1-35

"Hilsbeth, someone is here to take you home."

When the nurse said this, Hilsbeth had her hands on the window, staring at the moon fragmented by the thick leaves. She could hear the footprints of the moonlight falling on the leaves, getting lost in the tangled branches, and then tumbling towards the dark ground they could never fully illuminate. A spider was perched on the wall beside her right little finger; she neither noticed nor disturbed it.

She turned around to look at the nurse and then heard her own voice: "Okay." She often experienced this lately—hearing the words that were meant to be spoken remaining in her mind. Every time she communicated with pen and paper, she would silently recite the words as she wrote. However, she couldn't sing in her mind. Singing was completely different from speaking; it couldn't be achieved through imagination. She would forget her own singing voice, everyone would forget her singing voice, and her child would have no chance to fall asleep to her lullabies. But at least she hoped to keep the memory of her speaking voice in her mind for as long as possible.

After the nurse, Panthonia entered the ward and walked toward her. Over these days, she saw that he was suffering and understood he was hiding his feelings by gradually distancing himself. The inability to speak oddly gave her confidence: she felt she could see through him. Perhaps because without verbal communication, the other person lost the most effective means of deceit and misdirection. Although Panthonia never mentioned it, Hilsbeth knew the woman who attacked her was connected to him. Once, she dreamed that the nameless woman was the ghost of Areta. The ghost was seeking revenge: not due to specific grudges but to soothe its shattered self. Hatred, after all, was irrational. In fact, Hilsbeth preferred Panthonia not to tell the truth because, when she looked at him, she could still feel emotional comfort. Let it be just an accident. Let it not be his fault. She still hoped he would take her home.

"I've come to take you home, Hilsbeth," he said.

She nodded. She knew she was happy.

There was nothing to take. Maybe just the small booklet and pen on the bedside table. It was much thinner because all the used pages had been torn out. As soon as Panthonia placed his hand on it, Hilsbeth gently patted his shoulder and shook her head. So he left it on the table.

The doctor had instructed on what to be careful about afterward. About Hilsbeth and the fetus. He held her hand and led her out of the hospital. They got into the waiting carriage, shut the door. The coachman snapped the whip. The brown horses lifted their necks. The wheels started turning, crushing the corpse of the moonlight. A dull sigh, Hilsbeth heard this sound as the hospital gradually receded. She opened her mouth, then closed it. Part of her oral cavity was no longer complete, smooth, suitable for notes to flow out. No one wanted to expose uninvited scars. She looked at her abdomen, suddenly associating it with things yet to happen. Follow me, say it: "Mom—Mom, you have to call... Mom—Mom." Lips gently opening and closing—even such thoughts were better than pondering who was at fault. The carriage passed a low house, in front of which sat a stout woman. She held a child in her right hand and threw a basin of dirty water towards the gutter with her left hand. "Ms. Hilsbeth, you can rest assured about the fetus." The doctor who said this, at that moment, seemed like her most loyal audience, blessing her with unceasing applause. Along with the wind blowing in through the carriage window, came the voices of all Stormwind's people: the moment the oil lamp was lit, the gradually emptying wine bottle, the needle pricking a finger while sewing, the clinking of coins—none of these could stop her from focusing on her child. As long as she thought of the child, she could sweep away all sorrowful thoughts. Even if she repeated a thousand times in her mind, "He won't hear my voice," it couldn't lessen her anticipation of happiness. Hilsbeth looked at Panthonia, holding his hand tighter; not because he was the man who helped her conceive life, but because he was taking her home. She could overlook everything—as long as—she could go home—

All the way, Panthonia said nothing, and she didn't mind. When the carriage entered familiar streets, approaching home, her heart began to race. It didn't matter how fast it beat now; she waited for the carriage to stop, for the release when her heels touched the ground.

The carriage passed the house. It did not stop.

She frowned, turned around, withdrew her hand from his, and pressed it on his shoulder.

"A little further," he said.

A little further?

Where to?

They passed the road leading to the church. Didn't stop.

They passed the inn where she had to live alone. Didn't stop.

She looked out the window. During her days living in the inner city, her activities were limited. She didn't know where she was.

"Almost there," he said, not looking at her.

Where? She wrinkled his sleeve. Where? Besides her own rapid heartbeat, she could hear Panthonia's heart beating faster too.

The carriage finally stopped in a small grove. Panthonia got out, walked to Hilsbeth's side, and opened the door. "Get out," he said, extending his hand to her. She didn't take it, getting out on her own.

In front of them stood Hylan Ludwig. Beside him were two guards.

"Good evening, Mr. Panthonia," he paused for a moment, then continued, "Ms. Hilsbeth."

Panthonia grabbed Hilsbeth's upper arm and led her forward. She didn't want to move, but she couldn't stop walking. Turning her head, she could only see part of his right profile. No expression. They stopped about five steps away from the others.

"It's very cold tonight," Hylan said to his guard. "Go wrap a shawl around Ms. Hilsbeth."

One of the guards stepped forward and draped the prepared shawl over Hilsbeth. Panthonia released his grip and stepped back two paces. The moment his hand left her body, Hilsbeth felt something leave her forever, like a small boat in a storm sinking with the premonition that no one would ever salvage it. The guard half-pushed and half-pulled her to stand in front of Hylan.

