Moria waited quietly in the shadows. The curses and muffled thuds from the shed gradually subsided, replaced by suppressed, heavy breaths of exhaustion. He could imagine the inner torment the worker was experiencing – fear, anger, yet powerlessness to resist, leading him to vent his frustration on the simple furniture.
After a while, the curtain was abruptly pulled aside, and the dockworker from before walked out, cursing. The flesh on his face twitched with anger, but his eyes held an unconcealable weariness and fear, as if he had just escaped a nightmare.
He looked around cautiously. Seeing no one, he lowered his head as if nothing had happened and walked out along the path he had come, his steps unsteady.
Moria followed silently. He didn’t reveal himself immediately, but maintained a distance that allowed him to observe without arousing suspicion. He needed a more opportune moment, one where the worker might let down his guard slightly, but wouldn’t draw the attention of the Divine Cult of Eternal Blessing.
The worker stumbled, clearly disturbed. He passed through several narrow, dirty alleyways and finally stopped at the end of a dead end, piled with discarded fishing nets and broken wooden crates. With his back to the alley entrance, he fumbled in his pocket for a cheap cigarette, lit it with trembling hands, and took a long drag, coughing violently.
In the swirling smoke, his hunched figure appeared particularly bleak.
*Now.*
Moria adjusted his breathing, masked his aura, and made himself look like an ordinary, slightly confused, but well-meaning traveler. He slowly emerged from the shadows, his boots making a soft sound on the slippery stone slabs.
“Brother,” Moria’s voice was gentle and calm, with a hint of appropriate hesitation, as if he were merely passing by and reluctant to disturb.
The worker whipped his head around like a startled rabbit, the hand holding the cigarette trembling violently. When he saw Moria’s plain but clean attire and his young face, devoid of malice and even carrying a hint of compassion, some of the fear in his eyes receded slightly, but his vigilance remained high.
“Who are you? What do you want?” the worker’s voice was hoarse and rough, with a thick local accent and an imperceptible note of caution. He instinctively shrank back, as if trying to hide himself among the moldy-smelling clutter behind him.
“Please don’t misunderstand, I mean no harm,” Moria bowed slightly, his tone sincere. “I was just passing by. Earlier, near Fog Bell Alley, I seemed to see you coming out of a house, looking quite flustered. I have something to ask the owner of that house, but I’ve knocked for a long time with no answer. I wonder if you could inform me about it.”
He deliberately obscured the details of his observation, focusing only on Fog Bell Alley and the lack of response. He presented himself as an ordinary person asking for directions, while subtly hinting at his knowledge of the worker emerging from Sivell’s residence.
The worker’s face immediately turned uglier. A flicker of panic flashed in his eyes. “Fog Bell Alley? I don’t know what you’re talking about… I just haul things and deliver goods everywhere. I don’t remember going to any Fog Bell Alley.”
He vehemently denied it, but his eyes involuntarily drifted in the direction Moria indicated, clearly betraying his guilt.
“Is that so?” Moria’s tone remained calm, with no hint of coercion. “Perhaps I was mistaken. It’s just that the owner of that house seems to be troubled by someone. I saw some people in grey and white robes at the alley entrance, looking rather unfriendly.”
He paused, gazing kindly at the worker. “If that person is in trouble, perhaps I can offer some small assistance. After all, when traveling, mutual aid is only natural.”
His words were half-probing, half-offering an olive branch. Mentioning the grey and white-robed cultists was to reveal the worker’s predicament, and offering assistance was a gesture of goodwill.
The worker fell silent. He took a hard drag of his cigarette, and the acrid smoke billowed around him, obscuring the complex emotions on his face. His furrowed brow and slightly trembling lips indicated a fierce inner struggle.
Moria did not urge him, but waited patiently. He knew that for someone who had been living under fear and oppression for a long time, any glimmer of hope for a change in their situation would be enough to make them take a risk.
After a long moment, the worker seemed to make up his mind. He threw the half-smoked cigarette to the ground and crushed it with his heel. He looked up, a hint of desperate ferocity flashing in his cloudy eyes, but more prominently, a deep-seated weariness and helplessness.
“Help?” he scoffed, his voice hoarse. “What help can you offer? Those… those lunatics from the Eternal Cult, they have numbers on their side. Port Beren is practically their territory now! What can you, an outsider, do against them?”
“The Eternal Cult may be powerful,” Moria replied calmly, not denying it. “But not all problems need to be solved with fists. Sometimes, seemingly insignificant information or the right timing can change many things.”
He took a step closer, lowering his voice. “I just want to know, is the lady in Fog Bell Alley alright? Does she need help from the outside?”
The worker stared intensely at Moria, his eyes filled with scrutiny and suspicion. He seemed to be judging the truth of Moria’s words and whether he truly had the ability, or rather the courage, to confront the Divine Cult of Eternal Blessing.
