Excerpt:

Chapter 3 – Memento Vivere III: Prelude in Tritone

The day began to take its leave with an unsettling stillness. The sunset melted into the horizon, bleeding golden streaks across the waves. Their hours at the cove had fallen behind them, yet they remained vivid—like the innocent promise hanging from the neck of the young girl who now led the way.

The streets of Listuria retained their customary peace. Little ever happened in this coastal village; in fact, the upcoming marriage of Dallia—the eldest daughter of Jarnad the merchant—was the only topic on anyone’s lips.

They turned off the cobblestone main street to take the path toward the lighthouse—or, as the locals called it, “The Coconut Route.” They moved enveloped in a casual, tranquil silence, accompanied by Gretta’s cheerful, if slightly off-key, singing at the front. To Harold, the sound was pleasant; Jared, however, marched as rigid as a soldier, and the silence did little to ease his nerves. After a few minutes, Harold decided the boy had endured enough penance.

“So, you finally managed to give her the necklace, eh, Jari?”

“Are you going to start calling me that too, Mr. Harold?”

Harold prepared a witty retort, but an ill-timed cough cut him short.

“Are you ill, sir?” Jared asked. It wasn’t that he was overly concerned, but he wasn’t indifferent either; mostly, he sought any means to deflect his own tension.

“It’s nothing, lad,” Harold replied, pressing a handkerchief to his mouth. “Just the evening breeze; it catches my throat sometimes.”

Gretta turned for a fleeting moment, just long enough to eye her father with a flicker of worry. She hadn’t been eavesdropping, but that cough stirred something in her instincts.

“You’ve been coughing a lot in the evenings lately, Papa,” she remarked, her tone a mixture of judgment and the burgeoning protectiveness of a daughter.

Harold smiled to reassure her, though the expression lingered a second too long, as if the gesture hurt more than he cared to admit.

“Nothing to worry about, daughter,” Harold reiterated. “When you reach my age, you’ll understand.”

Gretta did not press him, but a quiet voice inside told her it wasn’t just the breeze. Jared watched the exchange in silence. He vaguely recalled his parents discussing Mr. Harold’s cough; the phrase “I’m worried, but you know how Harold is, dear” echoed in the back of his mind. He chose to remain silent—lest Mr. Rizz throw another one of those intimidating glares his way.

Soon they stood before the Vicker family estate. The sun brushed the horizon, staining the sky, the sea, and the stony path in a melancholy amber. In the garden, servants were arranging decorations and hoisting a pole in the center of the lawn. On the veranda, a monk in black robes—a waning moon medallion dangling from his neck—conversed with Mrs. Eydis, punctuating his words with sweeping gestures.

“Hey, Harold!” Jarnad’s voice rose above the din. The man, tall and robust, stepped forward with a frank smile upon recognizing his old friend.

Jarnad Vicker was a self-made man. Though of humble origins, he had prospered through the trade of fine timber sourced from the heart of Varelia—the kingdom to which the sleepy town of Listuria belonged. His character was as solid as the wood he sold, and his laughter as infectious as it had been in the days when he and Harold dreamed of escaping the rigid doldrums of Lysvarelle.

Beyond the shores of Listuria, across the open sea, lay the continent of Thalangea, a sprawling lattice of islands. Among them, Nairuba and Mairub—the two largest—formed the prosperous Kingdom of Maliruve, a land of sailors and merchants, and the birthplace of the Vicker girl’s fiancé.

“Finally coming down from that hill, eh, Old Elm?” Jarnad let out a booming laugh. “I thought you’d abandoned me.”

Harold smiled with resignation. “Beautiful and strong as an elm,” Loretta had called him once, back when he was a newcomer to Listuria. Jarnad had overheard it, of course, and had never missed an opportunity to remind him since. In those years it was irritating; now, with the weight of time upon him, the nickname carried a different kind of warmth—almost sweet.