"Ms. Hilsbeth," Hylan said, looking at her, "I will explain everything. Please..."

He didn't continue.

Hilsbeth turned back. Panthonia had already turned around and was walking towards the carriage. She couldn't see his face.

She didn't know what was happening, but she understood that this was the end. Not the end of emotions or life, but the end of everything in a certain time and space. The happy fantasies from not long ago were just that—fantasies. In the next moment, her mind went blank because she had already lost the language to think. Suddenly, she couldn't stand; Hylan hastily supported her.

"I'm sorry, Ms. Hilsbeth. Please forgive Mr. Panthonia..."

He wanted to say "and please forgive me," but couldn't.

Panthonia didn't go back. He went to the warehouse prepared as the temporary office for the intelligence agency and wandered around inside before climbing onto the roof piled with discarded items. He sat in a high-backed chair with burn marks along the edges.

He sat there all night, watching the sunrise.

"We have to talk about that woman." That night, Koen said, "She's your biggest trouble now, and it's your own doing. Dennisen's wife wants to kill her, and she actually acted on it. This is an undeniable fact. More importantly, she's pregnant with your child. What are you going to do?"

I will take care of her.

"Take care? Want to keep her by your side? Foolish. We've been pretending she's my distant relative for so long, for what? If you start keeping her now, all the effort to keep her out of the spotlight is wasted. Add the attack, and everyone will want to know what happened between you and Dennisen. I won't be able to truly nullify that investigation report. Haven't you thought of this?"

Silence.

"You're still young; it's not surprising that a woman can disrupt your bigger picture, but now your stupidity will affect my reputation. After the poisoning incident, I already gave you another chance. There's only one way to salvage your reputation."

What way?

"Marry that woman to Phipin, give her a legitimate status. The process won't be flashy, just a small ceremony in my house. This will benefit my son too. He thinks of her all day...though it annoys me, but I'm still his father. Understand that I've helped you so much; if you won't do this small favor for my son, how can I trust you?"

But...

"I know what you're thinking. Yes, she's carrying your child. But that doesn't matter. After she gives birth, I'll return the child to you."

From the beginning, Panthonia knew Koen hadn't stated his true intentions. Hilsbeth couldn't speak, making any investigation into her difficult to conclude, so her existence wasn't the issue anymore. What Koen really wanted was a hostage. Killing Salvaney only earned temporary trust. Sending away the woman carrying his child was another matter. Koen said he didn't care what Panthonia had done but feared something similar happening to himself.

If he refused, losing Koen's support meant he had no chance left. Everything he'd done in the past ten years, or rather since leaving Lordaeron, would become meaningless. He had calculated it this way. Hilsbeth had only been in his life for a few months. This time couldn't outweigh these many years. Besides, he wasn't short of women. Hilsbeth had caused him so much trouble; he could easily find another woman to carefully please him, who would never refuse any of his orders.

A few hours later, the sun was about to rise. After a night of chilly winds, Stormwind would welcome the warm golden sunlight. Before that, the sounds of people and animals were already awakening. Restless.

Panthonia stood up, ready to go downstairs. At this moment, at the juncture of the first sunlight and the dying night sky, he saw an infinitely vast gray-blue, surging like a receding tide. It seemed transparent yet heavy enough to capsize. He recalled that night standing outside Hilsbeth's bedroom, constantly thinking about what he should do until dawn when he decided—he saw the same gray-blue color. The color symbolizing both revelation and death.

Hil.

Hilsbeth.

He suddenly knelt down, his left hand palm up on the ground, as if trying to retrieve something from the heavy sea sand. An inexplicable urge made him draw a dagger and stab his own arm. Deeply. Then he slowly cut downwards... downwards... downwards... creating a gash almost reaching his elbow.

Muscle tore apart, a small piece of bone exposed. Blood surged out with excruciating pain. He was too familiar with killing to know this wouldn't be fatal. But look—this is the secret of humanity, both complex and simple. Under the skin of Panthonia, there seemed to be thoughts, power, but in reality, there was nothing. Only ugly blood, flesh, and bone. But he always felt there was something else inside, an unseen poison—

He raised his nearly split left hand and smashed it hard against the ground. The pain made him black out, his lungs tightening, and the dagger fell from his right hand. More blood splattered on the ground... he wanted to see something else. To cut open the flesh, let it flow out. But they were hidden too deep. Where? Where? Where? It must be there. He grasped the dagger again and slashed the exposed bone. Still nothing. Nothing escaped from the white scratch on the bone.

He would probably never find them, even if he destroyed this hand or dug out his heart. They would always accompany him, flowing in his blood, whispering in his ears—

They were fear and cowardice. The thought of admitting he had harmed Hilsbeth made him terrified; and he was too cowardly to confess to her. Or perhaps it started earlier, from the moment he killed Dennisen...

However, he didn't understand that these two emotions were not inherently terrifying. They warned everyone about what should never be harmed.

He stood up, stepping in the blood swallowed by his own shadow. Screeches after screeches struggled to escape from that dark red, life-defining liquid, but they could never reach his ears.

This is the story of Panthonia Shawl.

Many years later, people would uncontrollably reveal their cowardice in front of him and be too terrified to call his name directly. These emotions existed within him but were invisible to others.

Many years later, only one person would remember, this is also the story of Hilsbeth.

Many years later.