The cloak of night settled densely over the city, wrapping it in shadows as a hushed ballet of snowflakes twirled gently from the heavens. This continued without pause, even as the world plunged into the deepest hours of darkness. Though not a blizzard by any means, the soft snowfall brought with it a surreal calm, delicately covering the city. It draped over the city’s numerous scars, inflicted during a recent catastrophe, in a thin layer reminiscent of a pale bandage. This serene blanket concealed the painful reminders of a city still struggling to heal.
Among the reminders were crumbled buildings, stains of dried blood, discarded steam-powered machines known as steam walkers, and barricades that had not yet been taken down. There was also the peculiar dried “mire” that filled almost every nook and cranny, the origin and purpose of which was a mystery.
Although the mirror invasion had retreated, the physical remnants of this eerie disaster still clung to the city’s very essence.
Following established protocols, the Death Church took control of the city’s activities once night descended.
Watchmen, holding lanterns, roamed the streets enveloped in shadows. Their vigilant gaze scanned every unlit corner and niche, wary of the dangers lurking beyond the reach of the gas street lamps. Simultaneously, their ears remained alert, attuned to even the slightest unsettling noises.
The night air was thick with the scent of smoldering incense, and the soft, hypnotic chants of the night-watch priests echoed, providing a comforting backdrop.
Looking out, a guardian dressed in deep black robes remarked to his colleague, “The night is eerily peaceful… I had braced myself for fierce confrontations tonight.”
His female counterpart, wearing a similar outfit with her hair flowing gracefully down, replied, “You weren’t the only one. After the traumatic supernatural event and the loss of so many priests, we believed the city’s defenses to be especially vulnerable tonight.”
“And yet, the other squads haven’t sounded any alerts either. The night has been exceptionally quiet.”
“But we mustn’t become complacent. We need to remain on high alert until the first light of dawn.”
“Of course, captain.”
Acknowledged as the captain, the female guard nodded appreciatively and observed another group immersed in their tasks nearby.
A priest silently moved with an ornate brass incense burner, wafting its aromatic smoke along the streets while murmuring deathly prayers. A few junior priests worked diligently, collecting samples of the dried black mud from various surfaces with precise instruments and glass containers.
This strange “mud,” now devoid of vitality, appeared harmless, its consistency more like semi-dried, finely textured paint.
Turning to her companion, the captain asked, “How widespread do you think this ‘infected mud’ is within our city?”
He answered gravely, “It’s difficult to determine. While we see it here, the underground areas, especially the sewers and metro tunnels, took the heaviest hit. Some of our water treatment facilities are practically drowning in this muck. With the city’s administration in chaos, it’s uncertain when or how we’ll be rid of this blight.”
“Addressing this mud is just a fraction of our current challenges,” the female captain reflected, her voice tinged with weariness. Her gaze drifted down the length of the street, focusing on the distant shimmer of the port district. “There are graver matters Frost needs to address beyond just this mysterious sludge.”
The guard beside her, clad in the same dark, reflective armor, automatically let his eyes follow her line of sight. Their vision settled on the bustling port district at the city-state’s perimeter, where a medley of lights painted a vivid tableau and faint, indistinct voices wafted to their ears.
“It’s not just the mud, is it?” the guard murmured, the apprehension evident in his tone. “An entire fleet from the Sea Mist is now stationed outside our walls.”
…
The eastern section of the port was a hive of activity, an enclave of life and motion.
The East Port, uniquely amongst its peers, had successfully staved off the massive invasion. Even in the aftermath of the fierce conflict, it remained a hubbub of activity. All its available docks and sophisticated machinery were mobilized, working relentlessly into the night. Docks that had suffered only minimal damage in the daytime assaults were hastily restored, ensuring they could accommodate the more seaworthy vessels for docking and necessary repairs.
For many citizens of Frost, the conflict had drawn to a close, offering them a brief respite to gather themselves and tend to their wounds. Yet, for the naval forces of Frost and the port’s logistical crew, their fight was far from over. Several ships displayed significant signs of damage and demanded urgent attention, numerous injured sailors and soldiers awaited medical care, and looming over these immediate issues was a more complex and pressing problem: the Mist Fleet. These ships, which had been fleeting allies during the day’s conflict, had, for over fifty years, been the stuff of nightmares for Frost.
Now, the ship that had inspired the most dread, often referred to as the “ghost ship” in hushed bedtime tales meant to spook young ones, was anchored next to the grandest dock in East Port.
Its imposing prow dominated the nocturnal skyline, while the silhouettes of its deck guns and bridge structure cast ghostly shadows onto the freshly fallen snow. Lights from the nearby shore glinted off its armored hull, emitting an eerie, bone-white glow. And on its side, for all of Frost to see, a large banner waved in the gentle night breeze. It bore an inscription which read, “Sea Mist Venture Company Temporary Inspection Ship to Frost.”
