Within the hour, all but the most stubborn and foolish of Glassoph’s residents had been evacuated, and Victima was among the small handful of Voidbeasts who still remained on the ground. She was in need of an inspection before flight, Alto had said, and also that Aldruag and the Sunflowers needed to be assessed on their worthiness to accompany the beast on its resurrective voyage.

  Prospero was given an hour to wander, and he figured that the only worthwhile use of that time was to locate the woman named Erda, if only to apologise for causing such a panic, and hopefully to seek some form of benediction. A sleuth around the colossal highways of the Port proper earned him the view of endless pens stretching downwards along that platform scaffolded upon the hills, and eventually the warrior woman did crop into view. She and what Prospero assumed to be the Port’s local militia were readying themselves to depart in a pen detached from the others by a flimsy gate. When he approached, the bulbous fists of some mantid behemoth poked out from the darkness inside - a Voidbeast unlike the others he had witnessed.

  Erda noticed his approach and stood with her arms crossed. “I thought you came here to leave?” her tone was annoyed. “This beast is owned by the guild, and there’s no room for passengers.”

  “I will be shortly - leaving, I mean,” he replied. “I came here because I wanted to apologise.”

  “An apology will not save these people from the grief of being uprooted,” Erda said. “I’ve made my point to you already. If you fancy something more meaningful than an apology, then the best thing you can do is leave us as quickly as possible. Take your business elsewhere.”

  She turned away, and that was that. There was no grand closure to Prospero’s short saga in Glassoph, no glory to seek or debts to repay; his arrival had displaced everyone who called that tiny Port home, and there was nothing he could do to make amends for it. He could not help but continue, as certain as he was that Erda didn’t want to hear anything else. “En told me that you’re the one in charge of this Port’s militia; the Custodian,” he said. “I heard of the tragedy that occurred a matter of weeks ago. It is too late now, but it made me realise just how foolish I’ve been by coming here, and how my journey has disparaged the lives of others.”

  Erda lowered her head. “...That fossil of a man never knows when to stop speaking,” she replied. “It was my foolishness and overconfidence that caused the deaths of those men. Now their wives will not speak to me, and I feel gazes on my back whenever I patrol these streets which I love so dearly. I spoke harshly when we met in the tavern because your arrival hammered what is likely to be the final nail into my coffin.”

  Prospero paused. This was his responsibility to mend, he knew well, but as to how - he could never tell. “...That is no fault of your own,” he said.

  Erda frowned. “I know that,” she replied. “But what good does your apology do? You must be wary of the effects a Vampire’s presence can have on those who do not deserve to be caught up in their madness. Craftsmen, quartermasters, postmen, cooks; their families - all of these people and more you have cast away, and the Gods only know what this pursuer of yours will do to Glassoph in our absence. Will we return to a mound of dust and cobble? How many livelihoods, so graciously built over the course of decades, will be torn down by this Vampiric legion?”

  Erda turned to him, and Prospero suddenly felt more vulnerable than he had at the mercy of the Sunflowers. “-And what will you do to remedy this?” she shook her head. “I know the answer already. You’re looking for a way out and nothing else. Do you understand now? This is why I couldn’t help but air my frustrations when we met. These people do not deserve this fate, nightwalker, and you know that well.”

  In desperation to seek exodus from Orlok, Prospero had only accomplished what his father and Albus bade him; to seek the Port of Glassoph and secure a Voidbeast to escape the realm. But in doing so, he had condemned so many others to the same homeless fate which had been thrust upon himself.

  But what other choice did I have? He wished so desperately to say those words, but knew they would be of no use. There was no gracious conclusion to be found between them. He had acted too soon and too brazenly, with too many of his own interests in mind to consider the lives of others. Albus, Prospero realised, wished to fight for a reason he did not fully understand at the time. If Orlok’s legion desired the lives of Queensbridge’s residents, they would simply tear the walls of their homes down and slaughter the innocent in their beds. That is why he wished to fight, but Prospero had insisted that they remain inside as if it would help in the slightest.

  Queensbridge, he realised, was already doomed, just as Albus had said. His agreement to Prospero’s terms was, in all likelihood, a way to grant the young man some hope that they would survive. But Prospero was too blinded by his unfounded righteousness to see it.

  With his heart weighing down, he lowered his head. “I do,” he said. “I do know, yes… that I’ve wounded the souls of many this day, and yet the most I can offer in recompense is an apology. I am not strong enough to repel those who pursue me, but one day… I’m certain of it - one day I will be. And, when that day arrives, if there is anything I can do to atone for the trouble I’ve caused today-”

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  Erda’s palm came up to silence him. “-I don’t place faith in promises,” she began. “A good heart is sculpted through action, not words. If it’s your desire to ‘atone’, as you so dramatically put it, then meet me again with the strength to back your vow.”

  He nodded. “My home is here. I will return one day. Of that, you can be certain.”

