Alone again were Charles and Emory.
Dong! Dong! Dong!
Maylor Precinct's giant clocktower jolted him, leaving Charles staring emptily at the view.
Horses pulled carriages of all shapes and sizes across the bustling streets. Citizens chatted freely in coffee shops; some wore prim dresses, others donned black and white suits.
The elegant ladies wore silky white gloves and fanned themselves using intricately folded papers. The classy gentlemen wore top hats and held long canes.
Young boys on bikes sped down the streets, their bells echoing as they shouted, "The latest edition is here!" and threw thick stacks of colorless newspapers onto the porches of nearby houses and cafes.
This happened only on the rich side of Trila, ofcourse.
Beggars were pushed to the other side of the road. Women and children, forced to wear worn-out clothing, pleaded for any money the rich might bless them with.
They were tattered, skinny, dirty.
Their fathers, brothers, and uncles worked tirelessly on Trila's underground railroad—a series of intricate roads for the transportation of goods across Houtis.
Crossing one measly road introduced a different world entirely.
It was a duality, to say the least.
Charles held Emory's stroller tightly and ventured off toward 34 Hind Street, the location of their home. It was a mild, modest, one-story house, built decades ago. The previous owners died before Charles could finish paying for it, so the Minister's Office decided to take a quarter of his monthly paycheck and "use" it toward a good cause.
Charles knew it wasn't going to benefit the city, but he was powerless against the Ministers.
An obligation was necessary.
. . . .
After leaving Silver Street and heading to Fisher's Market—the gateway to North Precinct—Charles's mouth involuntarily fell open. "It's all. . . empty."
Trila's Fisher's Market, a place accustomed to swarming patrons and mild riots, was completely vacant. In spite of its scamming, looting, and fraud, no one in Trila could hate it. It was a staple in the Houtis way of life.
Every city had a Fisher's Market, and each one revered it like no other.
Trila's economy enhanced severalfold thanks to fishing. Because the Desby Sea was right next to Houtis in the Western Cradle, fishing was abundant.
Houtis's neighbors, Itolon and Gliasia, also bordered bodies of water. Lamentably, neither the Finders Sea nor the Laplace Sea were as rich in fish as the Desby Sea.
Ever since his father's death, Magnus Selwyn had focused heavily on the fishing sector, often disregarding the rest of the economy and its other issues, leaving that for each city's Minister's Office. In any other country, this would have caused an uproar. Luckily, Houtis's fishing culture meant that most of the citizens didn't care about King Selwyn's decision.
Most people.
Finished reminiscing about the political system, Charles slapped his cheeks and continued walking. The ground beneath him was rough cement with several indents and lines.
This efficient design led civilians where they needed to be. Stalls and booths lined either side of the large road, and as he progressed, the number of roads and booths increased. It was strange that despite the magnitude of stalls set up, everyone sold the exact same thing.
Nevermind that. . .
When the mind was this tired, there was no need to strain it with incessant thinking.
"Charles, hold on to the stroller tightly."
"Wha–"
A calm, delicate voice rang in his ears. A voice he was all too familiar with.
Isabelle!
Jerking his head left and right, Charles searched for the source. It had to be close; he heard it nearby.
". . ."
All he saw were the renowned kiosks of Fisher's Market. Charles bit his lip. He really should see a therapist; his sanity was on the brink of a crash. He couldn't help it, though. It hurt. The thrashing pain of losing someone hurt. A lot. Thinking back to Amadea, Charles asked himself how she handled grief.
It terrified him to know that as he aged, his connection with Isabelle would weaken. He wouldn't feel as sad as he did now. He would grow. The wound would heal.
No, no, no! He didn't want that!
Whining like a child, Charles's eyebrows furrowed.
Alas, trying to defy age and physiology was almost impossible. Whatever was set to happen, would happen. Fate couldn't be changed, especially by someone like Charles.
"Ga-ga~"
What?
"Ga-ga~"
A baby, was it? A baby speaking. And not just any baby—Charles's very own!
"Emory!"
Relief rushed through his body; Charles forgot everything that troubled him on this walk. A baby's sounds were like medicine. His medicine!
Overcoming the urge, he fiddled with Emory's seatbelt and lifted his child. Then he swung Emory in the air and cried, "Ga-ga! Right, Emory? Ga-ga~"
Despite the encouragement and enthusiasm, Emory didn't speak again. Charles didn't fret all too much and was still overjoyed.
With a new giddy mood, the duo left Fisher's Market.
. . . .
"Ahhh!"
A shrill cry tore through the air. Charles rapidly covered his ears and winced. It was definitely a woman's scream, and it came from up north, in the direction of their home.
"What the. . ."
He didn't have to look far to see the commotion. Next to one of North Precinct's many cafes, dozens of citizens seemed to swarm from nowhere. Just a couple of kilometers back, Fisher's Market was deserted. Why was this area so dense now?