“Are you… from the Church?” the worker suddenly asked, his gaze falling on Moria’s understated yet discernible attire.
“I am a servant of Glor,” Moria answered frankly. In many cases, the status of a cleric could elicit more trust, especially when dealing with ordinary people oppressed by evil forces.
“Glorious Church?” A complex emotion flickered in the worker’s eyes, a mixture of awe and disappointment. “What a shame. People from the Glorious Church can’t assert themselves here. Those scoundrels from the Eternal Cult don’t even respect Glor.”
He sighed, deflated like a punctured balloon. “That old hag… perhaps the lady you speak of. She’s alive, but barely. The people from the Divine Cult of Eternal Blessing have her tightly under surveillance. They just send me in every day to bring her food and drink, and I don’t even dare to say an extra word.”
“They specifically send you to deliver it? Why?” Moria frowned slightly.
“I don’t know,” the worker, just as he had presented himself, seemed to be an innocent caught up in events.
“Then do you know why they are treating a lady this way?” Moria pressed, sensing that the worker’s attitude was beginning to soften.
“This…” the worker stammered, “the lady seems to be some kind of fortune-teller… The lunatics from the Eternal Cult want her to help them divine some godforsaken places called ‘Black Reef Bay’ and ‘Cape of Submergence’! But the lady refuses, so they’ve kept her locked up, not giving her enough to eat, and they have people watching her all day, saying they’ll wait until she changes her mind.”
“Black Reef Bay… Cape of Submergence…” Moria murmured to himself.
“That lady, she…” the worker hesitated, his voice dropping lower as he leaned closer to Moria. “She seems… unwilling to leave there. There were times she had opportunities to escape. Every time I go to deliver food, I can feel that she… seems to be waiting for someone, or for some opportunity.”
After speaking, he suddenly stepped back, glancing warily at the alley entrance. “No, no, I can’t say any more. If those lunatics find out, I’ll lose my life!”
“Please wait,” Moria intercepted him, his tone gentle but with an undeniable firmness. “I’m not asking you to take a risk. I only need you to do me a small favor, a small favor that might help Ms. Sivell and also help you escape your predicament.”
“What favor?” the worker looked at him warily.
Moria took out a small silver holy emblem strung on a thin rope from his pocket. The emblem bore the mark of the early sun of the Holy See, and even in the dim light, it emanated a soft halo.
“This is a blessed emblem.” He handed the emblem to the worker. “The next time you deliver food to Ms. Sivell, please give this to her. Tell her that a servant of Glor wishes to meet her.”
The worker took the cool holy emblem and weighed it in his hand, his expression shifting. He knew that this small emblem might be the key to breaking free from his predicament, but it might just as well be a branding iron that would engulf him in flames, leading to his utter destruction.
“Why should I trust you?” the worker asked hoarsely, the last vestiges of his struggle in his voice.
“You don’t have to trust me,” Moria looked at him calmly. “You can even choose to inform the Divine Cult of Eternal Blessing about this, which might bring you temporary peace. But do you think those ‘lunatics,’ after achieving their goals, will leave behind a ‘food delivery man’ who knows too many secrets?”
This last sentence struck the worker like a hammer blow. He shivered violently, his face draining of all color. He knew very well that Moria was speaking the truth. He had seen too much of the methods of those people from the Eternal Cult during these days.
“Alright!” The worker gritted his teeth and clenched the holy emblem tightly in his fist, as if grasping a lifeline. “I can help you, but, but you must keep your word and not involve me!”
“I promise in the name of Glor,” Moria nodded slightly, his expression solemn.
The worker said no more. He carefully tucked the holy emblem into his pocket, glanced around warily again, then lowered his head and hurried away, disappearing at the other end of the alleyway.
Moria watched his retreating figure until he could no longer see him, then slowly let out a sigh of relief.
All that remained was to wait.
He turned and left, melting back into the crowd of Port Beren. The night deepened, and the harbor lights twinkled in the distance, like countless prying eyes.
And beneath this dazzling spectrum of shadows, a deeper storm seemed to be secretly brewing. He needed to find a place to stay as soon as possible and find a way to recover some strength to deal with any situation that might arise. The “Sycamore Inn” mentioned by Princess Victoria might be a good option.
Just then, a few figures hurrying past brushed by him. The one at the back even accidentally stepped on Moria’s shoe.
“Sorry.” The person merely dropped the apology and walked away, as if they had something extremely urgent to attend to.
Moria paused. He seemed to detect a very familiar and exceptionally subtle aura.
He looked back, but the figures had already disappeared into the crowd.
However, the feeling should not be wrong. They were from the Kingdom’s Disciplinary Bureau.
