"However, if much of the world resembles what my eyes have seen, then I do not think our earthly armies have hope to prevail."
Cardinal Jean-Paul, Date Unknown.
Dinner ended, and Francis didn't linger. He thanked Camila and her mother with a polite nod and made his way back to his apartment, mind already whirring with plans.
Inside the cramped space, he pulled out the supplies he'd carefully prepared: a dark cloak, a sharp dagger, a torch, dried food, and a small first aid kit. Each item felt heavier than it should, but it didn't matter, not anymore.
A small relief came to him—since the main island already had a cave matching the clues, he could skip the tedious voyage to the other islands. That said, the two-hour trek on foot to reach it added its own layer of difficulty. He sighed, knowing that the challenge was far from over, but also tasting the thrill that came with pursuing something truly hidden.
The second step was waiting for everyone to sleep—a task that posed little difficulty. Francis settled onto his bed with a book, letting the hours slip by as he read in the dim light. The words kept his mind sharp, but his ears attuned to the faintest stirrings outside, each sound a reminder of the caution required.
When he was certain that the village had finally slept, he closed the book, tucked it away, and moved silently toward the door. His boots made little sound on the cobblestones as he walked, and gradually, the orderly streets gave way to rougher terrain—cobblestone replaced by thick grass, the shadows of enormous trees stretching across his path.
Each step carried him further from the familiar and closer to the unknown. The quiet of the forest pressed around him, a stark contrast to the murmuring, warm bustle of Saint Agnes he had left behind. Francis adjusted his cloak, eyes scanning the moonlit ground, aware that one misstep now could undo everything.
The walk to the location marked on the map he had inherited from his parents was uneventful, which suited Francis perfectly. The moon cast its light on the dense canopy, illuminating patches of the path just enough for him to see where he was stepping. Each rustle of leaves or snap of a twig alerted him, though nothing more threatening than the night insects disturbed him.
That peace lasted until a sudden hiss cut through the relative quiet. Francis froze mid-step, eyes darting to the source. Coiled across the path was a snake, its scales glinting faintly, tongue flicking as it regarded him with what seemed to be caution.
No no no no!
Panic surged instantly. Francis stumbled backward, heart hammering in his chest, causing him to bolt down the path in a flash, tripping over roots and thick grass alike. Branches scratched at his cloak and skin, but he couldn't care less. All that mattered was putting distance between himself and the snake.
Breath ragged, he skidded to a stop after the sprint, chest heaving, glancing back. The snake had not given chase, but the adrenaline remained. Francis shook his head, muttering to himself, "Of course… why would the one quiet night be uneventful?"
Adjusting his cloak and trying to calm his racing heart, he pressed onward. If a snake could startle him this much, what did that mean for the cave ahead?
Francis continued the hike, and with every step, he found himself brushing past plants and trees he'd never seen. Up close, the forest felt older, stranger—full of details he'd ignored his whole life.
Maybe I should hike more often.
Though he knew he wouldn't. Not unless someone dragged him.
His mind gradually drifted away from the scenery and back to the one thing he had been trying not to obsess over: the privateers. Their sudden appearance. Their silence. And especially their captain's casual charm that didn't quite hide the tension beneath it.
There were certainly better options than Saint Agnes to dock at. Bigger ports. More supplies. Less… gossip. Running low on food or water was a possibility, sure, but he hadn't seen any of them hauling crates or making demands. Repairs? Unlikely. The ship looked pristine—impressively so for a vessel coming out of a months-long voyage.
And none of the crew seemed injured. Not even fatigued. That alone ruled out medical emergencies. Which left him with one explanation, the only one that made the hairs on his neck rise:
They were being followed.
Followed by someone strong enough to threaten two dozen hardened privateers. Someone, or something, powerful enough that Valerie decided hiding among harmless island folk was the safer option. And in that category, only one entity made any sense.
The Royal Navy.
Francis exhaled through his teeth.
What a mess you put us in, Valeria.
The forest swallowed the thought as he pressed on, the weight of it uncomfortable in his chest. Ahead, the path narrowed toward the rise of dark stone cliffs, signaling he was getting close.
He kept walking in silence, the forest thinning just enough for moonlight to guide him. After another stretch of uneven ground and tangled roots, he finally reached it, a narrow break in the stone, half-covered by hanging vines. The entrance was so tucked away that he almost walked past it.
He stepped closer, brushing the greenery aside. Only then did he see the cave mouth.
Well, the first couple of meters anyway.
No wonder it stayed hidden all these years. Anyone without a map would assume it was just more rock. He wouldn't have found it, either, if not for his parents' scribbled instructions.
His first instinct should have been caution. A cave like this usually meant bats, or snakes, or predators of yore. But he felt none of that. No hesitation. No dread. Just a cold certainty in his chest, he knew nothing dangerous lived inside.
If something did, he'd have felt it long before now. He would've approached with a torch and a weapon raised… or turned around altogether.
Instead, he slipped the cloak tighter around his shoulders and ducked into the darkness without a second thought.
At first, the path was manageable. The moon at his back spilled just enough light to outline the stone walls. But within a dozen steps, the dark swallowed it whole. The cave slipped into a different kind of silence. The kind his primal instincts dreaded.
Getting attacked by a lion now would be a horrible way to go.
He sighed, reached beneath his cloak, and pulled out the torch he'd packed earlier. A quick strike of flint, a brief spark, then a bloom of warm fire. The cave shifted again under the new glow, imaginary lions bending away.
Nothing stirred. No hiss from a corner, no flutter of wings. The place felt abandoned… or untouched. Lucky for him. He didn't have the patience for surprises tonight.
Time blurred after that. He walked, and the stone never changed, same narrow corridor, same faint drip of water somewhere deeper in. The monotony scraped at him, and for a moment, he wondered if the whole thing had been a fool's errand. Maybe it was the wrong cave. Maybe it wasn't in a cave at all.
Then something caught the light.
A few more steps and he stopped. There, on the wall to his right, carved with the careful hand he knew too well, were lines—smooth, symmetrical, deliberate. Words chiseled with the same poetic touch he'd grown accustomed to in the last couple of days.
An inscription.
Proof he was exactly where he needed to be.
Thee of most closeness has cometh I see.
Here is exactly where my fruits shall be.
Come forth and plow with a bow.
For the earth shall bless with what I endow.
At first, he couldn't make much sense of the writing. The lines twisted around each other, half-poem, half-riddle. But as he read it again—slowly—the pattern formed.
There is no way.
Nearly certain now, Francis stepped closer to the wall and crouched. He pressed a palm to the dirt, feeling its cool weight. Then he began to dig—slow, careful scoops at first, then faster as instinct took over.
It didn't take long.
His fingers struck something solid.
A jolt ran through him.
He cleared the soil feverishly until color emerged beneath the torchlight: red wood, trimmed with yellow edges, its surface dulled by years underground.
A chest.
Exactly where the riddle said it would be.
He worked at the mechanism with shaky fingers, prying at the latch until it gave with a soft metallic click. Francis opened the palm-sized chest like his life depended on it.
Inside lay a small pile of silver coins, a gold ring set with a ruby, and—of course—another parchment.
For a moment, he thought the ruby shimmered, a faint pulse of red under the torchlight. Then he blinked and blamed the flame.
He unfolded the parchment. This time, the handwriting was mercifully plain.
This is one of three.
Simple. Direct. Infuriating.
The words didn't calm him; they only tightened the knot in his stomach, but he forced himself to breathe, to think. Tomorrow, he'd hand the silver to the old man. Maybe more, if he managed to find the remaining chests. But the ring…
The ring was different.