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TRAS Chapter 122: Tomorrow, With Hope
🕑 Added 2025-06-17 18:17:41 +0000 UTCTen years ago, the village of Kor was a mere supplier. It produced charcoal, and had only one buyer. Seven years ago, an event that should have brought ruin proved an unexpected blessing—at least, for the people of the village.
Kor was surrounded by ash trees, woods whittled down from what had once been a vast forest. The tree line retreated slower nowadays, as the charcoal mounds which used to chase them fell into disuse. Kilns which produced finer, steadier-burning stuff had taken their place, supporting the village’s fledgling yet promising new industry: jewelry. Of orichalcum.
Wary eyes lingered on Sigurd as he rode through. He had no doubt they recognized him, if only by his silver hair. None dared approach, but he had no business with them anyway.
There was only one person he needed to see. Someone he had to cross off, just to be certain of her noninvolvement—and who, perhaps, could offer insight into the threat which waited for him.
As of right now, he knew almost nothing. The echo stone in his hand had not rung since he’d triggered that first message.
Despite the stress that had been bearing down on him for these past three days, he felt mentally sharp. Or perhaps it was because of the stress—the fear which threatened to suffocate him, render him useless if he let himself dwell on it.
He’d had time to steady his mind. Caution would only improve his chances of saving Ciel and Béatrice.
The town square was dominated by a fairly large inn, its new set of stables crowded with horses. A modest market of wooden stalls gave way buildings of stone, some still in the midst of construction. Still early in the afternoon, merchants bartered with local artisans inspecting their wares. They’d have the rest of the day to haggle down prices if they decided to spend the night at the inn.
Their stares stuck to him as he passed through.
Sigurd’s destination lay at the far end of the village: a wooden mansion. Though a rusty wrought iron fence separated it from the rest of the village, its gates hung open, frozen in place from years of neglect.
Next to it was a stone building, nearly equal in size. Though he’d never seen it himself, Sigurd knew it to be an old barracks. The so-called “knights” of the Blanc family who’d once “protected” the mountain passes used to take temporary residence there.
Now, of course, the Argent Guard had long disbanded. Sigurd had killed their leader, Edmund Blanc. The barracks stood empty, and the old manor housed just one girl—one who, a few years prior, had withdrawn there, imagining she’d vanished from Varant’s sight.
As Sigurd approached, he noticed that many of the merchants and artisans had begun to follow him. Some had carried the tools of their trade as weapons. A few even made their way ahead to stand in front of the gates.
Given the anxious look in their eyes, he could guess why.
“Can we help ye, noble sir?” an older man asked. He held his hammer down by his belt—not high enough to seem provocative, but enough to clearly signal his intent.
“...I am not here to harm Astrid,” Sigurd explained tiredly.
The merchants and artisans cast uneasy glances among each other. Then the older man spoke again. “I mean ye no disrespect, yer excellency. It wouldn't be wise for us to harm ye. But I cannot say we can trust ye, either. And so, we beg ye respectfully to please turn around—as we cannot let ye through.”
Stifling an irritated sigh, Sigurd calmed himself by taking a deep breath. He would waste more time if he spoke rashly. “Let me put your worries to rest. By way of my deceased father, the eum-Creids already control several orichalcum mines. Jeopardizing your livelihood gains me nothing.”
That seemed to be enough. Most of the merchants and artisans quietly dispersed, though not before casting wary, lingering gazes toward the mansion which they’d reluctantly gathered to protect.
Only one young man stayed—one who looked to be in his early twenties. He was shaking, the only thing in his grasp a small file for jewelry making—likely carried just to give the appearance of one more armament in the crowd. Clearly consternated with his “weapon,” the man couldn’t help but glance at the sword which hung at Sigurd’s waist.
“Do you still not trust me?” Sigurd sighed.
The young man swallowed hard. “I… cannot think of a reason which ye’d wish to see her again—unless it’s to finish a job ye started.”
“Is it that you fancy her?” Sigurd asked. He brushed past the accusation, perplexed. “What reason could you have to stand between Astrid and a noble armed with a sword?”
“Fancy her?” the young man blinked, caught off guard. After a moment’s pause, he cast a glance over his shoulder, his gaze settling uncomfortably on the mansion. "Hardly a soul in the village catches more than a glimpse of her…”
“Then?” Sigurd prodded him.
“Her roots are a bit rotten…” the young man said hesitantly, his voice quieting as if he were afraid she’d hear him. His eyes fell fearfully once more on Sigurd’s blade. “But that’s no cause to kill her.”
So it was pity.
Unfastening his sheathed sword from his belt, Sigurd nudged his horse into a slow trot. The young man flinched, before realizing the sword was being offered to him.