Even the most battle-hardened soldiers of Frost, who had witnessed countless naval engagements, found this sight breathtaking. Passersby at the docks invariably paused, staring in astonishment at the ship’s banner as if half-expecting to wake from a surreal dream.
“Captain,” First Officer Aiden made his way to Tyrian, who stood contemplatively at the ship’s edge, observing the bustle below. “We’ve raised the banner as you directed. We’re doing our best to present a friendly face.”
Tyrian merely grunted in response, then gestured to the Frost soldiers and dock workers below. Their tasks were frequently interrupted as they shot uneasy glances towards the Sea Mist. “They’re still on edge, aren’t they?”
Aiden scratched his bald head, deep in thought. “It’s puzzling what’s causing such nervousness. Perhaps the residents of Frost have become more jittery recently. Do you want the crew to gently steer those spectators away?”
“There’s no need to take such action,” Tyrian mused for a moment, then decisively shook his head. “My father’s orders were clear: avoid any direct conflicts with the city-state. Given the palpable tension in the air, it’s wise not to provoke the already anxious citizens of Frost any further.”
Aiden gave a resigned nod, “If that was the directive from the old captain, we’ll abide.”
Tyrian, shifting his gaze back towards the city, inquired, “And what of our crew’s morale, particularly the newer sailors who’ve come aboard from the second wave?”
Aiden’s expression became reflective. “Returning to these familiar waters after decades is a poignant moment for many. To say there’s an air of peace and calm would be stretching the truth. Every corner of the ship is humming with talk of our unexpected docking and potential interactions with Frost’s navy. The veterans, those from the initial crew, are equally engrossed in these debates.
“It’s a medley of eagerness and apprehension. But above all, there’s an overwhelming feeling of surprise. None had really envisioned what this day would entail. However, the crew firmly believes in your leadership and awaits your guidance.”
Lost in contemplation, Tyrian’s mind replayed the earlier events on the bridge.
The queen’s second command in fifty years stood out starkly: “Defend Frost.”
Was this command authentic? Did it emanate from the residual influence of the queen, or was it an illusion, a figment of some past memory?
The riddle seemed trivial at this juncture.
The queen once instructed the Mist Fleet to steer clear of Frost, and yet here they were, anchored at its gates. Perhaps the queen’s initial instruction was meant for this very moment.
“We are here now,” Tyrian whispered, his breath crystallizing in the cold night air. “If Frost’s command intends to show us goodwill, it would be only right to return the gesture with a formal visit.”
“Do you wish for my presence during this visit?”
“Yes, and select a handful who have a good grasp of formalities. Make it abundantly clear to them that this visit is not a prelude to hostilities.”
Aiden nodded his affirmation, then ventured, “Any specific criteria for those accompanying us?”
After a thoughtful pause, Tyrian said, “Choose those whose physical appearance is mostly intact — those who won’t lose any ‘parts’ mid-step. Ideally, they should be able to conceal their anomalies with their uniform.”
“Roger that, Captain.”
…
In the heart of the port defense office, Defense Commander Lister was fastidiously adjusting his uniform and medals, ensuring every detail was perfect.
Although no stranger to significant events, even his extensive experience couldn’t calm the simmering nerves about the impending rendezvous.
It wasn’t the grandiosity of the event that made him nervous but its novelty.
He was on the verge of an unprecedented encounter with the captain of the Mist Fleet. After fifty years of cold relations, this fleet, which once broke away from Frost, had made an unexpected return.
The city-state was enmeshed in its own set of challenges. The mysterious absence of the governor had thrown City Hall into a tumultuous state. Yet, in the midst of such chaos, it was Lister who had orchestrated this unique reception.
Lister was acutely aware that Frost was on the cusp of a precipice, struggling under the weight of its many challenges and unable to withstand further catastrophe. Despite the myriad opinions and counsel put forth by bureaucrats and decision-makers at City Hall, his foremost concern was forging a steadfast alliance with the elusive, formidable Mist Fleet. If there was even a sliver of hope of reconciling with the infamous “Great Pirate”, he was resolute in grasping what might be the city’s lone lifeline.
With nimble fingers, Lister fastened the last button on his crisply ironed uniform and took a moment to draw in a long, steadying breath.
He glanced downwards, reaching for the gleaming, freshly crafted breastplate that rested on the mahogany table before him. This emblem, boasting meticulous carvings and emblematic designs, symbolized his recent promotion to the esteemed rank of general.
“An ascension during such tumultuous times,” he mused aloud, tracing the detailed etchings with his fingertips. “But desperate times call for decisive leadership.”
Standing tall, he glimpsed his reflection in the ornate, full-length mirror that adorned his office. Carefully, he adjusted the breastplate until it sat perfectly upon his chest, reflecting the pride and responsibility of his newfound stature.
