Back to Fortis Carriage
Fortis sat motionless in the plush seat of the carriage, the rhythm of the wheels on cobblestone streets barely audible over the distant whispers of the wind.
He gazed out the window, where the moonlight barely managed to cut through the thick, ever-present fog that blanketed the world outside. The streetlights, dimmed to near obscurity, cast a feeble glow, their halos swallowed by the oppressive mist.
His mind, however, was a thousand miles away.
Azzel.
More specifically, his family—vanished without a trace, as if they were nothing more than a fleeting thought. The silence of their disappearance gnawed at him, and Fortis could not shake the unsettling feeling that clung to him like a second skin.
A deep sigh escaped him, a subtle release of the tension coiling in his chest.
Leaning back, he let his gaze wander to the ceiling of the carriage, his fingers drumming idly against his knee. (An unusual world...) The words echoed in his mind, fleeting as they were, only to be swallowed by the void of his thoughts. His arm draped over his eyes, and he let the darkness of his closed eyelids cloud his vision, if only to escape the overwhelming presence of uncertainty.
Azzel's disappearance was far too neat. Far too orchestrated.
He mulled over it. "Azzel, a former member of royalty, perhaps privy to some dark, political undercurrents, had vanished without warning. A mere political maneuver?"
His thoughts turned darker, however. "No, this may not the reason."
He remembered the symbols he'd noticed in Azzel's office, It was as if something ancient had brushed against his mind, a feeling that belonged to an age long forgotten, one that had decayed and faded into the very bones of time itself.
(And that portrait...) The image lingered in his mind, vivid yet elusive. Something in it, something about it, felt familiar. He could not place it. A recollection from another life? Perhaps. The strange familiarity gnawed at his resolve, digging deeper into his psyche.
His breath hitched, frustration creeping into his thoughts, as his eyes fluttered shut in a futile attempt to rest.
The hours had worn him thin, and even the comfort of the carriage's plush interior seemed to mock him.
But it was no use. His mind wouldn't stop. Not now.
He groaned low in his throat, the drowsiness crashing over him in waves. Yet, in the quiet darkness, something stirred in his vision.
His eyes snapped open, what he saw nearly made his heart stop.
He stood on an endless expanse of barren land, the ground beneath him littered with the remains of wilted white flowers, their petals crumbling into dust at the slightest touch. There was no sky above—only a massive crimson moon, looming oppressively low, its surface cracked like ancient porcelain on the verge of shattering.
(What?!)
He took a breath, only to realize there was no wind. No scent. No warmth.
In the distance, three figures stood with their backs to him, their unmoving forms casting unnaturally long shadows that stretched toward him like creeping tendrils. The figures did not move, yet their presence pressed against him—unseen hands grasping at his throat, his wrists, his thoughts.
A whisper slithered through the silence.
"It has begun."
His chest tightened. A premonition, cold and inevitable.
He stepped forward.
The land resisted. Each step dragged against invisible weight, as if the earth itself wished to keep him still. With every movement, the crimson moon dimmed, the cracks on its surface spreading like veins through dying flesh.
The figures turned.
The first—a hollow man, draped in a black robe that swallowed all light. His face was empty, his eyes vast abysses that led nowhere. Beneath his robes, unseen hands unfurled, their fingers stretching, reaching.
The second—a woman, her face hidden behind a fractured porcelain mask. She cradled an hourglass in her hands, but there was no sand within, only a swirling, endless void.
The third—himself. But something was wrong. The figure bore his likeness, yet his silver eyes reflected nothing but stillness. A jagged wound gaped open in the center of his chest, hollow and empty, as if something had been ripped away.
None of them spoke. And yet, their voices came—not from their mouths, but from the space between them, from the cracks in the air, from the void itself.
"A step taken. A path unseen. A debt unclaimed."
The crimson moon trembled.
The robed man raised his skeletal hand. The porcelain woman turned her head, the fractures in her mask deepening. The reflection of himself did nothing—only stared, unblinking, as the wound in his chest widened.
the moon—began to shatter, its fractured pieces raining down as molten embers. The withered flowers burned in silent agony, turning the barren land into a field of smoldering ash.
The land burned. The sky shattered—not with sound, but with absence, as if something vital had simply ceased to be.
A final whisper. Soft, insidious, inescapable.
"Rhoh."
The flames surged, devouring everything within sight. They did not crackle, did not roar—only spread, vast and all-consuming, their tongues of fire moving with an eerie, deliberate slowness.
Then—Silence.