“This is the most assurance I can give you,” Sigurd said, his tone flat. He arched a brow at the young man, who awkwardly took the sword. “I’m still confounded by your willingness to die for a woman you seem to care little for.”
The young man’s brow knit. Holding the very blade he would’ve faced, perhaps only now did he grasp how futile his final stand would have been. The file in his other hand trembled all the more as he spoke.
“Ye know, I… didn’t really think it through. I full well had intended to move out of yer way, but the thought of that girl all alone in that empty house, killed without even one person tryin’ to protect her… it was just too sad for me.”
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When he was alive, Edmund Blanc had established a base of operations in Kor, conveniently situated between the two primary mountain passes leading to Calum. He led the Argent Guard in exacting severe tolls from every merchant who sought safe passage, and those who refused to comply often found themselves ambushed by so-called “bandits” under cover of night—half the reason the Blanc family found themselves attached to the moniker the “gates of the west.”
This rent seeking scheme propped up the Blanc family’s wealth, when it was clear the orichaclum mines upon which Amière stood were beginning to dwindle.
Now, with the Blancs deposed, those same mountain passes were freely traveled. And all that remained of the Argent Guard’s legacy was the decaying mansion Sigurd now entered.
The air was thick with a foul, damp scent. Sigurd had wondered how Astrid maintained the building, living by herself. Given the pervasive water damage—dark stains on a sagging ceiling, crumbling plaster, buckling floorboards on the verge of fracturing—it was apparent now that she simply didn’t.
“How can anyone bear to live like this?” Sigurd muttered. He winced.
The most mystifying aspect of Astrid’s behavior was that the old stone barracks should still be perfectly usable. He hadn’t seen the inside, but he found it difficult to believe it was in worse shape than this.
According to the young man who currently held his sword, Astrid had recently moved into a study on the first floor. Sigurd could guess why—the upper floors of the mansion had likely become completely uninhabitable.
He made his way inside, contemplating what could drive someone to cling to sentiment this desperately. The musty smell grew worse the deeper he went inside, and the floorboards creaked with every step.
And then the creaking stopped. That was infinitely worse. He could already tell—it was too soft. The wood was rotting through.
Stone statues adorned nearly every room. Angels, who had largely withstood the ravages of weather, kept their limbs—yet their faces had blurred to the point of near erasure. Expressions which had once been stoic now somehow seemed forlorn and devastated. In a few, the uneven erosion of their beatific smiles warped them into antipathic sneers.
As Sigurd neared the study, he heard the murmurs of a female voice.
“T-t-there you are, m-my dear quill…” the mewling voice seeped out. “H-how could I l-lose you in suh…such a small s-space?”
She laughed softly to herself for a long time, and the sound carried through the empty space of the mansion erratically, fading in and out—sometimes swallowed into the damp of the wood, other times ringing out sharply against the fractured plaster as if the walls were attempting to spit it out.
Once he was near enough that even his soft footfalls could be heard, however, he heard a gasp, then the sudden silence of breath stilled.
“I-I-I d-don’t recogn-n-nize those boots,” the young woman finally said. “A-a-are you h-h-here to br-bring my food?”
The study was curtained off, and he could only see Astrid’s faint silhouette through the stained, white veils. Right outside them stood a short wooden table, atop which sat a silver plate and a large gourd.
“...No, I am not, Astrid,” Sigurd said after a pause, unsure of how else to begin the conversation.
Once again the woman gasped, apparently recognizing Sigurd’s voice.
“H-h-how did you find muh…m-me h-h-here?” Astrid asked, sounding genuinely shocked by his presence. “What d-do you w-want?”
Astrid, who had been eleven at the time of her father’s death, stayed under the auspices of Varant until she turned about fourteen. Then she stole away to Kor, where she took residence in her father’s auxiliary manor.
The residents of Kor took care of her, because its renewed prosperity owed much to her large cache of orichalcum—bestowed upon her by her cousin Ashton, once Mirek, with Varant’s secret blessing.
There was no way she could have escaped Sigurd’s notice when all she’d done was run to her father’s decaying manor. Perhaps Ashton had seen it as a mercy to let her live under the illusion she was free from Varant’s eyes. Sigurd took little pleasure in shattering it.
“I am not here to hurt you,” Sigurd said. “I merely came to ask a few questions.”
“W-w-what kn-knuh… knowledge w-would I possibly puh…puhz… b-be privy to?” Astrid asked. Even through her stuttering fear she sounded indignant. Her silhouette within the curtain shrank as she took a step back. “S-s-stay out there! I-I-I’ve no wish to sh-share my air w-w-with a murderer…!”
