Valentine's question lingered in the sacred silence of the cathedral chamber. The flame of the high altar flickered slightly, casting restless shadows along the sea-green stone walls.
Vanna's lips parted slightly, but no immediate words followed. She stood straight, hands clasped behind her back, as if trying to summon the same rigid composure that always carried her through battle.
"I wouldn't call it fear," she said at last, her voice measured. "I've faced too many things in this world to still be governed by it. But I do… feel a weight. A sense that something long buried is stirring again."
"You dreamed of the ship," Valentine replied quietly. "You saw it in the waters off this very coast. You felt its captain's gaze upon this city. That weight you feel is not merely intuition—it's resonance."
Vanna lowered her gaze, then turned toward one of the arched windows. The early morning light filtered through sea-blue glass, sketching pale shapes across the floor.
"In the dream," she murmured, "the ship burned with green fire, and the sky split open. The sun rose from beneath the waves… not the sun we know, not the Bound Sun, but the other one—the one the heretics speak of in whispers. It rose from our own city. And it melted everything."
Valentine didn't answer immediately. Instead, he reached up and placed one weathered hand gently against the stone pedestal of the Storm Goddess' statue.
"When I was younger, I thought dreams were the mind's effort to understand chaos," he said slowly. "Then I met people who dreamed of things that hadn't yet happened. And others who dreamed of what had once been hidden. Some dreams are not dreams at all, Vanna. Some are messages."
Vanna turned toward him. "Then why now? Why this dream, after all these years? Why would something—or someone—reach out now?"
Valentine finally looked at her fully. His gray eyes were calm, but the furrows on his brow had deepened.
"Because the thing we buried has not stayed buried. And the man who once captained the ship of the lost… may no longer be content to sail the edge of the map."
He moved past her then, walking toward the table at the side of the chamber where several sealed scrolls and bound tomes lay waiting. He opened a ledger bound in pale blue leather, its spine inlaid with copper filigree, and turned several pages with practiced fingers.
"I will speak to the Archcuria," he said without looking up. "And I want you to prepare a team—not just your usual inquisitors. Reach out to the Explorer's Guild. And summon someone from the Church of Echoes, discreetly. If this is truly the Vanished, then we'll need more than swords and steam cannons."
Vanna bowed her head slightly. "Yes, Your Grace."
"And one more thing," Valentine added as he closed the ledger. "Keep your eyes on the harbor. Not everything that arrives comes by sky."
Meanwhile, back in the lower districts of Pland, Duncan stood in the doorway of the "Duncan Antiques" shop, letting the door swing gently shut behind him. The bell above gave its usual chime, and the air inside was warm with sunlight and dust.
On his shoulder, the white pigeon gave a muffled coo, wings rustling slightly as it settled down.
"That was too close," Duncan muttered under his breath. "Next time you go out for snacks, let me know."
The pigeon bobbed its head and offered a smug, garbled chirp that might have been a laugh.
Duncan sighed and turned to see Nina peeking out from the hallway, visibly relieved that her new pet hadn't flown off for good.
"Did it come back on its own?" she asked.
"Just missed it," Duncan said. "Next time, remind me to close the window."
Nina approached, carefully carrying a small scrap of cloth she had been sewing into a makeshift leg band. "I want to make sure it knows it belongs. I'll even embroider something. Do you think it's a boy or a girl?"
Duncan paused. The pigeon turned its head very slowly and looked at him.
"Boy," Duncan said.
The bird nodded emphatically.
"All right, then," Nina said brightly. "I'll name him Mr. Peep."
The pigeon's head tilted again. Duncan immediately saw the shift in posture—subtle but expressive.
"…He prefers something more regal," Duncan said, deadpan. "Something like… Sir Peep of the Skies."
The pigeon puffed up its chest.
"Sir Peep it is," Nina laughed.
Duncan leaned against the counter, folding his arms as he watched the girl bustling around to find ribbon, thread, and parchment to mark the name. A faint smile tugged at the corners of his lips.
It was strange, really—how quickly the atmosphere of a place could change. Just days ago, this had been a place of shadows, hiding secrets beneath fake antiques and old pain. Now it had light. It had the smell of cooking and the rustle of sewing and the soft coo of a pigeon named Sir Peep.
He would need to return to the ship soon. He could already feel that pull, that anchor buried beneath the ghost-flesh of the Vanished. But for now, here in this fragile fragment of a world reborn, he allowed himself a few more moments of stillness.
A few more breaths. A few more beats of a heart that was—by all rights—not supposed to beat at all.
And above the rooftops of Pland, in the wide and endless sky, the pale scar still hung like a reminder: the world was not healed.
Not yet.