Three Groschen coins clinked in my trouser pocket, their sound feeling heavier than the light jingle of the Pfennigs I usually carried.
I walked along Gobsburgs' cobblestone streets, now pulsing with the rhythm of the late afternoon.
Men with tired faces and the smell of dried sweat walked home from work or the harbor. Women with half-empty shopping baskets chatted in hoarse voices. The scent of wood smoke began to billow from hundreds of chimneys, mingling with the aroma of cheap soup that had been simmering for hours.
My fingers, without thinking, crept into the pocket, finding those three coins again. Their cold, ridged surfaces beneath my fingertips provided a tangible certainty. A warm feeling quickly spread through my chest.
Then, as a natural reaction, I pulled my hand out of my pocket to look at the coins, and I noticed something strange.
On the back of my right hand, right above the bone, a pattern had appeared.
It wasn't a tattoo, nor a stain. It was a series of small, pale blue dots, just like the light from my signature earlier. They seemed to form… a simple yet clear silhouette: a three-masted sailing ship, its sails unfurled, facing east. It looked very much like the emblem of the Compagnie Maritime de Weimar.
Yet, as I stared at it, the pattern began to fade and disappear. Quite like ink being absorbed too quickly by the skin, its color faded from blue to gray, then to just a faint impression, like the mark of a nearly healed bruise.
Within a few breaths, it vanished completely. But I knew. I could feel its trace, a cold sensation implanted there, like a piece of metal slipped beneath the skin. I knew it was still lurking and could reappear again.
What was its purpose? A marker? A tracker? Or… an enforcement tool? The impossible hundred Gulden penalty clause flashed through my mind. If I were to divulge the secrets of the 'Divinum' about the strange questions, about the color-changing eyes would this blue ship pattern awaken?
Would it punish me in ways I couldn't even imagine, ensuring a debt I could never repay with physical punishment, or something worse?
Those questions sent shivers up my spine, even as the golden afternoon sunlight still touched my skin.
I quickened my pace, leaving the previous area behind. Around me, the scenery changed the streets became wider, cleaner, the stones neatly arranged. The smell of sweat and fish was replaced by the scent of freshly watered soil and expensive cut flowers. Here, in the buffer zone between the city's chaos and the Compagnie's grand district, stood the houses of the nouveau riche.
They weren't old aristocratic palaces, but villas that seemed somewhat gauche in their opulence limestone facades too white, large glass windows trying to capture every ray of sun, wrought-iron fences with excessive ornamentation.
Their yards were wide and green, neatly trimmed, tended by gardeners hunched among flower beds. This was luxury bought with contract money, with ship shares, with profits from distant colonies. Luxury that, with my new salary, I might one day touch the edges of.
In the center of a round plaza, where these fancy streets converged, stood a new monument. A bronze statue, perhaps four meters tall, still free from the green patina of time.
It depicted a man in a long, classical-style robe, but with an intricate, closed crown upon his head. His face was carved with exaggerated sternness, brow furrowed, right hand lifting a sword to the sky, as if about to cleave destiny itself. At its base was inscribed: EMPEROR VILHELM VAN KÓCK UNIFIER OF LANITUM, 1627.
"Der König zog mit weiser Hand," the voice warbled, cutting through the plaza's pretentious silence. An old street singer, his tattered clothes contrasting with the surrounding grandeur, sat on the monument's steps with a weathered lute.
With his raspy voice, he performed the patriotic song 'Die Wacht am Rhein' with a poignant intensity, as if each word were his own personal memory.
"...er stärkte uns, er schuf das Land. Doch als die Zeit der Ernte kam, da brach der Donner ohne Schlaf."
"Refrain:
Lieb' Heimatland, magst ruhig sein, fest steht und treu die Wacht am Lanitumfluss!"
("...he strengthened us, he created the land. But when the time of harvest came, the thunder broke without sleep."
"Chorus:
Dear homeland, you may rest assured, steadfast and loyal stands the guard at the Lanitum River!")
The lyrics were the second verse, celebrating the Emperor's victory two years ago in the Lanitum Unification War. But what I heard wasn't triumph. In the tremor of that old voice, in the forced slow rhythm, there was exhaustion and loss. He wasn't singing to celebrate; he was singing to remember.
Without thinking, I reached into my pocket, took out a Pfennig, and dropped it into the worn-out hat placed before him. The old man didn't stop singing, just nodded his partially bald head
an automatic, dignified gesture of thanks.
