7-6

Jorgen's expectation that he was unsuited for a puppet show venue was not entirely accurate. While most of the audience were children, there were also a fair number of young adults in the back rows and a few middle-aged people looking for an unusual way to pass the time. The hall's windows were covered with black cloth, and a few carefully placed candles illuminated the puppet stage, casting bright halos without creating too many distracting shadows. The puppeteer's hands passed through the cloth hanging behind the stage, gently grasping the necks of the puppets or manipulating long sticks connected to their joints. The moments when the puppets displayed their most vivid expressions were often when the presence and influence of the puppeteer's hands were most apparent. This, however, did not detract from the audience's engagement, particularly the children.

The play on stage was a fairy tale, but not one filled with candy and whimsical humor. A princess, struck by a curse, collapsed and died, her finger pointing to the sky before her body went completely still. A fairy with translucent green wings circled hopelessly above. In another scene, deep red cloth became the flames devouring a small wooden house, with survivors running back and forth in search of an escape. Some children covered their faces with their hands, peeking through their fingers at the stage; others rested their heads on the shoulders of the adults beside them.

Sherly's reaction was closer to the latter group. She clung to one of Jorgen's arms, leaning against him. She barely spoke throughout, her eyes fixed on the colorful puppets on stage. It was like the nights when they stood on a ship's deck or sat at the dock, the distant whispers of others and the water around them making the vast darkness seem less cold. At the edge of their vision, sails reflecting the moonlight appeared on the horizon. In those moments, Jorgen would feel as if Shelley's warmth not only touched his skin but also softened the harsh edges of the darkness, allowing it to gently cradle the distant light and warmth. As the play reached its midpoint, Jorgen began to feel drowsy, his vision blurring. For a couple of seconds, he even nodded off. It wasn't that the stage had become too boring but rather that the environment felt warm and safe, perfect for resting. In the wilderness, while surviving alone, there were countless nights when he couldn't sleep, feeling as though even the campfire meant to warm him could suddenly become an enemy, its flames licking at his legs. Now, he had to fight the urge to sleep—falling asleep would make Shelley think he didn't want to be with her, which was far from the truth.

After the performance, the two of them left the hall. Shelley seemed excited but didn't steer the conversation toward discussing the play's story. From this, Jorgen guessed that she had noticed his brief nap but chose not to show any dissatisfaction. He knew that, although Shelley usually clung to him and often complained when she felt neglected, she was also afraid of overdoing it. Perhaps his early arrival that day had already given her enough reason to overlook her usual complaints.

"There's still some time before dinner," he said. "Anywhere else you want to go?"

"Those puppets were beautiful. I wonder how they're made." She paused before continuing, "Could we go see the puppeteer?"

"What?"

"He must have a place to live, somewhere to store those things. I'd like to ask him if he'd be willing to have visitors."

"That's not appropriate. Circus performers don't just let you into their prep tents."

"Just come with me and ask. I think he's probably a nice person."

"He's probably gone by now. We don't even know where he is."

"You must not have noticed—his cart is parked on the other side of the school. If we don't hurry…"

This was an unexpected request from Shelley. Maybe she hadn't completely overlooked his nap and was seeking some form of compensation.

"Alright," Jorgen said. "But if he's not interested, don't push him."

"I won't."

Shelley pulled Jorgen forward. He had no memory of seeing the puppeteer's cart nearby; after all, they had gone straight into the hall. Clearly, Shelley had figured things out beforehand.

"There he is. He hasn't left yet."

Following her voice, Jorgen saw a figure in a black robe loading some boxes onto a wagon. He hadn't truly seen the puppeteer earlier, and the only clue now was the puppet parts hanging from the outside of the boxes. Shelley tugged Jorgen closer, but as they approached the man, she slowed down. The man lifted his head and looked at them. He wore a white mask resembling the faces of the puppets.

"You're the puppeteer, right?" Shelley asked.

The man nodded.

"Um… the performance was wonderful. I wanted to ask…"

The man seemed to sense Sherly's intent. He used his robe to cover the surface of one of the boxes and pushed it deeper into the wagon. Shelley hesitated, unsure of how to proceed, as the man didn't resemble the graceful artist who had controlled the puppets but more like a scarecrow standing near a graveyard. She gripped Jorgen's hand tightly.

"We're not here to break anything," Jorgen said. "She just wants to ask how the puppets are made."

"They're not for sale…" the puppeteer said.

"We're not here to buy anything."

"I'm not taking on apprentices either."

"Let's just go," Jorgen said to Shelley.

Shelley glanced at Jorgen and then at the puppeteer. She clearly didn't want to leave empty-handed but also didn't dare to press further. Just then, the puppeteer suddenly grabbed Jorgen's left wrist.

"What are you doing?" Jorgen said, trying to shake him off, but he couldn't break free.

"Wait. Wait, you're alive. You must be Jorgen. I knew you weren't dead. And here you are."

