Hanne - Chapter 369 Cella Alba

Previously...

Nicopola - Elandia Border

Drawn by a pair of mules, an unassuming cart rocked gently along the quiet forest road, its wheels rumbling over the hard-packed earth. Sagarius sat in the back with Marc and the young squire, who was dressed as a traveling peddler. They sat on straw mats and folded hides, which offered some relief during the long journey.

Mounted escorts rode on either side of the cart. Sir Munius was among them, keeping close with one hand resting loosely on the reins, his gaze moving between the road ahead and the woods beyond.

Despite the horses around them, the two mules remained unbothered and walked at an unhurried pace.

Above them, the summer sun shone brightly beyond the trees, yet the thick canopy kept the travelers cool beneath its shade. The journey so far had been peaceful. Marc and Marik, the young squire, spoke casually about the lands ahead and what they expected to find there while working a thin coat of tallow into their ringmail.

The armor had to be kept close in case they needed it, but wearing it openly would attract unwanted attention. If the pieces were discovered, they would claim they were meant for sale. In wartime, it was hardly unusual for peddlers to carry old weapons and armor among their goods. People often scavenged tools, cookware, and other useful belongings from abandoned homes, or gathered armor, helmets, swords, shoes, and clothing from battlefields to trade for food and other common goods.

Sagarius mostly listened to the two lads talk without feeling the need to join in. Aside from occasionally instructing Marc in his wind magic, she often rested her eyes to ease the monotony. There was little else for her to do beyond caring for the stump at the end of her left forearm. After a year, it had begun to take the shape of a wrist, though the new growth often became swollen whenever she accidentally strained the forming joint.

Marc and several others noticed the stump’s recovery, but none of them had commented on it. Most likely, they did not understand what it signified, or simply assumed that magic could accomplish such a thing. In truth, only Elves and the Grand Progenitors possessed this ability, for the Ancient's blood remained active within them. Humans could regrow lost teeth, but not entire limbs. Even with magic, they could only hope to regrow part of a finger or ear, provided it had not been severed completely.

Still, the process was slow and painful. She had to feed magic into the growing limb with great care, stirring the Ancient blood within her. The process also carried the risk of mutation, or worse, corruption.

Even with warding runes applied, much of the outcome remained beyond her control. She could only pray that the growth would remain true. If corruption took hold, she would have to remove the limb again, then wait for years in the hope that the taint would subside before attempting the process once more.

A sudden sway of the cart roused Sagarius from her latest attempt to sleep. She opened her eyes and looked around, but found nothing amiss. The road remained quiet.

Her gaze drifted to Sir Munius, who walked beside the cart with his horse’s reins in hand. They had no spare mounts, and remaining in the saddle throughout the journey would place too great a burden on the animals.

The cart could travel only so quickly along a dirt road, rarely moving much faster than an ordinary walking pace. The difference was that a man would eventually tire from keeping that pace for hours, while a horse or mule could continue far longer without exhausting itself.

“Munius,” Sagarius decided to call.

“Lady?” The knight turned toward her.

“Munius,” she repeated thoughtfully. “In the old tongue, it means memory, does it not?”

Her question made him pause and search his own recollection. “I believe I’ve heard something like that.”

“Do you know why you were named that?” Sagarius asked.

“Most likely to remind me of my northern ancestry,” he explained. “My family actually hails from the north. My father still had blond hair, but unfortunately, I did not take after him.”

Sagarius let out a faint smile. “You need not worry. The trait may simply lie dormant. Perhaps one of your children or grandchildren will inherit it.”

Sir Munius looked pleasantly surprised. “I did not know that.”

Their conversation soon wandered from one subject to another until it turned to her difficulty remembering names and faces. To her surprise, it was apparently a well-known habit.

“Master, you often called me Markus, Marco, or even Marcel,” Marc said with a faintly wounded smile.

“Really?” Sagarius chuckled, amused for the first time that day.

In truth, she could only reliably remember Bald Eagle, Munius, and Paulos, along with a few others. Elves were unintentionally forgetful of humans, whom they subconsciously regarded as fleeting. Travel for a few decades, and a friend might already be buried, or so old that they no longer remembered her.

