Alone again were Charles and Emory.
Dong! Dong! Dong!
Maylor Precinct's giant clocktower jolted them vociferously.
Horses pulled carriages of all shapes and sizes across the bustling streets. Citizens chatted freely in coffee shops; some donned prim and proper dresses, while others had black and white suits.
The elegant ladies wore silky white gloves and fanned themselves using intricately folded papers. The classy gentlemen adorned top hats and held long canes.
Young boys on bikes journeyed the streets, their bells ringing echoes as they shouted, "The latest edition is here!" and threw thick stacks of colorless newspapers on porches of the houses and cafes nearby.
This happened only on the rich side of Trila, of course.
Beggars were pushed to the other side of the road. Women and children dressed in worn-out clothing pleaded for any money that 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 roads that allowed for intricate transportation of goods across Houtis.
Crossing one measly road introduced someone to a different world.
It was a duality, to say the least.
Charles held Emory's stroller tightly and ventured off to 34 Hind Street, the location of their home. It was a mild and modest house, only one story high and built decades ago.
The previous owners had died before Charles could finish paying for the house, and so the Minister's Office decided to take a quarter of his paycheck—which he received every month—and "use" it toward a good cause.
Charles knew that it was not going to benefit the city, but he was powerless against the Ministers. An obligation was necessary. Isabelle had a more stable job and let Charles work with an eased mind.
Now that she had unfortunately passed, it was on him to work twice as hard to give Emory a good life.
. . .
After leaving Silver Street and heading to Fisher's Market, which was a gateway to North Precinct, Charles's mouth involuntarily fell open.
"It's all… empty."
Trila's Fisher's Market, which used to be swarming with patrons, vacated.
While it was infested with 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.
The revolutionary invention known as fishing had increased Trila's economy severalfold, especially considering the fact that the Desby Sea was right next to Houtis on the Western Cradle.
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.
King Magnus Selwyn's father, the late Theodore Selwyn, was an avid fisherman and a sorcerer who had mysterious connections with water.
Ever since his father's death, Magnus Selwyn had focused heavily on the fishing sector, often disregarding the rest of the economy and other issues. He left it for each city's Minister's Office.
While this would have caused an uproar with any other country, Houtis's fishing culture made it so that most of the citizens did not care about King Selwyn's decision.
Most people.
As he reminisced about the political system, Charles slapped his cheeks and persisted walking.
The ground beneath them was a rough cement with several indents and lines. It led civilians to where they needed to be.
Stalls and booths were on either side of the large road, and as progression was made, more and more roads appeared, thereby increasing the number of booths as well.
It was strange that despite the magnitude of stalls set up, everyone sold the same thing.
'Nevermind that…'
When the mind tired, there was no need to strain it with incessant thinking.
"Charles, hold on to the stroller tightly."
"Wha–"
A calm voice rang between his ears. A delicate voice. A voice that he was all too familiar with.
Isabelle!
Jerking his head left and right, Charles tried to locate where his wife was.
"..."
All that was to be seen were the renounced kiosks of the fishmarket. Charles bit his lip. He really should see a therapist; his sanity was on the brink of a crash.
It hurt. The thrashing pain of losing someone hurt. A lot.
He thought back to Amadea and asked himself: How did she handle the grief? It terrified Charles knowing that as he grew, his connection with Isabelle would weaken. He would not 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 could not 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 had forgotten everything that troubled him on this walk. A baby's sounds were like medicine!
Overcoming the urge, he fiddled with Emory's seatbelt and lifted his child.
He swung Emory in the air and cried, "Ga-ga! Right Emory? Ga-ga~"
Despite his encouragement, Emory did not speak anymore. Charles didn't fret all too much and was still overjoyed that Emory was not deaf. With a new giddy mood, the duo left Fisher's Market with a hop in their step (and wheel).
. . .
"Ahhh!"
A shrilling cry tore through the area. Charles rapidly covered his ears and winced. It was definitely a woman's scream, and it came from up north, the direction of their home.
"What the…"
He did not have to look far to see the commotion. Next to one of North Precinct's many cafes, dozens of citizens started to swarm from nowhere.
Just a couple of kilometers back, Fisher's Market was deserted. Why was this area now so dense?
Unfortunately, he didn't have enough time to ponder as the crowd beckoned for more people to come. Charles felt like 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 to be. Charles had spent a majority of his life here, so he had gotten used to the cracked roads and flaky paint on the walls.
"Someone… Help!"
The lady from earlier bellowed again. Charles quickened his pace and arrived next to George's Cafe. Slowly turning his head to the glass windows and past the tables and chairs, he could faintly make out a woman and a man next to each other.
The woman was on the floor, kneeling, 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 became louder 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 rose through. It didn't click in his mind until he saw 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 roughly, and his clothes were ripped off. There was no need to cover him, though, 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 by sorcerers. This was torture!
'Emory!'
With one foot out of the door, the lady's wail stopped him. "Someone… get him! He couldn't have gone far, I saw him with my eyes!"
Charles's heart paused for a second as he thought the lady pointed at him. But when he saw the burly men move 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.
He sneered, holding two malevolent-looking daggers in his hands. They were dark red and had dozens of terrifying marks. Crimson liquid plastered all over his clothing, and there was a gash at his side, a wound only a 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 dressed in black taunted,
"Salvo the Demon!"
With a dash, he left the area.
. . .
"Emory!"
Charles ran as fast as he could 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. 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. There was no way he could be of better use to the woman rather than the ladies 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 himself up, but deep down, there was a twinge of guilt that 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 at their house. Locking the door behind him immediately, Charles rushed to the washroom to relieve himself.
Their house was a one-story house on Hind Street, toward the end of the long collection of houses. It was an older house but still nice nonetheless. 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 Houtis military included some of the most powerful individuals in the country. When they got involved, like at the hospital, the problem was serious.
Emory did nothing but stare at the man speaking to him. His dark red eyes watched 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, while cooking, glanced at the silent baby continually. After he fed and changed Emory, he put him to bed.
Emory didn't fuss nor cry, and Charles's mouth twitched slightly as the baby looked like it was staring him in the soul.
. . .
The cold autumn air hit Charles like a dagger as he stood on the balcony. Faint murmurs filled the night; house lights flickered throughout the city like fireflies.
"Isabelle…" He put his forearms on the railings; eyes cold and isolated.
. . .
Woop! Woop! Woop!