A thunderstorm broke out tonight. Dalia sat on her bed, gripping the blanket, covering her back. In the distance, lightning pierced the dark blue horizon; it allowed the harbor residents to gaze at it silently and reverently. The lightning over Menethil, however, forced people to lower their heads. Dalia could see the reflection of the branch-like white streaks of lightning in the raindrops clinging to the window. Whenever thunder roared, an invisible panic would permeate the air, creeping into one's hair, fingers, and chest, becoming the gunpowder for the next explosion. Dalia didn't think she was afraid of the storm. She just didn't want to go out in such weather. However, the appointed time had arrived.
She threw off the blanket, got out of bed, and grabbed her raincoat and umbrella. She quietly left her bedroom, descended to the first floor, and exited the mansion through the servants' back door. Once the barriers of glass and stone disappeared, the rain seemed to fall even more fiercely. A shallow layer of water underfoot already made walking unpleasantly heavy. Every raindrop that escaped the roof, walls, and umbrella edges, landing on her face and hands, brought her closer to memories that never grew thin.
It was during a storm like this that Dalia's parents had once fled this mansion with her. She had just turned ten at the time, too young to understand what was happening but old enough not to believe her parents' comforting lies. They didn't bring the servants, nor sufficient luggage. Riding in an old carriage that smelled too awful for her to sleep, they ended up in a small stone house near the village's livestock pens. This was neither a trip nor a relocation. From her parents' expressions and actions, she sensed they were on a long, aimless escape. Her mother often held her tighter than a girl her age needed — comforting Dalia and herself simultaneously. Her father, however, grew silent and barely looked at them, like a stranger who happened to share the same carriage.
"Mom, when can we go back?"
"I don't know, dear. I hope we won't be delayed too long. You can pray with me."
"But I left many things I love in the house."
"So did I. Maybe we'll get a chance to retrieve them someday. But for now…"
"No, don't tell her that," her father said. "We're never going back. Forget about Menethil."
"Shut up. You can't speak to my daughter that way. It's all your fault, and you want to make things worse?"
As she said this, her mother hugged Dalia even tighter and turned away, as if protecting her from a villain. Dalia saw her father glance at her, then immediately look away, filled with regret, having abandoned the argument but harboring resentment.
After settling in the remote village, her mother refused to step outside and forbade Dalia from doing so. Her father would leave the house every few days to buy food and essentials, quickly running out of the little money they had brought. Neither parent seemed to discuss future plans; at least Dalia never witnessed it. Her mother avoided speaking to her father at all times and blocked Dalia from approaching him. Her mother's vacant eyes and occasional nonsensical words revealed that she was withdrawing into a small, isolated space, wanting to take her daughter with her. This made Dalia afraid, and she began to sympathize with her father, despite her mother's repeated claims that everything was his fault.
Dalia wanted to talk to her father, to understand what had happened and what they should do next because she was ready to help him. But she never got the chance. One afternoon, Dalia awoke from a hot, restless nap to find her mother, back turned, gazing at a man in his fifties standing by the door.
"Your daughter is awake," the man said, looking at Dalia.
"Please… don't scare her. My poor daughter, having to go through all this… Can't you help us? You've known my husband for so long…"
"I can't influence anything. For a long time, the Alliance and the Horde have been in small-scale conflicts. Continuing to smuggle minerals and making large illegal profits is a serious crime. You may not escape punishment either. After all, you've been by his side for years and chose to flee with him. You're an accomplice."
"Me, too? Prison? No, that can't happen. What about my daughter? She's only ten. I can't... I didn't do anything wrong. He forced me."
"These things aren't for me to hear. But yes, you and your daughter have a chance to survive. She may even return to Menethil one day and inherit the mansion. The Wharton family could continue."
"I don't care about the property. The future of the family means nothing to me. I just want my daughter to be safe. Please, Lord Shawl, for the sake of your past ties with my husband, save us. Look at this poor child."