“I am rather forgetful,” Sagarius admitted, though she could hardly tell them why. Then, keeping the exchange cheerful, she added, “Marc, before you reminded me, I did not even remember that you had a brother, much less that he had black hair.”

Marc stared at her, his mouth falling open as though she had just dealt him a grievous betrayal. “Master...”

Beside Marc, the young squire looked at her expectantly. “Lady, you do remember my name, do you not?”

“Certainly. You are Merrick.”

His hopeful expression immediately faltered. “It's actually Marik,” he corrected, his smile fading as Marc laughed and slapped him on the back.

“Of course, of course. I was only slightly mistaken.” Sagarius smiled warmly, showing neither guilt nor embarrassment. She had lived for centuries and encountered more young humans than she could ever hope to remember. They all seemed much alike to her, growing from children into adults in what felt like a season, then fading away almost as swiftly.

Watching from the side, Sir Munius could not help but smile. For all her usual seriousness, Lady Sagaria sometimes reminded him of an old grandmother, dozing off during the journey, forgetting names, and appearing almost frail despite possessing the strength to fight a fell beast.

“Come to think of it,” Sagarius muttered. “Does that lord not also have black hair?”

“What lord?” Sir Munius asked, only for Marc to speak over him.

“What black hair?” Marc's voice louder than intended.

Sagarius ignored them for a moment. She had once glimpsed this Lord through the eyes of his mage, who wore the dwarven earring before the artifact was broken.

Did I see him with black hair?

The memory was hazy, no more than a brief glimpse. She had paid him little attention, as he held no real significance for her. Her curiosity had sprung from the aimlessness she felt after her father’s death and the fall of the Imperium. Now, only a vague impression remained.

One thing, however, was certain. The man she had seen was much younger than Lans and possessed none of the quiet strength that made others feel safe in his presence. The two could not have been more different.

Perhaps that was why she had never thought to connect them until now.

Is his name Lans...?

The question gnawed at her.

Around her, Marc, Marik, and Sir Munius exchanged knowing looks. This was hardly unusual. Sagaria sometimes became lost in her own thoughts, and they had long since decided it was probably related to magic.

Knowing that her memory would offer no certainty, Sagarius turned to Sir Munius. “Sir, do you know the name of the Lord of Cornelia?”

“Cornelia?” The knight frowned.

“Yes, the promising lord in Lowlandia.”

“You mean... Korelia?”

“Something like that, yes.”

“I don't believe I have ever heard his name. We knights ought to know it, but given our circumstances, the name of a lord from a distant province was hardly a priority.” Sir Munius gave a rueful smile. “Sir Bald Eagle did speak of him several times.”

Sagarius turned to Marc and Marik but both shook their heads.

Marc said, “I would not pry into that sort of information from the commander. I am only a servant. But this squire should know.”

“What?” Marik protested. Then, turning to Sagarius, he said, “Lady, I clean my master’s armor, clothes, and boots. I do not eavesdrop at his table.”

Sagarius exhaled slowly. She had kept her intention to visit this lord mostly to herself. For now, the matter remained secondary, though she carried a dwarven artifact that might be enough to secure them an audience with him.

That brought their conversation to an end.

A few hours later, before the sun began to sink, they came upon an abandoned village where they could spend the night.

Sir Munius and his riders knew the area well, having hunted there several times. The coachman was also familiar with the route from earlier journeys made at Sir Bald Eagle’s orders. Vindebona still lacked many necessities, so they had traded with distant towns that their agents had visited and judged to be friendly.

They brought back salt, needles, and medicinal herbs, while selling leather, dried meat, and fox pelts from their hunts. They also purchased goats and sheep for breeding, along with seeds for vegetables that could be grown near the settlement. Such journeys naturally gave them opportunities to gather information as well.

From them, Sagarius learned just how Nicopola had changed because of past and ongoing conflicts.

That was also why they were heading toward Skodra instead of traveling directly to Elandia as in the past. From Skodra, the roads were safer and more heavily traveled. They could join merchants and other travelers along the way, allowing their small group to blend in.

Tonight would be Sagarius’ final night with the riders. By the following day, they would reach more settled lands, where farms and inhabited villages once again lined the road. A merchant’s cart escorted by several mounted men would attract too much attention.