The puppeteer's voice was urgent and cold, like branches breaking in the winter. His hand remained on Jorgen's wrist, and as he lifted it, his sleeve slid down, revealing a tattoo on his arm.

"Sherly," Jorgen said, "I need to talk to him. Go wait for me at the hall entrance."

"Jorgen," she protested.

"Don't worry. I'll be right there."

Shelley looked at him; he avoided her gaze, staring only at the mask. She left, glancing back several times.

The puppeteer let go, shaking his sleeve to cover the tattoo completely.

"So, you're into this now, Antiphus," Jorgen said.

"I'm just an ordinary craftsman. This is how I make a living. You came to me, Jorgen. I don't want any trouble. I was just surprised."

"Is anyone following you?"

"Only my wife. This is my life now—performing here and there with her and these things. But there are places I'll never go or pass through again. I'm not the same person I used to be, and I want nothing to do with my past, Jorgen. I regret coming here. I always believed you were still alive. How many years has it been…? Five or six? A little longer, and I might not have recognized you."

"What are you afraid of? And that mask…"

"It's to keep the children from being scared of me."

Antiphus removed the mask, revealing a face with burns covering nearly seventy percent of it.

"I'm not worried about trouble, Jorgen. Everyone from the old days is dead, except you and me. I know this because I saw it myself. The other four burned to death—I saw their corpses. I should've been one of them. They surrounded me, watching me burn slowly like this. If I'd tried to escape, they'd have speared me. It was only when an army passed by that they left me for dead. I guess you saw at least part of what happened before you escaped. For a while, I suspected you'd betrayed us, but that doesn't matter anymore. Honestly, I'm almost glad to see you again."

"I never saw you playing with these things before."

"Of course not. In that kind of group, there were things you just couldn't reveal. Having survived, I didn't want to die alone. So, I got married. She's blind; otherwise, there's no way this marriage would've worked. And you… you seem well. That woman with you, is she yours?"

"A friend."

"She started with compliments. Seems like a nice girl. Listen, I've got to get back…"

"How long are you staying here?"

"Four or five more shows, I think."

"I'd prefer if you left sooner."

"I already told you, I'm not here to cause trouble, Jorgen. What happened earlier was my fault. I shouldn't have shouted like that. I should've acted like nothing happened."

"As long as you stay out of trouble."

"How many times do I have to say it? I'm just an ugly, burnt man with a blind wife, making a living from this. I'm content with that and don't want any more bad luck. After a few more shows, when people lose interest, I'll leave. Don't cut off my livelihood." He waved the mask. "This thing keeps people from bothering me too much, but it doesn't scare them away."

Jorgen reached into his pocket, pulled out some coins, and handed them over.

"Take these. Consider it my gift to buy you and your wife a ticket out of here."

Antiphus took the money. "Look at that… getting money from you. Things have changed. Are you staying in Menethil for good?"

"That's none of your business."

"Back in those days, we were all arrogant, at least on the surface, but we knew most of it was just talk. I mean, except for you, the rest of us in that group. They're all dead now, which makes me the most successful, I suppose. A room full of hundreds of children waiting for me to make an appearance... I guess you could say I've made it. At least I get to live on my terms now, though I don't know how things will turn out for you. But there's something I should tell you, something I should've kept secret from you, Jorgen."

"What is it?"

"From the start, our encounter with you wasn't by chance. A powerful figure paid us to take you in. We never saw him in person, but we were all terrified of him. Just knowing he was involved was enough to remind us that some people are born to give orders, and no matter how hard we try to climb up, it's pointless. That last year, we lost contact with him for some reason. Some of us even considered killing you. They didn't have the guts in the end, but I have to say, it's a good thing you found a way to escape. If you'd stayed with us, it would've gotten ugly sooner or later."

"How much do you know about this person?"

"Before we met you, he had us do a lot of things. Every time, we were contacted by one of his agents—those were some truly scary people. The deals were always done with strict rules, which meant we didn't dare slack off on our end. That's all I know. I never wanted to learn about your background, but it seems like you're connected to some extraordinary people. Someone was controlling your life, just as they were controlling ours. Looking back, maybe we were destined to be attacked... I don't want to talk about it anymore, Jorgen. This is making me uneasy. I'm starting to wonder if you knew about all this long ago... and now I've dragged myself into trouble... that's not the case, is it?"

"No, this is the first time I've heard of it. You should go."

Antiphus put on his mask, once again becoming the puppeteer. He mounted his cart and drove away. The people of Menethil watched as the ghostly white figure, cloaked in black robes, cracked his whip and passed through the streets.

Jorgen realized he shouldn't have let Antiphus go so easily. For safety's sake, he should've at least found out where the man lived. But since he would continue performing, there would be another opportunity.

