Industrial Cthulhu: Starting as an Island Lord

Hughes looked at the delicate face of the girl and felt as if everything had fallen silent.

Galahad was saying something at the side, but Hughes did not pay attention. His heart felt hollow, as though he was sitting in an old cinema, with the sound of film reels rolling mixed with the static of a poor-quality loudspeaker echoing in his ears, while old memories began playing across the screen.

Nora, the always stern-faced girl. Though short in stature, when she lifted her head to look at you earnestly, her presence was never small—she was someone unforgettable at first sight.

She always worked silently, treating everyone with sincerity.

There was a sense of reassurance whenever she was around.

She wore a set of pure-white tundra heavy armor, covered with small scars, yet under her careful tending it remained clean and dignified, like rock weathered but unbroken.

Hughes had always liked that armor. The full-body heavy armor of the Banshees had been designed with reference to its form. He had planned to wait for Nora to return so that he could show it to her.

The image of her in that armor standing before a Banshee clad in heavy plate—one large and one small—surely would have been amusing.

Yet, the tundra heavy armor always jammed when lifting its head. The armor Hughes designed for the Banshees was tall and imposing, so she would surely have had to awkwardly remove her helmet and glare at him angrily.

On the screen, Nora widened her eyes at him, and Hughes could not help but laugh.

The memory froze; the reel clicked as it began to rewind.

Nora had a flail—or perhaps it was an incense burner—something like a meteor hammer, with several heads chained to a handle. Hughes had never been quite certain.

On the yellowed curtain, the white-haired girl stood before him again, holding up the flail as if to introduce it.

“This one drives away evil, this one heals, this one is for—”

“Smashing people?” Hughes asked instinctively.

“No, all three can smash people.” Nora’s face turned serious. “This one is for preaching.”

Later Hughes learned that in the northern tongue of the White Raven Principality, “smashing people” and “preaching” were the same word.

At that time Jeremiah was still a pirate. Nora had requisitioned his ship and made him sail north, and along the way, she preached to him. From then on, whenever Jeremiah had nightmares, he would recite the Silent Sanctum’s scriptures.

No one knew if, when he saw Nora again, it would be with anger or fear.

Later Jeremiah made a special trip to the North, but he had failed to bring her back.

The image lost its color again, like an old photograph, fading to blur.

The memories rewound once more.

Nora stood in heavy armor before a colossal monster, holding up a tower shield, her fingers pale from gripping too tightly.

“The moment of death is the strongest moment for a Burier. Although there were many twists and turns, I’ve finally reached this step—”

She gritted her teeth, then suddenly turned to Hughes. “Hughes, I want you to promise me—Castel will take in the refugees of the North!”

“As repayment, I will save Castel for you.” She turned back toward Monica, blood seeping from her clenched teeth.

Her long white hair lifted without wind, floating slowly in the air.

Her eyes were stained red with blood.

“Let me be the one to bury you!”

Nora’s figure froze midair, the memory fading again into yellowed blur.

Hughes looked up at the old screen, as though that figure once more stood before him as his shield.

The rewind grew faster, the clicks stringing together, countless images flashing past, too quick to see.

Snow-like static filled the screen, like the endless blizzards of the North: northern refugees praying devoutly, people collapsed along the road, corpses covered with frost.

The memory ceased, leaving only the face of the girl. Her eyes were closed, her white hair as though dusted with snow, and traces of hardship lingered faintly in her features.

Hughes blinked and found himself still in his office. Before him lay the girl’s severed head.

There had been no cinema. The image of the girl in his memory blurred, while that resolute face grew ever clearer, until the memory overlapped with the face in the box before him.

“Snow buries the past, but the Sanctum never forgets.” Hughes murmured unconsciously. He had never heard the teachings of the Silent Sanctum, yet this phrase clung to him and would not fade.

She had been a fearless warrior, yet the Silent Sanctum had abandoned her.

The Northlanders valued their homeland above all, but Nora no longer had a home. Her severed head had been sent all the way south, to Castel, a thousand miles away from the North.

Hughes rose to his feet, his gaze lingering on the box for a moment before turning to Galahad.

“Mr. Galahad, thank you for telling me. I now understand His Highness William’s stance. I will likely be busy for a while and unable to entertain you. Later, there will be one—or perhaps many—ships heading to Blood Harbor. You may depart on one of them then.”

Hughes shook the bell. Connor entered the room. After giving him a few instructions, Hughes left.

Galahad opened his mouth to speak, but seeing Hughes’ back, he swallowed his words.

In the end, he only whispered, “Did he hear me?”

“I don’t know.” A muffled voice came from the box. Nora blinked, her expression unreadable as she looked toward the direction Hughes had left.

“Go find him again later.”

Galahad nodded. “As you say.”

Connor stood at the doorway, staring strangely at their exchange.

Noticing Connor’s odd look, Galahad sighed and explained, “Nora is the Sanctum’s Burier. She bears the heaviest price of all—she is immortal. Even if her head is severed, she cannot die.”

He shook his head.

Connor thought for a moment, then asked oddly, “Doesn’t Earl Bazel know?”

Surely Nora must know much about the North. To simply send her head away like this might be detrimental to the northern war.

“Hard to say. The Silent Sanctum abandoned the rebels, but that doesn’t mean they told those three Grand Dukes of the North. Then again, perhaps they know.” Galahad shook his head again.

His face grew dark.

The three Grand Dukes of the North and Earl Bazel did not command many troops. With the North in turmoil, their overall strength was weak.

That was why they had once agreed to ally with the Prince, with the Principality of Tis as their leader.

And yet, this response carried a hint of provocation. The timing was curious as well—it came precisely when the Prince was supposed to turn his hand against the Empire.

If not for Castel, this would have been the moment the Prince began preparing for war. At this time, the Principality of Tis should have been at its strongest. For the northern lords to provoke now?

If they meant to rebel, they should have stabbed in the back after war had begun. If they meant to keep the alliance, why provoke at all?

Surely they could not simply be fools?

Galahad felt as though a lingering shadow hung over everything.