"And yet, hope endures—for a lass named LeFay draws ever nearer to a long-awaited breakthrough."
Archbishop Lorenzo, Date Unknown.
After hours of moving through the smoke and embers, Valeria finally reached the spot where the fire had likely begun.
The signs were subtle—a patch of scorched earth that didn't match the rest, and a strange spread of ash—but it was enough for her.
She didn't extinguish the blaze entirely. That would only draw the villagers closer, and she had little interest in turning a problem into a massacre.
More time passed. Hours dragged, and still there was nothing: no new ripples of power, no fresh scorch marks, no hint of the culprit. Frustration tickled at her, but she reminded herself she had nothing pressing to do. Might as well wait it out. Why not?
She forced herself not use her gifts liberally. Powers had to be rationed. The Apostolic See might be across the Atlantic, but it wasn't lacking in Venerables—or the few Saints capable of turning her into ash with a thought. A Deacon was to a Saint what poor Afonso had been to her: utterly irrelevant.
The heist suddenly felt pointless. She was stranded in the middle of nowhere, the item she'd risked everything for was unusable, and her head would very literally implode if she tried.
Even a Royal Pardon seemed laughably out of reach. Saint Finley alone could roast her and the entire village with a thousand bolts before she got a word in.
Frustration finally won out. Valeria slumped to the ground, letting herself stay there. The Church would flail elsewhere; this backwater wasn't worth another thought.
***
Hours later, Francis woke with a start. Sleeping here had been a death wish by any and all measure, but the roar of the fire outside was oddly reassuring—it meant the forest still had its attention, not him.
It took a few minutes to clear the fog from his mind, but eventually he managed to get up and press deeper into the cave, torch in hand, flickering flame painting shadows on the walls.
Oh shadows on the wall.
Kindly spare me a walk so dull.
Yeah, I'm certainly getting better.
"Note to self: fire and vegetation make a very bad combination," he muttered, a half-smile hiding self-deprecation. Learning this lesson here was better than discovering it back in Saint Agnes—he would never forgive himself if Camila or the town went up in flames.
But mostly Camila.
The cave was mercifully short, like the one before it. Save for the different inscriptions on the walls.
Thee of most closeness, we meet again, it seems.
A suitable place for it, or so the omen deems.
Come forth and plow once more,
For lightning is a gift, and my kindness is the door.
He'd cracked the puzzle once already; all that remained was to dig beneath the markings.
If my guess is right then it's an artifact giving me control over lightning.
Except there was nothing. Absolutely nothing.
He spent what felt like hours digging, probing every inch, feeling for irregularities, shifting positions to get new angles, doing everything he could think of.
And yet—nothing.
Francis didn't know whether to laugh or break down. Every ounce of effort, every sleepless hour, the coin, the lies, the suspense, the fights with animals, the fire—it all amounted to nothing.
He cupped his face and let out a scream that bounced off the stone walls, carrying all of his frustration, his exhaustion, and the bitter realization that it had all been for nothing.
He sat back against the cave wall, thinking it through. The only logical conclusion is that the locals had found the treasure and taken it. Who else could stumble into such a dangerous place without making a fuss? His little forest fire had practically confirmed it.
A darker, more vengeful part of him wanted to march into the village and take it back by force. But if his own treasure was any indication, it wouldn't be easy—and most likely, it would end with him dead.
Thirsty, hungry, and bone-tired, he pulled out the food he had brought, ate until he could eat no more, and let sleep claim him again. He'd head back home soon enough. There wasn't much left to do, anyway.
***
It didn't take long for the locals to find her. This time, though, they weren't throwing spears or shouting curses. They approached slowly, hands empty, postures small—passive as lambs.
"Sorry, miss," the eldest one said. The apology looked like it pained him, as if he never uttered such words before.
Valeria pushed herself to her feet. "Yeah?"
"Our elder would like to speak with you," he said, eyes on the ground.