“Centa is brooding,” Harold excused himself, offering a firm forearm-squeeze. “The other cranes might play a foul trick on her if I’m not careful. I shouldn’t want any unpleasant surprises… though you could always walk up the hill yourself, or are these preparations keeping you in chains?”

Jarnad roared with laughter, then noticed the necklace Gretta was wearing while she stood distracted, staring at a crescent moon hanging from the portal.

“Someone already did the walking for me, didn’t they, my Ze’hur tiger?” he teased, giving his son a friendly nudge.

Harold feigned exasperation; he knew Jarnad’s ancient joke about becoming in-laws far too well. “Don’t start, Jarnad. And how do you know she didn’t get that from some other boy in town?”

“Because I helped him weave it, my friend,” Jarnad countered, puffing out his chest with a satisfied grin.

Harold took a deep breath and shook his head. Another diplomatic duel lost to Jarnad. But he couldn’t stay angry; who better than Jarnad to call him “Old Elm” and get away with it?

“Harold! What a lovely surprise. It gladdens me to see you.” Eydis appeared from the corridor with the composure of one trying to maintain order amidst chaos. She was an elegant woman, somewhat voluptuous and refined in manner, though her husband constantly tested her patience with his reckless tongue. In the end, she always surrendered to Jarnad’s rhythm.

“My sincerest condolences, Eydis,” Harold said with a slight bow. “I imagine you are overwhelmed. It cannot be easy organizing all this with Jarnad as your ally.”

“I accept your sympathies,” she sighed. “And yes, it is madness. The monk insists on moving the altar because of the moon’s position. As if the lunar phases were more important than my guest list!”

“I am standing right here, Mrs. Vicker,” a deep, serene voice replied from behind her.

The monk stepped forward with measured strides. He was a portly man, yet tall—nearly as tall as Jarnad. His black robes, trimmed with silver thread and moon motifs, gave him an air somewhere between the lugubrious and the sophisticated. His long, well-tended hair fell to his shoulders, and the waning moon medallion rested prominently on his chest.

“And remember,” he added calmly, “our traditions are what grant us identity.”

Gretta, driven by curiosity, stepped forward, ignoring her father’s warning glance. “Are you the monk who will marry Dallia?”

Harold felt his shoulders tense. Nothing good ever came from that tone of voice.

“I am indeed, fair maiden,” the monk replied with a kind smile. “A lovely necklace, by the way.”

“And why can’t Dallia be married under the Tradition of the Sun?” she asked without hesitation, ignoring the compliment.

Harold buried his face in his hand. Beauty and curls weren’t the only gifts she had inherited from Loretta. “Gretta, please,” he intervened. “Exercise some prudence, and address him as Master Velario.”

“Velario? What a strange name, to be honest.”

“Gretta!” Harold’s voice rose, teetering on the edge of exasperation.

Jarnad, meanwhile, bit his lip to keep from laughing; he was savoring every second of the exchange. The monk also seemed amused.

“Too honest, without a doubt,” Master Velario replied with a conciliatory gesture toward Harold. “It is no matter, good man. Curiosity is a virtue; these days, the youth show little interest in the teachings.” He paused, adopting a didactic tone. “I am not merely ‘the monk,’ little one, but a Velario Monk, tasked with the rural affairs of the Lunar Tradition. The Sun Tradition seeks to impose its light and banish the darkness, forcing it to…”

As the monk attempted, with good will but vague prospects, to educate his daughter, Harold recalled his youth in Lysvarelle with a feeling that was anything but nostalgic. In the main Rizz house, they would occasionally receive “Solar Monks” in their tan-and-gold robes, radiating haughtiness. They were, by far, more arrogant than this smiling, good-natured man. Indeed, his own mother, Dianne Rizz, used to correct him for speaking to them so mundanely.

Those visits had become more frequent after the death of Hollen Rizz, the family head when Harold was nine. The mantle had been taken by Hollen’s only living son, Rokko Rizz, who still held the title.