Unfortunately, he didn't have enough time to ponder as the crowd beckoned for more people. Charles felt it was his duty as a Trila citizen to at least have a look.
The streets were less developed compared to Maylor Precinct, but they weren't as bad as the rich made them seem. Charles spent the majority of his life here, so he was used to the cracked roads and flaky paint on the walls.
"Someone. . . help!" the lady from earlier bellowed.
Charles quickened his pace and arrived next to George's Cafe. Slowly turning his head to the glass windows, past the tables and chairs, he could faintly make out a woman and a man. The woman was kneeling on the floor, and the man was motionless. It looked like the woman was hunching her back and bawling.
Suddenly, a swarm of civilians rushed inside and looked around, which made Charles do the same. He reluctantly parked Emory's stroller a couple of meters away and walked inside, letting the larger folk push past him.
The woman's screams intensified as he approached her and the man. One younger lady embraced the woman and quietly said, "It's okay. It's okay." Someone else hastened to get a mop
Why does he need a mop?
Charles's immaturity showed. It didn't click until a trail of blood hit his shoe. Reflexively pulling back, his eyes froze as he locked onto the man on the floor.
Dead.
Arms flattened. Torso torn to shreds. Head jagged and scarred. The man's eyes were gouged out, and his clothes were ripped off. There was no need to cover him, as the most fragile bits of his body were lacerated, leaving gruesome marks.
Vomit!
Charles couldn't hold it in; the floor was tainted with a putrid green.
Run.
He had to run.
Whoever did this wasn't looking for a quick murder, no. This was planned. This was skillfully executed. This was torture.
Emory!
With one foot already out the door, the lady's wail momentarily stopped Charles. "Someone. . . get him! He couldn't have gone far, I saw him with my own eyes!"
Charles's heart paused for a second, thinking the lady pointed at him. But when he saw the burly men rush past him and outside, he heaved a sigh of relief.
Hopefully, they get him.
. . . .
Tap! Tap! Tap!
Outdoors, the footsteps of a man wearing a fully black suit echoed through the streets. His skin was dark red and his eyes were slitted—like a demon's.
He sneered, holding two malevolent-looking daggers. They were dark red and marked with dozens of terrifying symbols. Crimson liquid plastered his clothing, and there was a gash at his side, a wound only sword could inflict
He held onto his abdomen and ran faster.
Behind him, the yells of men roared, ordering him to stop. Jumping to the neighboring roof of a common house, the man in black taunted,
"Salvo the Demoness!"
Sprinting blisteringly, he left the area.
. . . .
"Emory!"
Charles ran as fast as he could back to his son. They had to go home; outside was too chaotic
As he shoved Emory's stroller and went uphill to Hind Street, the woman's screams continued ringing in his ears. This time, even though he was farther away, they felt louder. I hope that someone does help you, I really do. I'm just sorry that it's not me.
Charles was not the fastest, he was not the strongest, and sometimes, he was an airhead. His thinking would cloud and his judgment would falter in times of stress. There was no way he could be of better use than the women who consoled her or the men who chased the murderer.
He was just a lowly salaryman trying to process his wife's sudden death and his son's mysterious silence.
Yeah, I wouldn't be helpful one bit. It's better that I left.
Charles tried to lift his spirits, but deep down, a twinge of guilt panged him. He did want to help them.
". . ."
Oh well. Ignoring the voices in his head, he pushed Emory's jostling stroller and headed home. After a couple of minutes, they arrived. Locking the door immediately, Charles rushed to the washroom to relieve himself.
Their house was a one-story home on Hind Street, toward the end of the long collection of houses. It was an older house, but still nice: a spacious living room, two bedrooms down a narrow hallway, and an older-style kitchen.
As he exited the bathroom, wiping his hands with a towel, a loud crash reverberated through the area.
"The military. . . this is serious." Charles picked up Emory and placed him on the dark green, worn-out couch. "Hopefully they stop at nothing to catch him. . ."
The Houtisian military included some of the most powerful individuals in the country. When they got involved—as they did at the hospital—the problem was serious
Emory did nothing but stare at the man speaking to him, his dark red eyes watching Charles silently.
"A–Alright. I know, let's eat some food. I bet you're hungry!" He tried to distract himself from the atrocities occurring near his home.
Not once did the infant cry or show any sign of discomfort. All he did was stare silently. Charles glanced continually at the silent baby while cooking. After he fed and changed Emory, he put him to bed.
. . . .
The cold autumn air hit Charles unsparingly as he stood on the balcony. Faint murmurs filled the night, and house lights flickered throughout the city like fireflies.
"Isabelle. . ." He rested his forearms on the railings, his eyes cold and isolated.
. . . .
Woop! Woop! Woop!