At the age of nine, Jorgen had left his hometown and joined a group of adventurers—though they were closer to bandits. They weren't professional looters, but they frequently took on unsavory tasks and made many enemies along the way. Jorgen followed them, initially doing menial jobs, but gradually, through dubious means, he learned how to fight and survive. Looking back now, Antiphus' revelation wasn't without signs—Jorgen had always felt that those people had been unusually tolerant of him. By the time he was fourteen, he realized that in a few years, he would either be killed by jealous comrades or become the leader of this small band. He rejected both paths. He knew there were some things he simply could not do. So, he found a chance to leave. He could have warned his companions that enemies were closing in, but bitter memories and his concern for a safe escape kept him from doing so. He didn't truly want them to die, but he also didn't want to die with them.

Before he knew it, Jorgen found himself standing in front of the closed doors of the hall. The audience had already dispersed. Shelley stood there, hugging one of her arms, watching him.

"Jorgen."

"It's getting dark. Let's go eat."

They walked in silence for a while, until Jorgen said, "It was nothing. I met him by chance a long time ago."

"Okay."

"I told him that if you have any questions about the puppets, we'll ask him at his next show."

"Alright."

At dinner that evening, Shelley seemed uneasy. She tried to cover it with smiles and forced conversation, but her efforts were mostly unsuccessful. Jorgen was familiar with this side of her. He knew that Shelley had always been afraid of a certain part of him. After they rescued Dalia, Shelley hadn't been eager to ask about it; she didn't want to hear about how he'd killed someone. After all, she was the kind of girl who would be shaken by a dispute on a fishing boat.

After dinner, Jorgen walked her home. They passed through a grassy path between two rows of trees, where the militia often trained during the day. At night, it became the shortcut she preferred to take. The sound of the ocean couldn't be heard here, but small creatures occasionally chirped from the branches overhead.

"Today was fun," she said.

At least half of that was a well-intentioned lie. She was trying to convince herself of the emotion. Whenever she did this, it made Jorgen deeply uncomfortable. Not angry, but eager to change the situation. It was the same feeling he'd had at the dance that night when he had to convince the frowning Shelley to be his partner.

"Shelley."

She stopped and looked at him. The worry in her eyes hadn't fully faded. A small incident had already triggered too many thoughts. Such thoughts, if left unchecked, would eventually lead to suspicion, corroding their trust. Jorgen didn't want that to happen.

He looked into her eyes for a while, then leaned in and kissed her. At first, it was a surprise for Shelley, but soon she wrapped her arms around his neck. They both felt that this kiss was different from before. Gaining courage, Shelley took his hand and placed it on her right breast. As his hand slipped beneath her clothes and touched her skin, her body trembled, and she almost regretted the decision. Memories of her conversation with Dalia suddenly surfaced, but she pushed aside her fears. Jorgen doesn't like me enough. He likes you. It was a curse she'd placed on herself, and perhaps the only way to break it was to give in. Mom was already married at my age, she reminded herself, adding a sense of justification to her choice.

They sat down first, then lay down on the grass. In the moonlight, the flush on Shelley's face transformed into something more mysterious, a silent hue that spread across her body.

Jorgen tried, in that moment, to think of nothing but her. But this self-reassurance backfired.

—That night.

They had killed an enemy they had been hunting for days, leaving the man's woman alive. Jorgen sat furthest from the fire, unable to sleep. Then he saw the leader rise and say to the others, "The kid's still a virgin. Let's help him out."

Jorgen had tried to refuse, even though it was a very unwise move in such a group. He claimed he wasn't interested in the woman, an excuse that held no weight in their eyes.

They pinned him down, forcing the naked woman onto him. There was no need for threats of violence—her body was already covered in bruises.

"Do it properly. No half-measures," the leader said. "Both of you."

Jorgen's chest heaved, but not from excitement. The woman looked at him, her gaze filled with a soft, quiet, yet deadlier despair. She knew he didn't want to hurt her. He, too, was a victim of fire and blade. Jorgen's eyes wandered over the blood in her hair, the torn skin on her neck, and the dirt smeared across her breasts—none of it was better than meeting her eyes directly. And he couldn't close his eyes. To show fear or shame would be to submit to his comrades.

Then he heard a familiar cracking sound. Blood splattered across his chest. He looked one last time into the woman's eyes: whatever gentle, self-restraint she had shown was completely gone. At that moment, he became complicit with them all.

"Pointless," the leader muttered as he pulled his sword from the woman's neck. He turned his head away—as if regretting it himself—

"Jorgen, what's wrong?"

He heard Sherly's voice again and saw her eyes, full of confusion.

"Sorry. I…"

He spoke as he got up and walked a few steps away, turning his back to her. Through the dark, tangled leaves, he stared at the streetlights beyond the trees, trying to steady his breath. About a minute later, he turned back to her and said, "I'm sorry. Get dressed, Shelley. We should..."

Shelley sat on the ground, turning her head away, covering her chest with her hands. He could see her trembling, and he heard her quiet sobs.

Their world was now locked in a painful stalemate.