His cloudy gaze swept over me, from my dusty boots to my woolen jacket that Lisa had ironed, then his eyes wandered again, fixing on something in the distance, on memories only he could see.
I turned, leaving the plaza and its song behind. The sun was sinking lower, turning the sky from blue to orange, then to a coppery purple. And in this sudden, sentimental twilight, my mind returned to the greatest riddle: the map I had seen earlier.
Why did this world have structural traces so similar to Earth's? Was this connected to the 'God, Creator of the Universe' that whispered in my skull? Or to that mysterious 'Divinum'? Was 'creation' in this context more than just a religious metaphor?
I dove into Friedrich's memories, searching for answers. I tried to find anything, and what surfaced were fragments of Glaubenkirche doctrine from his childhood.
"Therion, God of the Universe, who by His own will shaped the heavens and the earth from the void. He, the Liberator, who guided humanity out of the darkness and oppression of the Giants, the arrogant Elf races, the cunning Mistfolk, and the deadly Lamia…"
Giants, elves, mistfolk, lamia. To Friedrich, these were just bedtime stories, symbols of evil in the pastor's sermons. No more real than dragons or fairies on Earth. But now, after the magical light on the parchment, after the ship pattern on my skin, after the interviewer with the color-changing eyes… those words gained a new, frightening weight. What if they had once existed? Or… still existed, somewhere on uncharted continents?
I shook my head, trying to dispel that spiral of unanswerable thought. This wasn't relevant, or, more precisely, it was too big for me to deal with right now. I sighed the first breath I was conscious of taking since earlier and felt a deep fatigue seep into my bones.
Ahead, a wooden signpost, repainted half-heartedly, read: "Tsvetochnaya Korona."
I turned into the familiar labyrinth of narrow streets, where the smell of wood smoke now mixed with the scent of fried garlic and boiled cabbage. I passed half-closed shops, street vendors packing up their wares, children being called home by their mothers' shouts. Sounds, smells, sights everything piled up.
And finally, after a long journey that felt like crossing two worlds in a single afternoon, I arrived before a wooden door with peeling paint and a house number barely legible.
Kreeeek.
The sound of rusty, unoiled hinges squealed its familiar complaint, announcing my arrival. On the threshold between the enigmatic outside world and the fragile warmth within, stood two figures.
Lisa. Her brown hair, usually tied loosely, was now undone, catching the orange evening light from the back window, turning each strand into fine golden thread. Her thin, pale face was lifted, her light blue eyes the same color as her mother's wide open, staring at me with a mix of hope and anxiety so thick it felt physical. Her hands, which had been sewing or cleaning something, froze mid-air.
Beside her, Mother, Marie Wolff. She was perhaps not yet fifty, but the lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth told of twice that many years in the form of hard work and loss. Her black hair was neatly combed back into a simple bun, but gray had begun to creep in like frost at the roots. Her eyes, a deeper, dimmer blue than Lisa's, radiated a quiet exhaustion. Yet, beneath it all, there were remnants of stubborn beauty: high cheekbones, a straight nose that caught the light briefly as she looked up. She wore a faded, coarse cloth apron, and the smell of cheap laundry soap still clung to her arms.
Their attention, previously absorbed in the quiet evening routine, was now fixed on me. A tense silence formed, broken only by the hiss of the oil lamp on the table and my own suddenly loud heartbeat.
Lisa was the first to move. With quick, light steps, she approached, her warm hands immediately helping me remove my heavy wool jacket. "Brother…" she whispered, her voice strained. Her eyes scanned my face, searching for signs of disaster. "What… are you alright? During the interview earlier… did you get dizzy again? Or nauseous? That bread this morning… it really might have been stale, huh?" Her worry overflowed, tinged with clear guilt. She was imagining herself as the cause of my collapse this morning.
No, this wasn't your bread's fault. But the voice of God in my head. Yet, what came out of my mouth was just a tired smile I forced, and Friedrich's simplest words: "Yes, calm down, Lis. I'm fine."
As those words were spoken, something warm and foreign twisted in my chest. Relief. The feeling of being welcomed, placed, expected. It was genuinely pleasant.
"Thanks God," she breathed, and she truly clasped her small hands for a moment, her eyes closed, her lips muttering a short prayer to Therion. Which immediately made me realize just how worried she'd been. And I had almost ruined everything for selfish reasons I couldn't even explain to her.
Suddenly, the light in the room changed. The golden orange glow from the window, which had been the only source of illumination besides the oil lamp, began to turn blue. Then, quickly, it shifted to purple. A cold, ethereal, utterly unnatural light flooded the room through the foggy glass.