–––—at the Sera Street, No. 13
***
For the past few days, an unusual pattern had begun to take shape. Every time my carriage passed by that particular address, a passenger would be waiting, as if he had measured my arrival with unnatural precision.
He was a man of unassuming presence—clad in a dark coat, his hat pulled low over his eyes, obscuring his features in the dim glow of the street lamps. He never spoke more than necessary, offering only the name of his destination in a voice devoid of urgency.
I might never have known his name if it hadn't been for another regular passenger—Mr. Ignis, a man of sharp wit and sharper instincts. That evening, as I reined in my horses at the agreed-upon location, Mr. Ignis was already there, waiting. His eyes flicked to my passenger, and a knowing smile appears at his lips.
"Fortis Dexter," Ignis greeted, a knowing edge in his tone.
Fortis, as i see, adjusted his gloves with practiced ease, as if the motion itself was a habit rather than a necessity.
The carriage driver exhaled slowly, leaning back against his seat as the reins rested loosely in his calloused hands. The flickering glow of the street lamps cast shifting shadows across his weathered face, deepening the lines of exhaustion etched into his skin.
He muttered under his breath, his voice a low rasp swallowed by the chill of the night. "Sera Street... No. 13. I'd been here many times to count ."
The place always had a sense of being slightly out of sync with the world—like stepping through the door of a dream you didn't fully understand.
I pulled the reins, halting the horses in front of the old, iron gates. The faint scent of old wood and dust wafted out from behind the cracked wooden door as I glanced up at the dark silhouette of the building.
That's not what the place was for. The fog swallowed everything around it—like it was pulling at the edges of reality itself. I swallowed hard and exhaled. Time to wake him up.
I glanced at Fortis, slumped in his seat. tonight, he looked deeper in his slumber, his head hanging limply to the side. Something about it felt wrong—like he was not just asleep, but somewhere far, far beyond this realm.
"Fortis," I called softly, as if my voice might crack something fragile." I climbed down from the carriage, my boots heavy against the stone. It was too quiet, the kind of quiet that made your skin itch.
I approached him, and for a moment, I stood there, unsure of how to proceed.
I reached out, my fingers brushing his shoulder, and I found myself hesitating. The silence stretched, like an endless chasm.
"Fortis," I muttered again, shaking him this time. A sharp jolt of movement, a twitch in his hand. His eyelids fluttered, but there was no clarity in his eyes, just that same vacant, distant stare. I cursed under my breath, not in frustration, but in Fear.
Lately, it had been more than just the fog and the strange happenings in the city. The horses had been spooked more often, and I'd seen figures in the corners of my vision, barely there, just shadows flitting between the buildings.
I sighed, shaking my head. The job was simple once, just a drive to the same place, day after day. But now? Now it felt like I was driving through some horror. Things didn't feel normal anymore.
"Fortis..." I whispered one last time, my voice low and tense, as if the world itself might hear and punish me for disturbing him.
***Fortis Pov
His breath hitched, sweat clinging to his skin. The world around him felt distant, unreal. Then, the cold bite of the night air settled in, and the weight of the waking world returned.
Fortis awoke–——
His eyes fluttered open, and for a brief moment, he seemed to look through me, his gaze unseeing, but then—slowly—clarity returned to his eyes.
his breath unsteady, sweat clinging to his skin. Whether it was the stifling air inside the carriage or the remnants of a dream that refused to fade, he couldn't tell. He exhaled sharply, running a gloved hand over his face before shaking his head, forcing the lingering unease to the back of his mind.
His gaze settled on the carriage driver. The man look at him, the reins slack in his hands, the dim lantern casting his shadow long against the fog beyond.
Fortis let out a quiet sigh of relief. Without a word, he reached into his coat and placed three silver coins in the driver's waiting palm. Then, straightening his posture, he stepped down from the carriage and made his way toward his home.
Behind him, the driver frowned, turning the coins over in his palm before calling out.
"Mr Fortis! This is more than the fare!"
Fortis had already reached his doorstep when he heard the shout. He stopped, his grip tightening briefly on the doorknob. Then, without turning fully, he glanced back over his shoulder, his voice carrying through the thickening fog.
"Just think of it as payment for waking me up..."
With that, he stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind him.
The driver lingered for a moment, staring at the silver in his hand before shaking his head with a chuckle.
"Heh... No matter how strange he is, he seems like a decent enough man."
With a flick of the reins, the carriage lurched forward, vanishing into the fog, leaving Fortis' home swallowed by the encroaching mist.