Dalia couldn't see her mother's face, but she realized that whether it was separating her from her father or pleading with this black-clad man, her mother had never asked what she wanted. From the beginning, Dalia hadn't understood why they were fleeing, why they were avoiding her father, or what was happening now. She was her mother's living luggage.
I have no obligation to help you. But if you have the resolve to save yourself as well as pleading for help—
That sentence defined Dalia's fate for the next several years. Before she could recall it fully, she arrived at her destination: beneath a small bridge in the southern part of the port, where a man awaited her.
"You're late," he said.
"Look at the rain."
"Oh, I forgot. You're a noble lady who can't bear a bit of mud. You should know my schedule is tight. I can't let Lord Shawl find out I left at night. Enough talk. Say what you came to say."
"That night, he danced with me. Yesterday afternoon, he came to chat. I don't think he suspects anything... he must believe our meeting was coincidental. I don't know what else to report."
"Is he interested in you?"
"How should I say? He's friendly, but he's like that with everyone."
"I think you're not cooperating enough."
"What do you want me to do? Should I beg him to sleep with me?"
The man stepped forward, grasping her neck without squeezing.
"Speak carefully, Dalia Wharton. Every word you say is reported to Lord Shawl. It seems you've forgotten why you're still alive after living comfortably for too long. Lord Shawl could easily order his son to marry you, but that's not the best way. He wants his only son to develop genuine feelings for you. This is the greatest honor you'll ever have."
"If it's all an act, how can he develop genuine feelings?"
"One last warning, don't play word games with me." He let go, his tone oddly shifting. "You're an eighteen-year-old beauty. I've been through those youthful games myself. You certainly know how to get his attention without being taught. Let me remind you of two things: one, don't let him sense anything's wrong. Two, try to keep him here as long as possible. If you do those two things, everything will be fine. As for what you really think of him, that's none of my concern — no one cares. Maybe when this is over, you'll be the one most grateful."
"I should head back. I don't want to stay here."
"I'll be watching you."
Just as she raised her umbrella to leave the bridge, Dalia stopped.
"I... have a question."
"One minute."
"Can I know about my mother?"
"We've been through this, Dalia. Don't think that just because you're doing Lord Shawl this favor, you have the right to negotiate. Until he decides, asking anyone is pointless."
"At least tell me if she's still alive…"
He didn't answer, just stared at her. Dalia knew it was time to leave. She walked back into the rain.
She knew her father had been executed after his trial. And after delivering her to Shawl, her mother's whereabouts were unknown, though a single letter delivered by a Seven sentry proved she was still alive. The letter contained little more than a wish for Dalia to take care of herself.
The man who had just met with Dalia had spent three years teaching her how to craft and detect lies, brew poisons, and use them covertly. She still didn't know his name and occasionally called him "instructor." As to why he taught her poison-making, his initial explanation was that it was her best means of self-defense. But now she believed it was merely a test of her obedience and courage. He once pressed her hand down, gripping her jaw, forcing her to watch someone die in agony — after taking a poison she had been ordered to prepare. Perhaps after such experiences, deceiving a man with lies didn't seem like something to hesitate over. She had heard that others, besides her, had failed these tests.
The rain had lightened a bit; she quickened her pace. As she turned onto the road leading directly to the mansion, she noticed someone standing under a nearby eave. Initially, she only intended to shield her face with her umbrella, but then she realized it was Jorgen. She stopped. He walked over to her.
"So late, and it's raining. What are you doing outside?" Jorgen asked.
"Nothing. Just heading back."
"Where were you just now?"
"I don't have to tell you." She pushed the umbrella toward him. "Hold this for me. Let's go back."
Jorgen took the umbrella and walked with her for a while, saying nothing. Dalia felt a deeply awkward tension that was foreign to her.
"You're staying silent on purpose, aren't you?" she said. "Did you see something?"