So she said. Though Sigurd had heard from the young man outside that she was sensitive to being seen at all.
“I merely wish to know if you’ve retained communications with your cousins,” Sigurd said.
“N-n-none save Mirek,” Astrid stammered out.
“You’ve not heard from Ciel?” Sigurd asked. “Or of her recent movements?”
“I h-h-haven’t sp-spoken to Ciel since I…” Astrid faltered, unwilling to openly acknowledge her deliberate efforts to slip beyond Varant’s reach.
“Then what of Therèze?” Sigurd prodded.
“Therèze m-may as w-well have been spirited away,” Astrid said irritably. Her contempt for this particular cousin seemed to steady her stutter. “W-would I knuh… know what Mirek doesn’t?”
Sigurd certainly believed it was possible. Resourceful as Ashton was, Therèze hated him more than anyone in the world—even Sigurd himself.
More than anything else, Sigurd needed to know whether Therèze was involved. Things became significantly more difficult if she was.
“And Gerhardt?” Sigurd asked. “You were close with him when you were young, were you not? Have you not kept any contact?”
“...I h-h-have,” Astrid admitted. “I sh-share my p-p-poetry with him s–s-sometimes. And he wruh…writes back.”
“Poetry, is it?” Sigurd muttered.
He’d thought as much. Astrid was harmless. Almost painfully so. If, perhaps, there existed a conspiracy among all the surviving cousins of the Blancs, sans Ciel, then Sigurd assumed she would be the weakest link—and the one who would crack first, giving him much needed information.
Instead, all he found was a woman talking to her quill in a rotting, old mansion.
“What of your father’s knights, Astrid?” Sigurd asked. “Have they sought you out?”
“N-n-no…” Astrid murmured, the hurt in her voice more pronounced. “N-n-not wuh…once.”
Despite himself, Sigurd's gaze fell upon the echo stone, and the glyphs which marked its surface. The web of meanings—woven between the glyphs and their constituent parts—drifted into his thoughts.
Orphan. Isolation. Future.
It speaks, unheard.
Tomorrow with hope.
The pieces came apart, only to reshape themselves into a picture which weighed heavy on his heart.
A child, speaking to an empty manor, gazing at the stars, waiting for night to pass. Simply hoping that tomorrow would be better.
There was no reason to torment her further.
“Then… I shall take my leave,” Sigurd said. “If all goes well, I have no intention of bothering you ever again.”
“G-g-good,” Astrid said, with all the firmness she could muster. Her voice tightened. “Th-the a-air has become m-musty w-w-with your presence.”
And as he began to make his way out, he heard a hollow resonance—sharp and brittle—like the chime of a cracking bell. It was not an echo stone. Casting a glance behind, he noticed a white glow behind the yellowing veil.
She was using her divine blessing. Astrid was attempting to heal herself.
All that would do is exhaust her. Did she sincerely not know she couldn’t heal herself with her own divine blessing?
Rather, was she even ailing? What she needed to do was step out of this rotting manor. But she’d listen to Sigurd last in the world. And what right had he to lecture her?
Perhaps she’d noticed his moment’s hesitation, his glance behind. Because the brittle chime stopped, and the white glow disappeared. And the voice which came out from behind the curtain was quiet.
“Y-y-you knuh… know,” Astrid said. “I m-made do… w-without my parents. W-w-without t-their knights. Without t-t-the eum-Creid’s p-pity.”
Perhaps she’d been waiting a long time to say this. As she grew increasingly upset, her voice took on a tinny quality like metal stretched too thin. “T-t-the p-people here like m-me… I h-h-have my p-pick of suitors who fuh… fight over my b-beauty…” Her volume increased. “I knuh… know you t-think I’m some br-broken girl living in filth and squalor. Y-y-yet I k-keep a trade of m-mine own…!
Though her voice cracked, her next words came out perfectly, without a stutter. “I grew up… just fine.”
“...So it would seem,” Sigurd said. And before he left, he offered the only affirmation he could think of. “I know at least one young man fought for you.”
There was a long pause. And then the sound of rustling—subtle and hesitant. Behind the veil, it seemed that Astrid was grasping its fabric, twisting it in nervous, hopeful disbelief.
“…I-i-is that s-s-so?” Astrid asked softly.
“Well…” Sigurd hesitated, then after a breath committed to his words. “He even managed to wrest away my sword.”
Comments
Arthefom
Thank you for the new chapter! Good one!
Ace Green
aw thank you! That's one of the nicest compliments I've ever gotten for my writing. I hope the rest of the arc lives up to it!
Emperor Cat VI
I'm jealous how well you can bring characters alive