...

After supper, Sagarius summoned Sir Munius and Marc for a private talk.

They met in the house where she had chosen to spend the night, one of the few in the village that still stood undamaged. The room was lit only by the fire burning in the hearth. Sagarius took a seat on one side of a rough wooden table, with the two men seated across from her.

She placed several sheets of parchment before them, bound together with strips of leather. “These past few days have given me time to remember more about the underground plant-growing chambers,” she said.

“These notes should help Paulos. Even if the harvest is poor, the chambers may still provide enough food to see you through the winter. And if the notes are lost, do not worry. I suspect he already understands much of this, perhaps even better than I do.”

Vindebona had been built to withstand a prolonged siege by beastmen. Beneath the city were chambers where vegetables could be grown throughout the year. Powerful light gemstones served in place of the sun, allowing the plants to flourish even deep underground. The chambers had fed them through their first winter. While Sagarius knew how to operate a similar device in the underground palace, repairing one was another matter. In that regard, Paulos had proven far more capable than she was.

Sir Munius accepted the notes. Marc, meanwhile, licked his dry lips. Both had long since stopped questioning how the daughter of a seamstress knew so much about Imperial secrets and technology.

Afterward, Sagarius placed a metal cube, not much larger than a single grape, upon the table.

The gesture drew curious looks from both the knight and her student. They recognized it as one of the sealed boxes made by the dwarves or the Grand Progenitors, similar to several they had discovered in the deeper sections of the armouries.

“Inside is a medicine meant for one person,” Sagarius said.

“A medicine?” Sir Munius asked.

“Yes. A rare one. One of you should take it.”

Her words made the two exchange glances.

Sir Munius crossed his arms but said nothing, leaving Marc to ask, “Why should we take it? I mean, I don’t feel sick.”

“Healing magic is not perfect,” Sagarius began. “It is useful in an emergency. It can mend wounds and save lives, but it comes at a cost. After a powerful healing, you may look whole again, but something inside may not recover properly. You may die long before your time, and no one can say when it will happen or how severe. It may be next year, or several decades from now.”

Worry spread across Marc’s face, while Sir Munius seemed mostly unaffected. To a man who had already seen battle and expected to face many more, the possibility of dying before old age was hardly his greatest concern. Reaching old age at all would already be a luxury.

“And this is the medicine?” Marc asked.

“Yes. It should rid you of the affliction and may offer other benefits as well. One dose will not fix everything...” She stopped herself. That warning did not apply to them. Humans did not live long enough for the damage caused by repeated healing to build up over centuries.

She continued, “Once taken, the medicine will remain in your stomach and protect you for life.”

Marc glanced at Sir Munius before turning back to Sagarius. “Can’t we split it?”

“Unfortunately not,” she said. “Even a full dose offers no guarantee. Both of you were already near death when I healed you.”

Marc nodded slowly. “Then there is no argument to be had. I’m simply grateful to be alive. I don’t deserve such a rare medicine.”

To someone of his birth, such a remedy was far beyond anything Marc could ever have expected to receive.

Sagarius turned toward Sir Munius.

“Lady, I truly feel fine. You should give it to someone more deserving,” the knight replied in a warm, reassuring voice.

Sagarius considered her words for a moment. “I don’t think either of you understands. The damage may not simply shorten your life. You'll lose your strength. Growths may form beneath your skin or inside your body until you can no longer walk, eat, or even draw breath without pain. You may become weak against every passing sickness, while common wounds refuse to heal.”

Marc gulped but remained silent.

Sir Munius drew a slow breath, yet still shook his head. “With the world in such chaos, I doubt I will find enough years of peace to worry about any of that.” He glanced at Marc before looking back at Sagarius. “You should give it to him. He's a mage. He is worth more than a swordsman like me.”

“I wouldn't dare,” Marc blurted out.

Sagarius sat straight-backed as always. “Perhaps I should simply give it to the Knight Commander...”

Marc’s interest was immediately stirred. “What would it do for him?”

“It might prolong his life and heal some of his lesser afflictions. But again, there is no guarantee.” Even so, she felt it would be wasted on Sir Bald Eagle. He likely had only a few decades remaining, while the two before her were far younger.

