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Might be because of the bandits' attack. Or not. Can we have the doctor see to her first?

...Wait, where's the doctor?

Don't ask. I'll check on her myself.

Don't shake her. She won't be waking.

Señor, I... Señor, she... Señor, the child...

The child, too.

Señor, you...

Clerics, guard the bodies. We bury them tomorrow morning.

Sir.

Prepare a burdenbeast. After the funerals, go and search for Añora's son. We must ask him to return, no matter what.

This town needs a doctor.

As I recall, she was teaching you some of her craft, was she not?

A man who has only just learned how to make ointment cannot be considered a doctor.

Otherwise, the widow and her child would not have died.

Now go, back to work.

Through the tightly closed shutters of their windows, the people of Aarón can see a faint pink light floating through the fog-choked streets.

Silver does not know when it became dark. It feels like it was morning only minutes ago, when he was tidying up his robes for the execution.

But now, those robes are stained with blood. Not the blood of thieves or blasphemers, but of the townspeople.

Out of nowhere, he sees another faint pink light across the street.

A gaunt, lanky man with a bloody hole in his abdomen, large enough for him to see right through it.

The man calmly walks towards him, as if nothing was wrong.

Do you need assistance, señor?

You look gravely wounded.

I am fine, Señor Calificador. <i>You</i> on the other hand, look most pale indeed.

I am an alguacil, newly transferred. Might you require my assistance?

Ahh—

I must say, I didn't expect you to sleep so well hanging upside-down, joven.

This sort of thing happens to me a lot. You get used to it.

Your old shed's as good as new. Remember to thank Javier. It took him all night to fill in that tunnel of yours.

You could have saved him the effort if you just let me go.

Yet you're the one giving himself nothing but trouble by refusing to fix my compass. Do that, and you're free.

I told you, I don't know a thing about alchemy. That's not going to change, no matter how many times you ask.

Send him back to his shed. And skip the bread for his meals.

You're always looking out to sea when you're alone.

When I was but a wee babe, you'd pick me up, point out into the distance, and tell me that if I kept going that-a-ways, I'd see an ocean bluer than the sky above.

That was fifty years ago.

There's things that happened a hundred years ago you still haven't forgotten, señora.

Oh, my little perlita, if you had captained a ship across the churning waves like I once had, seen lightning crash into lightning between the clouds, heard the unending peals of thunder...

You'd never forget a moment of it your entire life either.

I'm mighty curious, though, what's this sea the old folks keep going on about <i>really</i> like?

I've lived in this Flat my whole life, so I don't get it at all, no matter how much I rack my brains.

Before my old man died, he'd talk day in day out about going out to sea, about how he followed you and Captain Cruz in filling your holds with treasure—so full your ships would be low in the water.

Your father was the nimblest topman I've ever seen. He'd climb masts like he was going for a stroll in a garden.

Shame there's not many sailors left who've actually seen the sea for themselves.

And that's my biggest worry, señora. Even with the compass leading the way, we lack seasoned sailors.

When it comes to the sea, Perlita, we are all reckless, ignorant children.

*Sigh* ...Nowadays, it's starting to feel like even heading out into the <i>Flat's</i> more trouble than it's worth.

A little fowlbeast told me that a particularly astounding fellow has come to Aarón, and in the process cut off nearly all our trade routes.

Have they finally decided to take us seriously?

He managed to sniff out all the sites we use to contact the caravans like some kinda beckbeast. Few decades ago, the useless bastards in town couldn't even spot our footprints.

*Sigh*... Stealing the compass out from under the noses of a massive garrison. To the Inquisition, it might as well have been both humiliation and provocation.

They'll do whatever they can to find us. It won't be easy.

We're running out of time, and the boy won't budge... What do we do, señora?

What if he's telling the truth? That he's not an alchemist?

I am absolutely certain he is one, Perlita.

The coin on him has the symbols for 'salt' and 'water' on its faces. A set of symbols particular to the school of alchemy. And that particular combination means 'look to the sea for life'.

I am familiar with the coin's former owner, Aulus. He was the most talented of the alchemists.

Moreover, the boy has the same style of swordplay as him. Even their speech has similarities as well.

Even if they knew each other, that doesn't mean he taught him anything. The coin could've been a gift.

No. If Aulus gave <i>that</i> to someone, it can only mean he had unusually high expectations for him.

According to their traditions, the coin can only be passed from teacher to student.

So why won't he admit it, then?

That puzzles me as well. I've already made it perfectly clear he has nothing to fear if he cooperates...

Young Isidro bites down on the root of his tooth with great force, but he cannot stem the flow of stinging pain bubbling up from his gum.

Before him, a former classmate's corpse lies under the foot of his mentor.

The corpse's long-cold limbs are lined with an azure mucus that makes him retch.

Through the tears in his eyes, a gentle voice like flowing water pierces the depths of his heart.

Why do you wipe away your tears, Isidro?

You killed him...

The sea and the land are as one. To mix them together is nothing more than erasing the barriers between them.

He decided, of his own free will, to embrace the salt and water flowing within his own body, to share all of his existence with us.

Be not afraid, be not hateful, derisive, loathing... Shut not the windows, bar not the doors, close not your heart. No longer shall there be polluted blood or shameful pain.

There will come a day when all will give their all to each other.

Suddenly, the corpse on the floor jerks like a fin out of water, letting out a gurgle of what sounds like grief, before falling flat once more.

Isidro watches the corpse's eyelids slowly lift, revealing the eyes of some unfamiliar creature.

Its lips open wide, and a voice, human yet inhuman, warbles out.

'You are... the same... as me...'

No—!

I will never... I will never be like you...

I won't...

*Sigh*...

Mm-ph!

(Flops about)

Hmm...?

(Claps fins together)

You...

(Nibbles ferociously)

Ow! What are you doing?!

Nene twists around his leg, trying to use its rotund body to cover his foot.

A variety of sounds leak into the shed from his surroundings. Some weeping, some arguing, but mostly cursing.

Isidro hopes they aren't cursing at him. Wait... He freezes in place as the gears in his subconscious mind begin to turn.

He sticks out his head. No guard outside his door. How unusual.

A line of people walk through the middle of the haven, their heads hung low, their clothes smeared with blood.

Those at the back of the line are dragging planks behind them, with people sporting heinous wounds lying atop them. The wounds are so deep their bones are visible, bandaged only with rags.

Their blood has soaked into the planks, leaving behind long red streaks on the white salt.

Only the occasional gasp stands as proof that they still live.

Only half of 'em made it back...

*Sigh*...

What... What happened out there?

The Inquisition capullos ambushed us at dawn on the only road out. A lot of our mates gave their lives to see us live... Took everything we had to escape.