“We, on the other hand,” Master Velario continued, “recognize that darkness is also a part of life. We do not try to eliminate it, only to offer it a reflection of light so that it does not lose its way entirely.”

Gretta listened intently, thoughtful, then added: “I think I understand, Mr. Monk… but that doesn’t answer my question.”

Harold closed his eyes. She was simply not built for tact, he thought, suppressing a sigh.

The monk smiled with genuine patience. “You see, young lady, the Sun Tradition reserves its blessing for those born in Solangea.”

“Petulant old men!” Jarnad grumbled, only to be silenced by a well-placed pinch from Eydis.

“But we Velarios,” the religious leader continued with admirable temper, “believe that every soul has a right to the light, regardless of its origin. After all, the moon does not ask whom it illuminates.”

The conversation was interrupted again, first by a sudden rasp.

A light cough began to bubble in Harold’s chest. At first, it filtered softly through the laughter and voices; then, it surged in intensity, souring the very air. Jarnad’s smile, which had been wide and carefree seconds before, vanished. Harold doubled over slightly, and the loaf of bread he carried under his arm hit the ground with a dull thud. Eydis pressed a hand to her chest, the other to her mouth.

The cough became harsh, dry, and jagged. Harold was forced to brace a hand against his knee to keep from falling. For a moment, the only sound was that cruel, painful hacking filling the silence. It lasted only seconds, but each second drilled down with the weight of a suspicion the Vickers had held for some time—and which was just now taking root in Gretta’s heart.

Gretta felt something acrid rise in her chest. Fear? Yes, it felt like that… but of a different color. Not like when she forgot a chore, or when her mother scolded her for mischief.

This felt more… real. And it was horrific.

“Papa…?” her voice nearly broke.

The look in his daughter’s eyes hurt more than any symptom. Harold couldn’t say if it was worse than that goodbye embrace to his mother, which had remained frozen in time for forty years.

“Are you alright?” Master Velario asked, stepping forward. His tone was kind, but he could read the unspoken truth in the room.

Harold raised a hand to signal the episode had passed, though it took him another moment to straighten his back. “I’m fine… I’m fine,” he said, forcing his voice to hold. “Don’t look at me like that. It’s just the evening breeze. Do you really think a cough is going to topple the Old Elm?”

The attempt at humor fell heavy. The pain wasn’t in wondering if the elm could withstand the cough… it was knowing that every tree, one day, gives way. But that it never accepts it.

“Harold…” Jarnad murmured, in a tone very few people ever heard from him.

“I know, old friend,” Harold replied quickly. If this was the moment to listen to Jarnad, Gretta’s presence made it impossible. “And I thank you. All of you…” He smiled broadly as he felt himself regain control. “But I don’t want you to start treating me like a fragile old man. This back can still hold its weight, and that won’t change easily.”

The silence, though still thick, began to yield. As parents, Jarnad and Eydis understood Harold’s intent to keep anguish from nesting in his daughter.

Jared, for his part, though he didn’t fully grasp the situation, reached out and took Gretta’s hand. This time, his intention wasn’t romantic. He didn’t know what to say, or if he should say anything at all. It was likely better not to. But he felt that uncomfortable knot that adult secrets leave behind, as if silence were healthier than inquiry. It irritated him to be lost… but it hurt more to see Gretta this way.

She did not pull her hand away.

And Harold, seeing the gesture, had the feeling that the boy holding his daughter’s hand understood the essentials better than the adults obsessed with “doing the right thing.” How strange is the myopia of duty.

“Well, I think it’s time we went,” Harold noted. “I still have an errand at the lighthouse before we head home.” He turned to his daughter. “Shall we?”

“Watch that throat, Old Elm,” Jarnad added, his tension finally easing. “Wear a scarf, or something.”