Inside Fortis home——
Inside Fortis' dimly lit home, the silence seemed to weigh heavier than it ever had before. The flicker of the lamp cast long shadows across the room, trembling as though the very air was uneasy.
Fortis stood motionless for a moment, his hands trembling, the aftermath of the nightmare still clinging to him. He couldn't shake the unsettling images that danced behind his closed eyelids—of the hollow figure, the broken moon, and the name.
Not long after, Fort took the pen and paper he usually used to translate the mysterious diary.
He held his head trying to remember what he heard, but only one clear thing was still etched in the image of his mind.
something that seems to be a name...
"Rhoh," said Fortis softly.
In the room illuminated by the lamp, Fort remained silent for a while.
The tiny tremor in the room struck unexpectedly, rattling the walls, the water in the glass quivering in eerie harmony with the vibrations. The lamp flickered, before everything settled back into an oppressive stillness.
(Was it an earthquake? ) The thought passed through Fortis' mind, but it didn't settle comfortably.
His breath hitched as the disquiet rose within him. "What was that!?"
He gripped the edge of the table, trying to steady himself, but the weight of his thoughts made the air feel thick, suffocating. He closed his eyes, trying to center himself, his fingers rubbing against his temples as he willed the dizziness to subside.
He sat down abruptly, pulling out a chair and slumping into it. He was exhausted, his body drained from the strange encounter with his dream.
The words escaped him in a soft, almost sardonic murmur. "Effect of an earthquake... or something else..."
"Could it be the name?" he murmured, half to himself. "A mere utterance... and this?"
He sat down heavily in the nearest chair, rubbing his temples as if the pressure could dispel the weight in his head. The dizziness was overwhelming, the edges of his consciousness blurring together.
A strange thought struck him, unbidden. "Heh, maybe I should be more careful in pronouncing names, or titles, in the future." He exhaled a bitter laugh, the irony not lost on him.
(Names... what was it about them that held such weight?)
He suddenly remembered what his grandmother had told him long time ago—her voice a soft whisper in the dark—that names could echo across time. "Someone's ears will ring when their name is called," she had said.
"Could it be possible? The thought was maddening, but here, in this world so saturated with mysticism and unknown forces, perhaps it wasn't so far-fetched. "
"The bearer of this name is likely someone powerful—"
"So powerfull, that he or she could cause this nature wrath." He stared at the surface of the table before him.
As Fort sat in his kitchen, a sudden question emerged from the depths of his mind. It was simple, yet it carried a weight of intrigue that gnawed at him. "What about writing his name?"
He initially attempted to dismiss the thought, pushing it aside as an irrational distraction. But curiosity, insidious and insistent, began to claw at his resolve.
It's nothing more than an tiny earthquake, he reasoned silently, attempting to rationalize the impulse.
What harm could come from writing a name? After all, names hold power, but surely—
His thoughts faltered. The weight of the words lingered, and the subtle pressure of something unfathomable began to creep into the corners of his mind.
Fort's hand hovered over the parchment, the pen shaking ever so slightly, as though something far beyond the material world was silently watching, waiting.
But what if... the question slithered back.
With a soft exhale, Fort placed the pen to paper. It scratched against the surface.
What could truly happen?.
faint light from the oil lantern flickered, casting long shadows that danced across the parchment filled with dark ink. His fingers trembled ever so slightly as he with deliberate care, wrote the name.
Rhoh—
....
(Nothing happened?)
For a moment, he held his breath, his eyes scanning the air, the shadows thrown by the lantern, the pulse of his own thoughts. Yet, nothing changed.
No foreign whispers in the recesses of his mind, no fleeting shapes moving at the edge of his vision. Only the silence, dense and unmoving, as it had been before.
(It seems... writing the name doesn't cause any negative effects) Even so, Fortis did not let his guard drop. He knew that many dangers did not reveal themselves so readily.
But then, a dark thought slithered into his mind. "The mention of his name, however... Bring undesirable results."
He placed the pen down, and leaned back in his chair. His breathing slowed, though his mind remained filled with the potential for what might come.
After a moment, he rose, walking calmly to the basin of cold water in the corner of the room. Without hesitation, he cupped his hands and splashed his face with the frigid liquid.
The cold sensation spread through him, grounding him back in the reality of the moment.
He lifted his head, staring into the dim reflection in the tarnished mirror. His tired eyes remained sharp, his face still damp, and behind it all, an ever-present vigilance that would never fully fade.
Without a word, he turned and made his way to the bed. The night was long, and tomorrow, everything might change.