“Give it to him,” Sir Munius said.

“Yes,” Marc agreed. “Better him than us.”

Their reaction made Sagarius frown. They had no understanding of the medicine’s true worth. An Elf would not have hesitated for even a moment when offered such an opportunity.

“I still don't think you understand the severity of this.” A rare trace of emotion entered her voice. “You will not die suddenly. You may spend years in pain while your body weakens and withers. You may become unable to rise from your bed, unable to keep down food, and unable to sleep without suffering. You have a chance to prevent that now. One of you should take it.”

The room grew quiet, broken only by the crackling of firewood in the hearth.

Finally, Sir Munius asked, “What about the one who does not take the medicine?”

“The physicians will help as much as they can, and I will seek out remedies to ease the affliction.”

“Can no one make more of this medicine?” Marc asked, hopeful.

“Elven herbalists still possess the knowledge,” she answered. “But how often do you encounter one?”

Neither man responded. They both understood that it was a dead end.

Sagarius continued, “If I am still near when the affliction appears, I will do everything I can to help.”

Marc turned to the knight and gave him a reassuring nod. “I’ll be fine. Master Sagaria will take care of me.”

However, Sir Munius still shook his head. “Lady, you should keep it—”

“This kind of medicine only works if taken before the affliction appears,” Sagarius said quickly.

“It’s fine. You'll find someone more deserving of it, or sell it for the benefit of many.”

Sagarius drew a deep breath and looked away for a moment. “If that is your decision, then I shall keep it,” she said. “If either of you changes your mind, let me know before we depart tomorrow.”

The two men nodded, though concern remained on their faces.

Sagarius picked up the iron cube from the table and gazed through the small window at the night sky, wondering whether she would one day see them regret their decision.

***

En Route to Skodra City

Three days after parting with Sir Munius and the riders, Sagarius and her small group continued their journey. As was customary, they stopped at villages along the way whenever necessary to rest, trade for fresh provisions, and ask the locals for news.

In the past, Nicopola had endured years of famine, which had sparked the great unrest and eventually consumed much of the province in the fires of civil war. Now, vast stretches of the land remained sparsely inhabited, with abandoned villages, war-torn towns, and ruined cities scattered across the countryside. Some settlements had been razed completely. Even so, life persisted. People scarred by the brutal conflict had returned where they could and begun anew.

Sagarius’ journey continued. On the fifth day, they entered another broad stretch of forest that had seen its share of fighting. Incomplete skeletons and hastily dug graves still lay beside parts of the road, grim reminders of the brutal conflicts that had swept through the region.

Such sights barely disturbed Sagarius. She had traveled across the continent for hundreds of years and had witnessed many sorrowful events. Still, she could not help feeling partly responsible. Had she followed her father’s wishes and assumed control of the Imperium in the previous century, perhaps these people would never have suffered as they had.

Yet her father’s old words returned to her. Even as Emperor, he had not been able to save everyone.

Every decision he made had sent consequences rippling outward. Even after considering every danger and weighing every possible outcome, some tragedy had always followed. Power had never granted him the foresight to see every consequence, nor the means to prevent them all.

While such thoughts lingered, Sagarius offered a quiet prayer for the deceased and to the Ancients. Rather than drown in sorrow, she turned her attention back to Marc’s training. Whenever the road ahead was empty, she helped him gain better control over his strengthening magic.

At times, she would prod him with a stick, choosing different parts of his body at random but moving slowly enough for him to react. Marc had to gather his magic into the threatened area before the wood touched him. If the strengthening was too weak, the force of her prod would be felt all the way to the bone.

At other times, she had him practice forming an ethereal shield. She allowed him to ready it first before testing the invisible barrier with small pebbles tossed gently in his direction, watching to see whether it was strong enough to turn them aside. Even then, it could barely deflect a lightly thrown pebble. Against a stone loosed from a sling, it would offer little protection.

Despite all her instruction, Marc’s concentration remained poor. It was not that he was dull. Rather, he was the sort of person who only performed properly when faced with genuine danger.

“That is enough for now,” Sagarius said, ending the lesson when she saw his concentration begin to falter. “Give us some cool wind instead. The mules would surely appreciate it.”