Maybe it was the fact their strongest fighter had dropped in seconds. Or maybe they'd just never seen someone shrug off lightning. Either way, they looked far more reverent than they had hours ago.
"What's the occasion?" she asked, brow raised.
"He wishes to thank you," the man said. "And reward you. For sparing our young."
"And?" Valeria asked.
"He would also like to apologize for Afonso's actions."
Great, she thought. It's either a feast… or a trap.
"Alright. Lead the way."
The three exchanged looks—puzzlement, worry, some silent debate she didn't care to read. She added, "I'll walk ten fee... three meters behind you, if it makes you feel safer."
They didn't object.
They simply turned and began walking, careful not to look her in the eye, while Valeria followed at the promised distance—close enough to strike, far enough to keep them breathing.
The town containing eight houses came into view quickly. Small. Tiny, really. Maybe it clung to the hilltop by necessity, or maybe by luck. Each house looked like it could hold two, maybe three souls. Beyond that, a well, a few sheep wandering, one cow tied near a fence, a dozen chickens scratching the dirt. Not the smallest settlement she'd seen—but Santo Domingo or Havana it was not.
The trio pointed toward the largest house in town, then moved off without another word. They didn't linger, and she didn't mind. Stinky peasants rarely made good company. Except for that one bartender—he had some charm, if one ignored his cowardice.
She stepped into the house and was immediately hit by the thick scent of incense, the kind that always reminded her of the masses back in Yorkshire. She ignored it, moving deeper until she was a few feet from an old man, his hair thin and gray, face lined with caution.
"Good evening. What should I call you?" he asked, careful, almost deferential.
"No need for names. Visitor will do."
"Very well, visitor," he said, calm but with eyes that betrayed him. "As for why I summoned you, I assume my nephews filled you in."
"They did," she said flatly, neither sitting nor reaching for his cup of tea.
"I would like to apologize sincerely for my eldest son. Attacking you was foolish. Allow me to atone with my life," he added, practically kneeling.
"Relax, gramps. One life is already more than enough," she replied, dismissive.
"Is there anything else? The artifact you returned? One of our own, perhaps?"
She studied him for a moment. Most would have thought him excessive. But she knew better. In a town this isolated, a Submerged was nothing short of divine. Artifacts might bridge the gap, but they were mere substitutes. She considered his offer carefully. A Supplicant-level Artifact was useless to her. Taking one of the villagers along? Equally impractical. There was, however, one thing she could use—something she couldn't get from her crew without diluting the chain of command.
"I need a house for tonight. And send an... attendant—a willing one, that is."
The elder blinked, processing the request, then nodded swiftly. No judgment, only compliance.
Even she wasn't made of stone. Even she had to unwind sometimes. Especially when the entire Church was breathing down her neck.
***
Whether Francis had slept an hour or ten, he couldn't tell. The cave didn't let in much light, and he'd snuffed his torch on purpose. No reason to announce himself to whatever prowled outside. Predators weren't a real concern anyway. None of them were in a hurry to try out cremation.
He pushed himself upright and slipped out of the cave. The forest looked different now. Fire still clung to a few stubborn patches, but most of it had burned itself out, leaving pits of ash and earth cracked from heat. Here and there, strips of untouched green stood out like islands. Finding his way back to the skiff turned out easier than he expected. Hard to get lost when half the forest had been turned into ash.
The air reeked of smoke, and each step reminded him how stupid the whole plan had been, and how lucky he was to walk away with nothing worse than a scorched cloak and an aching head. The silence felt wrong—too unnatural after all the noise—but he kept moving.
Soon the trees thinned, and the beach appeared ahead of him. Francis let out a long breath, the kind that came from somewhere deep. The island had tried its best to chew him up. He'd survived it. That was enough.
The skiff waited in the shallows, rocking gently as if nothing had happened. He walked toward it, starlight illuminating the sand. In a few hours he'd be back in town. Back with Camila. Back to something that mattered.
This was so stupid.
This island could keep its treasure. He was done with it.