ago. And because you, fearing that I would inquire of Eliza, used the ruse against Abercrombie to divert my attention."

"After doing this... Morti and I had a fight," Joseph looked at the women beside him. "I told myself it was a win-win situation. Both Tunnadus and Abercrombie are people who are better off out of Darkshire. 'It's much better than killing Eliza outright,' I said to her. Perhaps, when I said this to her, I was also taking my father's place in covering up his crimes. No, it didn't start today... we've been living in lies for too long."

"Lies...?" Dalia said. "Is it that everyone thinks Gondore is a hero? In any case, since he did save Darkshire, why question yourselves like this?"

"No, it's more than that," Jorgen said. "His heroic image is a public lie. But Joseph and I have been more about personal lies."

As Morticia spoke, she slipped the glove onto Joseph's hand. Her movements were gentle and subtle, and her fingertips sensed the decayed skin caused by the glove material, minimizing the pain for Joseph. After this task was completed, she brushed a strand of hair from his forehead to the back, as if he was always visible to her.

"Jorgen, if you need to enforce the law on us for any reason, just take me away," Joseph said. "Morti isn't guilty. I've known for a long time that my father returned to Darkshire after being a bandit, and he stayed in contact with those people. I was also involved in the entire process of devising this deception. Eliza overheard our conversation, and Father wanted to kill her, but I stopped him. At that time, I felt this was the limit: deceiving former bandit associates didn't matter, but we absolutely couldn't harm innocent people. Father also assured me of this, so I cooperated in his plan. The plan was as Mohnitz said, luring them into a trap. Later, Morti was actually kidnapped by those people, which further strengthened my resolve to help Father crush them."

This part of the story was largely what Jorgen had suspected. What concerned him most was Gondore's untimely death—before he even had the chance to meet with Morticia after her escape from the enemy and her return to Darkshire.

"About half a month after the battle ended, I fell into despair. Father was imprisoned due to suspicions from Section Seven, and Morti was still missing. But at that time..."

Joseph stopped, closed his eyes, as if something repulsive was erupting in his mind. He had reached a point where he couldn't stop, but each additional word required more courage.

"...at that time, Morti came back. It was midnight, and I found her in the forest during my patrol. Instead of saying I was overjoyed, it's more accurate to say I was confused. I hurriedly brought her back home and then went to the prison to find Father, telling him about this. But his response was..."

Joseph took a deep breath, as if the syllables he was about to say were greedily consuming the air he depended on for life. It was a kind of inescapable dilemma that blended the destructive power of human inner turmoil into a simple narrative.

"Enough, Joseph. Let me continue," Morticia said. "Gondore ordered him to kill me."

Although Jorgen and Dalia had somewhat anticipated this answer, when Morticia spoke it out loud, they felt the raw, painful reality of it. Her tone was so matter-of-fact, so flat, that it almost made one believe there was no trace of negative emotion in it.

"I used to be extremely grateful, even admired Gondoray—he saved me and Altair. I had no complaints about marrying him because as a blind woman with nowhere else to turn, I couldn't repay him in any other way. Of course, I didn't take long to discover his true nature... although he concealed these traits so well in reality, as if I was the only victim. He would beat me without needing a reason, always in places Altair wouldn't notice. I couldn't tell anyone, couldn't seek help, and always thought to myself: he's my savior, and it's wrong to betray him just because of a bad temper. In front of the guests, I was still the luckiest wife in Darkshire in the eyes of the townsfolk—a man with such achievements choosing a blind rural girl. And in front of Altair, I always had to instill in her how great her foster father was. It all worked; I thought I could spend the second half of my life this way. Until... I found someone who would listen to me, comfort me."

She gently brushed Joseph's left shoulder with her right hand, then slowly moved it down to grasp his hand.

"You can imagine, we couldn't tolerate what was happening between us," Joseph said. "I even thought about leaving with Morti. But where would we go? What would happen to Altair?"