  “Then go, as you came here to do.” She waved her arm. “And if there’s even the slightest truth to what you claim, then luck be with you. I know little of Vampires, other than that they make for troublesome adversaries.”

  This, Prospero thought, was enough. No amount of pledging and vowing would undo his mistakes, but the distant future offered him at least a small amount of forgiveness. He could no longer afford to flee and die pointlessly in the darkness of the Incandescence - now he had a purpose besides protecting the Beastblood, and a reason to exist past the tragedy of his father’s death.

  He and Erda did not part on equal terms. Her resentment was true, and Prospero knew that he deserved all of it, but she was kind enough to offer him a thorough explanation for her outburst in the tavern, and he had learned so quickly from the world beyond Innsworm that things were not often cast in shades of black and white.

  By the time he returned to Victima’s pen, the Sunflowers had already congregated to corral the Voidbeast by its enormous harness, yanking on lengths of hair-bristled rope with all their might to steer Victima in the right direction. Her legs scuttled across the platform, each one a thrusting greatspear splintering the wooden foundation of the Port, but the beast herself was serene and unbothered.

  “Baptista!” Alto waved him over, where the sight of his tiny body in front seemed to be calming Victima even as she was led and tugged across the highway. “We’ll never be more ready to leave than this,” he continued. “Even if we fancied a better crew, all the handymen are gone. Aldruag had plenty of feed stored in that pen - enough for our needs, anyway.”

  He pointed towards the sky, where the shaft of azure light cast by the distant Magus tower was burning a hole into the realm’s atmosphere, as if a rift was being torn open between the clouds. “Magus has already fucked off, as I’m sure you might have guessed,” Alto said. “Need to get Victima up in the air and through that gate before it loses stability. Go on and get yourself onto the deck.”

  He turned around and cupped one hand around his mouth. “Oi! Drop the ladder, you lot!”

  A beat passed, then a flimsy ladder came rolling down Victima’s carapace. Prospero nodded and hauled himself onto the beast’s back, where the wooden deck was smoother than he first anticipated. Keeping his balance atop Victima as she moved along proved to be quite troublesome, both for himself and for the Sunflowers lingering on top. Below the hatch leading towards the hold, he could hear barrels rolling unsteadily.

  “Oh… I’m gonna be sick,” he overheard a Sunflower’s complaints.

  “You’ll be swabbing the deck with a toothbrush if you chuck up on my Voidbeast!” Alto’s voice, impossibly, never seemed to lose aggression or volume no matter how far away he was. “Keep it in your gullet until we’re clear of the realm, then you can vomit overboard all you like!”

  In time, Victima was escorted to the wide-open space right at the edge of the platform. Prospero could just about peek over the distant hilltops from where he stood, growing fatigued enough from deflecting the sunlight with his cloak to seek shelter in the captain’s cabin. The tips of his fingers were beginning to singe, and a painful bristling could be felt across his skin.

  The hole-ridden curtains drawn over the doors leading towards a balcony at the stern ensured that he was always seeking darkness in one form or another. Scraps of Alto’s effects were littered about the cabin and along the desk nailed haphazardly to the floor. Prospero spotted manifestos, officiated debts, light reading material, and even a jacket sporting emerald epaulettes gathering dust in a shuttering wardrobe. He thought it strange that Aldruag, despite having owned Victima for so long, saw no reason to sell Alto’s possessions or even clean his cabin out. Prospero leaned down to retrieve a fading newsprint from the floor and leaned himself against the wall for balance.

  “Keelham to bestow tax break on victory,” he recited a headline. “Runic criminalisation continues amidst growing concerns over magick institutions.”

  He flipped through the pages, understanding barely a word of what he read but mesmerised by the presence of an entire world hidden beyond the borders of his sleepy realm. When Victima came to a halt, he was shunted forward, and not a moment later, he could hear the rest of the Sunflowers barrelling up the ladder and onto the deck. He waited, reluctant to face the sunlight, for Alto to enter the cabin, who barged in with the gusto of a thief in the night. “...By the brightest queens of Kep’son’et - they actually kept the place in good nick! At least they did something right…”

  Quite pleased to see his possessions intact, he rounded his desk, pulled out the chair, and seated himself with a contented sigh - only to end up plummeting to the floor when the wood creaked and splintered under his weight. “Oh!” he inhaled through his teeth. “...Shit.”

  Prospero crossed his arms. “That’s twice I’ve seen you on the ground today.”

  “Quiet, Baptista,” Alto pulled himself up and staggered over to a chest of drawers. “Now, how do you do this again…?”

  He opened a drawer and fiddled with the wooden underpanel until his finger crossed a tiny seam in the woodwork. With a clunk, a hidden segment slid back to reveal a compartment housing a blue crystal no taller than a few millimetres. He pinched it out as if it was likely to explode, placing it onto the desk with exquisite care.

  Prospero watched the scene unfold and asked, “What is that?”

  “Come here,” he replied. “I’ll show you.”