“Ah, that he can do,” Marik remarked eagerly.

“Quiet, you,” Marc said, clearly trying to hide something.

Sagarius became curious. “How can you tell?”

Marik was all too happy to say, “He can command the wind to lift women’s skirts with ease.”

The coachman burst into laughter upon hearing that. Marc flushed and hurried to defend himself. “He’s wrong. I’m innocent.”

Sagarius gave him a disappointed look. “Recite the verses on proper conduct I taught you.”

“Master, I swear, my control is nowhere near that good,” Marc pleaded.

Sagarius said nothing. With a sigh, Marc began reciting the poem on the proper conduct of a gentleman.

Halfway through, she looked away to watch the passing scenery and turned a blind eye as the two lads began wrestling in the corner of the cart.

Soon, the mules picked up speed as they reached a better stretch of road. With any luck, Skodra would not be much farther.

...

Two days after leaving the forest, they finally reached the outskirts of Skodra City, where a smaller settlement had grown beyond the city walls.

They stopped there to rest the mules and give them some water and hay. The group also replenished their supplies and ate hot meals from one of the roadside stalls.

As they returned to the cart, the coachman approached Sagarius with some urgency. He spoke the Nicopolan dialect fluently and handled most of their conversations with the locals, many of whom remained wary of outsiders.

“Lady,” he said, “I have heard the same thing several times now, and everyone here says much the same. It seems the fastest route into Midlandia now passes through Lowlandia.”

“Lowlandia? That cannot be true...” Sagarius frowned, clearly puzzled.

The coachman held up one hand, signaling for her to wait, then hurried toward a busy intersection nearby. Marc took hold of the mules’ reins in his absence.

While they waited, Marik returned carrying a small bundle. “Master Sagaria, I found some onions and dried peas for the journey. They were cheap, too.”

“Very good. Can you also find carrots for the mules?”

“That should be easy.”

Before Marik could leave, the coachman returned with a man who appeared to be around fifty years old. He was neatly dressed and carried himself like a gentleman, perhaps a merchant or even an official.

“Lady, you may ask this man yourself,” the coachman said as he introduced them.

“I am only a town clerk,” the stranger said politely, “but how may I assist you?”

The man, who had survived the civil war, had already taken careful note of the small group before him. The woman had a different air about her. Even without that, she possessed a cart laden with goods, and her coachman continued to address her with unusual respect. The young man attending her wore the clothes of a peddler, yet he had the strong back and watchful eyes of someone accustomed to trouble. The other man, holding the mules’ reins, appeared naturally cheerful, though something about him remained unsettling. Whoever this lady was, she was clearly no ordinary traveler.

“My good man,” Sagarius began, making certain that her left forearm remained hidden beneath her cloak, “I hear there is a new route into Midlandia?”

“Certainly. From Skodra, you should take the southbound road toward the Five Peaks, but do not climb into the mountains. Instead, enter the Gallery Road and—”

“The Gallery Road?” Sagarius interrupted. She had never heard of it. “You no longer travel through the mountain pass and Umberland?”

“Umberland?” the man exclaimed in surprise.

Mistaking his reaction for confusion, Sagarius added, “Yes, there is a village at the top of the mountain.”

The clerk raised a hand to stop her. “Lady, I know Umberland. It is a fine castle town, but travelers are discouraged from using that route. The Umberlanders want to be left in peace.”

Seeing her confusion, he continued, “With a mule cart, the mountain pass would take twenty days from here, perhaps thirty, just to reach the town. From there, Korimor could take nearly as long. The mountain road is dangerous and often lost beneath the fog. Even after reaching Korimor, you would still have to cross the Great Plains to southern Midlandia. I hear a route has recently opened, but it's poorly traveled.”

“Then which route would you recommend?” Marik asked from beside Sagarius.

“The Gallery Road,” the clerk replied without hesitation. “Follow it to Clavieras, then continue on to Three Hills. From there, take the market-post road to Korelia. Once you reach the great city, you will find good roads leading in every direction. Even with mules, you should arrive within three weeks.”

“Three weeks?” Marik blurted out. Compared with the months it would take to travel through Umberland, that seemed remarkably fast.