"At that time, apart from continuing to live like this, it seemed like we had no other choice. Gondore seemed to sense something between us, but he never openly mentioned it. But I believe he knew. I wasn't kidnapped, Mr. Jorgen. Gondore, either to gain the trust of the bandits or perhaps out of revenge, handed me over to them. I was very lucky to escape and return, beyond his expectations. He was afraid of the truth coming out, so he asked Joseph..."

"That bastard lied to me like that!" Joseph suddenly hit his right knee with his right fist, ignoring the pain, as if he had fallen into an illusion from a year ago. "Who does he think he is..."

"Don't say any more," Dalia said. "Please, don't say any more..."

She stared blankly at the ripples in her teacup, hugging herself, her fingers trembling, as if the fear and insecurity from these facts were seeping into her. She had experienced a life controlled by others at every turn, but Joseph and Morticia had faced even more: they had to maintain a glowing image for the person who controlled and hurt them. Every lie they told for Gondore required them to extract their own pain from it.

Jorgen also believed there was no need to say more. But he didn't say anything.

Joseph stood up and walked to the wall where Gondore's portrait hung.

"What are you looking at?" he said. "Why are you looking at us like that!"

He took the portrait down and smashed it towards the fireplace and the floor. The canvas tore into several large gashes instantly, and the wooden frame splintered, turning Gondore's face into an unrecognizable mosaic of colors. No one attempted to stop him. After smashing the portrait, he started breaking other things: furniture, teacups, mirrors. He lifted the chair in front of the piano, intending to smash it against the keys, but stopped midway and let his hand drop.

"Jorgen, I killed my own father. But he... deserved it."

He knelt on the ground, his chin raised, staring into the empty corner of the room. It was as if he had lost his vitality, and this calmness, devoid of emotion, flowed from his hair, his skin, his fingertips, making him appear like an unfinished sculpture extending from the ground. For the Night Wardens, for Darkshire, he had to create a glorious image for Gondore and carry on the work of the Night Wardens, becoming the embodiment of the person he hated the most. He had suppressed the pain for too long, and now, the explosion of emotions was unbearable even for him. When the release was so intense, it could become self-destructive, and Joseph was teetering on the edge of that destruction.

Morticia walked over to Joseph and hugged him. Joseph's left hand unconsciously picked up a fragment of the torn portrait from the ground and then let it fall. The particles of air that had been disrupted by his frenzied smashing moved through the dim purple light in elusive patterns. Jorgen and Dalia both felt like true outsiders. The pain that Joseph and Morticia shared refused to be understood or comforted by any outsiders. Whether they shattered Gondore's false fantasies or continued to pretend he was their pillar of strength, it wouldn't change the fact that they would forever be bound within the purple-gray mist of the Twilight Forest, denied the right to be themselves.

When they left Darkshire, Jorgen should have been riding ahead to lead the way, but Dalia requested that he sit inside the carriage for a little while.

"This doesn't follow protocol," Jorgen said.

"We've already broken enough rules on this trip. Just for a little while."

Jorgen handed his horse over to the guards and climbed into the carriage.

As they began their journey, Jorgen suddenly noticed a small, brown-gray shadow chasing after them outside the carriage window. He leaned out, but saw nothing. Perhaps he had mistaken the shadow of the wheels.

"You still can't adapt to this place, can you?" Dalia said, her tone devoid of complaint.

"But I also don't want to miss Stormwind."

"Me neither."

The carriage passed through the town's gates.

"It's a pity we didn't get to say goodbye to Altair," Dalia said, almost speaking to herself. Jorgen didn't respond.

After the carriage had traveled about half a mile, Jorgen spoke up, "We're almost a month late returning. Duke Remington must be getting anxious."

"Duke Remington? Who's that?"

"He's the one we're waiting for your answer on."

"He's a duke?"

"Oh. I forgot."

Jorgen gazed out of the window at the spiderwebs hanging from tree branches and the crows, contemplating many things. After a period of silence, he suddenly realized he had been in the carriage for too long.

"Dalia, I should..."

He turned to find her sleeping on his shoulder.

Low branches brushed the roof of the carriage; a young wolf darted out of the grass, crossed the carriage tracks, and disappeared on the other side of the road.