Chapter 83: The Paths Walked by the Living

The people entering the city, under the supervision of the guards, formed a long line.

They were led to Saint Mora’s Grand Cathedral, the oldest building in the city of Purple Thorn. This gray-bricked edifice had been erected during the reign of Aldric VI, more than four centuries ago. Both the viscount’s great-grandfather and grandfather had funded expansions of Saint Mora’s Grand Cathedral. Over time, it had become one of the city’s most prominent landmarks, its towering gray spires grand and imposing.

The Saintess and the Whitewing Knights had temporarily taken control of the cathedral from the bishop. Following orders, guards and monks checked the belongings and personal effects of each refugee in turn. With the exception of the most basic clothing on their backs, all their packs—including food and weapons—were confiscated for inspection and verification, to determine their origins.

In addition, civil officials with pen and ink recorded names, and questioned each about their lives and backgrounds. The cathedral’s nuns brought hot water and towels to these weary, exhausted souls, and the viscount ordered the guards to fetch soft white bread to distribute among the refugees.

Over a hundred people sat in the cleared-out nave. They wiped the dust from their faces with towels soaked in warm water. The starving tore the bread into small pieces, dropped them into earthen bowls of hot water, and, trembling, swallowed the soggy morsels—many had lips so cracked they’d lost all color. Nearly every face was peeling, chapped by the cold wind. Some removed their shoes, revealing feet so blistered that pus had begun to ooze.

Viscount Quentin stood aside, observing. It was hard to imagine how these people had managed to reach this place. The towns and highways along their route had all fallen into the hands of the Islanders; those waystations that once offered rest and supplies were no more. If they had come north from Alvador, or set out along the coast of the Icy Sea, just how many days had they been on the road? Had they never once encountered an Islander army? How had the women and elderly survived such a brutal journey? The northern winter itself was deadly; even without the Islanders, a single snowstorm might have spelled disaster on the road.

The viscount frowned deeply. With the Saintess vouching for them, he could trust these people posed no threat, yet their very arrival seemed a miracle. These surviving Tanians—though clad in rags, their faces ashen—had somehow truly made it to Purple Thorn alive.

Among them, only one could be considered a fighter: a professional who had just broken through to the Silver rank. There was also a single dwarf skilled in alchemy. The rest, by report and tally, were simple villagers who lived by farming and herding; few among them even knew how to hunt or draw a bow.

It was nothing short of a fairy tale! Even if Viscount Quentin armed himself and all his personal guards to the teeth, fully prepared, he would have no confidence that he could, like these people, cross a front sealed off by the Islanders.

His curiosity only deepened, and he longed to know what these people had endured. After allowing them a short rest, the viscount could wait no longer: he personally set out to interrogate the Silver-ranked professional and the dwarf. The Saintess, too, joined the inquiry.

Upon entering the cathedral, the Saintess removed her sacred crown and scepter, handing them to her trusted Whitewing Knight. She hid the starlight in her eyes and donned a plain nun’s habit, sitting with the viscount behind two simple wooden desks.

The room, once a confessional, had been cleared out and now served as a makeshift interrogation chamber. The dwarf and the professional, along with an older man named Bardel, were brought in together.

At this moment, the Saintess seemed no more than a young nun, and Viscount Quentin was the most imposing person in the room. Her Highness appeared to intend for the viscount to lead the questioning, and he took up the role. In front of them lay brief dossiers on the three, recorded by the clerks.

“This is Viscount Quentin. You are all his subjects, under his protection. You must answer his questions truthfully, without concealment,” the clerk announced, introducing only the viscount and omitting mention of the Saintess.

The three nodded and bowed to the viscount. “Greetings, my lord.”

Quentin nodded in return; he had already reviewed their information. The dwarf was named York, an alchemist from Alvador. Some of the adventurers recognized him, and his identity had been verified. The one-eyed professional was Lucas Porter, a seventeen-year veteran adventurer who had previously operated in Purple Thorn. The Adventurers’ Guild had records of his completed tasks, and he had spent a period here two years prior. With a party of five, he had completed many low-level commissions; the guild’s assessment described him as a steady and experienced warrior. The viscount had sent for Lucas’s former teammates; after his departure, the other four had remained near Purple Thorn and, shortly before, had seemingly enlisted under the lord’s recruitment order.

Both York and Lucas had witnesses to vouch for them. Bardel, however, was unknown to anyone. According to his own account, he and his son had made their living by herding and brewing, never visiting Purple Thorn; the farthest they’d traveled was Alvador, where they sold their wares each spring.

But now Alvador had fallen, and no one in Purple Thorn recognized this bearded giant.

Viscount Quentin’s gaze swept over the three, his hands resting on the table as he posed his first question.

“Which of you can read a map?”

York and Lucas exchanged glances and both raised their hands.

“Philippo, bring out the map and pin it to the board,” the viscount ordered. “You say you came from the north of Alvador—then show your route on the map.”

The clerk unrolled a parchment map, fixing its corners with small hammers and iron tacks.

“Please use the graphite stick to mark your route,” the clerk said, handing over a thick, sharpened graphite rod.

“York, allow me,” Lucas stepped forward, taking the graphite. The viscount watched as Lucas’s hand hovered over the mountain road at Clavy, then traced a path into the wilderness beyond.

Lucas marked the starting point behind the mountain road, then drew a line: a gray streak passing through the Clavy mountain path, skirting Bront Village, leaving the main road, and veering into the Streamwood Forest. The gray line cut clear through the forest, crossed a tributary of the Bragg River, and reached Alvador. Still not finished, the line continued through mountains and woods, looping widely before finally crossing the Bragg River and, from the adjacent wasteland, arriving at Purple Thorn.

At the sight of this route, Quentin’s pupils contracted and his brows drew tight.

“Are you saying that you travelled almost entirely off-road, moving through mountains and forests? How did you resupply? Where did you sleep at night? How did you evade Islander scouts? How did you have the strength to cross such a route? Do not trifle with me, Lucas Porter!”

The viscount’s face darkened with anger; he feared the man before him might be delusional.

“But that is the truth, my lord,” Lucas replied, turning to meet his gaze calmly. “We made our way through hardship, step by step, along this path.”

“We bore tremendous suffering to reach Purple Thorn. Forgive me for being unable to explain all we have endured in just a few words, but this—this truly is the road trodden by every one of us who reached Purple Thorn alive.”

The viscount met the gaze of this man, left with only one eye, and was suddenly struck by the calm steadiness in that eye and in his words. He looked at the man’s face in silence, lowering his hands.

“Then go on, Mr. Porter. Tell me—what hardships did you face?”