The clerk smiled. “Yes. That is why hardly anyone bothers with the Umberland route anymore.”

Sagarius remained unconvinced. “And how long from Korelia to Midlandia?”

“About two weeks, depending on whether you pass through Ordu Khan or White Lake.”

Before Sagarius could ask anything more, a sudden commotion swept through the street. Voices rose on every side as people stopped and pointed toward the sky. Men and women poured from taverns, shops, and inns, shading their eyes as they stared upward.

“Look!” Marc blurted out, following the direction of their pointing hands.

“What is that?” Marik asked in awe.

Even Sagarius could scarcely believe her eyes. “A flying boat?”

“This must be your first time seeing one,” the clerk remarked with a knowing smile. “That is an airship, though not one of the grander vessels. This one likely belongs to the Bank.” He glanced back toward the sky. “For the right price, you could board one and reach Korelia in a matter of days.”

“Board it?” Marik stared at him in disbelief.

Sagarius continued staring upward as a bead of sweat slipped from beneath her hair. The journey was proving far more promising than she had expected.

***

White Chamber

Deep in the heart of the Shogunate, a quiet chamber stood high within the inner complex, its newly plastered walls decorated with murals of the Ancients. Its two narrow windows remained veiled in shadow.

At the center, a lone figure rested motionless upon a raised platform. Beneath him lay a straw-filled mattress covered with fresh linen, while flowers and dried herbs had been arranged around it to ward off insects and vermin. In the dim light, the chamber held the solemn stillness of a mausoleum.

Footsteps echoed across the chamber as three people entered. A young squire inspected the mattress and smoothed the linen. Beside him, an infirmarian examined the person's skin, limbs, and faint breathing, carefully searching for sores or any sign that his condition had worsened. Finding none, she gently wiped his body with a cloth.

Meanwhile, a mage inspected the two gemstones of strength that sustained the person through his long sleep.

As on every other day, they found nothing amiss.

When their work was done, they departed once more, leaving the solemn chamber in the care of the guards.

Silence settled over it again. No voices or hurried footsteps from the outer complex reached this secluded place. Only the wind slipped through the narrow windows, stirring the curtains and carrying the scent of herbs through the cool air.

Beyond its walls, troubling news from Edessa had thrown the inner complex into turmoil. Messengers hurried through the halls. High-ranking retainers were summoned one after another, speaking in grim voices of betrayal and of how badly the Shogunate’s position had been compromised.

The news was grim enough that servants gathered in corners, whispering of disaster.

Soon, even the guards looked shaken. The victories the Shogunate had fought so hard to win in Edessa seemed to be coming undone.

The situation had grown so severe that the captain of the guard was called away, delaying the usual change of watch within the chamber.

Yet none of the gathering trouble reached inside.

There was only tranquilness.

By sundown, the patrolling guards brought fresh lanterns to hold back the gathering shadows. The captain had still not returned, and the men assigned to stand watch inside had yet to receive their orders.

The guards lingered only long enough to offer a formal salute and scatter fresh incense over the glowing charcoal in a small bronze censer.

Soon, they departed. Their footsteps faded down the passage, and the chamber stood empty once more.

The lantern flames burned low and still. Shadows lay across the stone floor, while the scent of incense mingled with the dried herbs in the cool air.

There were no voices.

No approaching footsteps.

Only the night wind.

The incense smoldered over the charcoal, sending a thin coil of smoke toward the darkened ceiling. Slowly, the ember dimmed.

Only the lantern shadows remained, wavering across the murals upon the walls.

Suddenly, without warning, the eyes of the person inside snapped open.

For one terrible moment, the rest of his face remained still, almost lifeless. His nostrils flared. His chest seized, then convulsed as he dragged in a harsh, desperate breath, greedily filling his lungs with sweet air for the first time in a very long while.

***

PS: Yes, you read that right. He’s back!

Anyone miss him?

Cella Alba means “White Chamber,” with cella also carrying the sense of a small or inner chamber. It is also the root of the English word cell.

The map still needs a lot of work, but it will probably change again anyway. For now, I’m going to focus on the story.

As always, gratitude for supporting Horizon of War!