I was stunned, turning towards the window. In the now indigo sky, hung a moon. But it wasn't Earth's pale yellowish moon. This was a purple disk, large and close, casting a pale lavender light that draped the thatched roofs and narrow streets in a blanket of dreamlike color. Its surface showed dark patterns I didn't recognize.
This world's moon… was purple!
The last vestiges of Earth's scientific logic, already shaken by the map and magic, now collapsed completely. My attempt to understand this world with my old framework finally shattered. I could only stare, mouth agape, accepting that the rules here were truly different.
"Friedrich, quickly, get changed. Dinner is ready." Mother's voice, Marie's, called out gently yet firmly, cutting through my drifting thoughts. She had already turned back, returning to the stove, ladling something from an iron pot that gave off a fragrant aroma.
We sat at the same wooden dining table as this morning. The oil lamp a practical design with a wick and glass reservoir, attributed as a Woland invention flickered, its light challenging the purple moonlight streaming in through the window, creating two opposing territories of illumination: one warm and flickering, the other cold and constant.
On the table, it wasn't the usual potato and carrot soup. Today, there was "Gegrilltes Hähnchen" a large, simply roasted chicken, its skin browned and crispy, served with a few boiled potatoes. A special meal. I could calculate its price from Friedrich's memory: at least 27 Pfennigs. Almost a tenth of my Groschen advance just now. Another wave of guilt hit me. They had sacrificed something so precious to celebrate something they weren't even sure would be a success.
Lisa, however, was radiant. She grabbed her seat, her eyes sparkling at the sight of the chicken. She ate with the enthusiasm of a young girl who rarely saw that much meat on her plate. But across the table, Mother didn't touch her food at first. She folded her rough hands on the table, her dark blue, observant eyes fixed on me seriously.
"You weren't late, were you?" she asked. Her tone was flat, but a mountain of restrained worry lay behind it. Friedrich's lateness for the previous interview was an unhealed wound for this family.
I sighed. "No, Mother. I wasn't late." I paused for a moment, making sure of my words. "And… I was accepted."
The effect was instantaneous. Lisa nearly choked on her potato. "Brother… you were accepted?" Her voice warbled with pure joy. "Brother got accepted! I knew you could do it!" She jumped up from her chair, nearly knocking over the table, and hugged me tightly. "Congratulations, brother! I love you so much!" It felt warm, light, and sincere. But then, her hug loosened. She pulled back, sat down, and her expression changed. The joy faded, replaced by a sharp, prematurely mature vigilance. Her eyes narrowed.
"The contract, brother… what does it say?" she asked, her voice now low and quick. "Are there any unfavorable clauses? How long is the term? Where is the ship heading? And… what's your position? Still a carpenter?"
The questions were fired like a volley of bullets. She was no longer a giddy little girl; she was the family guardian, trying to protect her older brother she considered too naive. Her concern tugged at my heart.
I shook my head, trying to look reassuring. "No, the contract is fair enough. The salary is… twelve Groschen per month. Plus an allowance if I can help with navigation. My position is still ship's carpenter."
That figure silenced her. Her eyes widened. "Twelve Groschen?" She repeated it like a mantra. Then, a dream light ignited in her blue eyes. "That… that could be enough for… textile design school. I could apply next year…" Her whisper was full of hope so fragile it was almost painful to hear.
Beside her, Mother Marie finally smiled. A small smile, full of deep relief, that for a moment erased ten years from her face. "Therion bless your efforts, Friedrich, may Therion also protect you from the cases of missing people happening out there," she said, her voice hoarse. It was the highest acknowledgment from her.
We finished dinner in a more comfortable silence. The purple moonlight and the yellow flame of the oil lamp continued their war across the table, a metaphor too obvious for the two realities I now had to navigate. My mind was full of unanswered questions: the shape of the world, the 'Divinum', the voice of God, the impossible purple moon. But tonight, under this leaky roof, before these two women who depended on it, those grand questions felt distant and abstract. All that existed was a deep fatigue, the weight of a new responsibility, and the warmth of a family foreign yet forced upon me.
My head, full of the noise of two worlds, finally gave in. I went to the small room for myself while Lisa went to the room with Mother (they shared a room), I lay my tired body on the hard straw mattress. Through a gap in the worn-out curtain, the purple moonlight seeped in, illuminating the dust motes swirling in the air as my eyes slowly closed.
…
"Chapter 1: Protagonist. Complete."