Harold nodded and took Gretta’s free hand. Her other hand slipped away from Jared’s smoothly, as if she had never noticed he had taken it. But the warmth remained in the boy’s palm—a small gift for the night.

A few minutes later, under the light of the waxing moon, they finally reached the lighthouse. Kyrel appeared to be a young woman; to the eye, perhaps a well-preserved thirty. She wore comfortable clothes, mid-calf leather boots, and a falcata sword rested at her hip. With her hair down, she looked like a pirate newly arrived on the coast.

“Well now, young lad. I see you’ve brought the dreamer today,” Kyrel exclaimed as she stepped out to meet them, wrapped in her habitual stoicism. “Is that for me?”

“The fee for an audience with the peerless Kyrel,” Harold replied, handing her the canteen.

“What do you have there, Papa?” Gretta asked, noticing the vessel.

“Just a bit of wine, Gretta. This woman won’t see me if I don’t bring a drink.”

“Ah, I see… ‘Young lad’?” the girl replied, with a streak of unexpectedly evident jealousy and a quirk of her brow. “But my Papa is much older than you.”

“It’s a joke I have with your father,” Kyrel answered, emphasizing the last words with a mocking lilt. “I’ll tell you about it sometime.” Her gaze shifted to the girl’s neck. “Hey… nice necklace.”

The comment ended in a quick glance toward Harold, loaded with a curiosity she didn’t bother to hide.

“Jared gave it to me,” Gretta replied, before her eyes fixed on the sword. “What an interesting shape that blade has.”

As if invited by the girl’s words, Kyrel drew her falcata in a clean motion against the moonlight. It was clear it wasn’t just an ornament: she knew how to use it. The sword was ancient but impeccably maintained, the moon’s reflection sliding over its curves like a mystic glow. The hilt featured minimalist gold details, and on the pommel, a circular engraving bore three letters: N.V.R.

Gretta reached out to touch it, but hesitated, seeking Kyrel’s permission with a look.

“Go ahead, Curly,” the lighthouse keeper granted.

Gretta held it cautiously. It was heavier than it looked. There was something about Kyrel—that rebellious, free air she wore like a second skin—that fascinated her. She might even say she admired her. Stoicism suited her well… though the manners her father insisted on instilling in her created a certain friction. “Manners make the person, not the other way around” was one of Harold’s favorite mantras, and it was clear this bohemian lifestyle fit none of his “proper parameters.”

But it was difficult to maintain composure in front of someone like Kyrel.

“What a strong smell! What is it?” Gretta asked, wrinkling her nose.

“Clove oil,” Kyrel replied as she sheathed the sword.

“Mama has clove oil and it doesn’t smell like that,” Gretta mused. “Can I explore your lighthouse?”

She changed the subject with her characteristic agility. Kyrel granted permission with a slight nod. Both adults watched her disappear behind the door, and then that pang of nostalgia returned to Harold’s chest. He cut it short with a light cough—this time, he managed to stifle it. Kyrel noticed it out of the corner of her eye but said nothing.

“You never carry your sword, Kyrel,” he finally broke the silence.

“Just a precaution.”

“Precaution? I might not be that old… but I’m not that naive either.”

Kyrel turned her face slightly, gauging how much she should say. “I found… something,” she finally replied. “But I couldn’t confirm anything.” She waited, giving Harold space. The Old Elm remained silent. “The time is drawing near,” she continued. “It’s possible it might start attracting unwanted visitors.”

Harold closed his eyes for a moment. Not because of “visitors”—he already knew that. It was the other truth, the one slipping through his fingers.

“In just a few days, it will be a full moon,” Kyrel added with a tone of warning.

“Hermes is coming for Gretta’s birthday. It won’t be necessary for you to be present,” Harold said with forced calm.

“I’ll have to insist,” Kyrel replied, her words carrying more weight.

“But you must keep watch,” he reaffirmed. “One never knows what the tide will bring in.”

“I have my priorities,” she shot back, “and you know that.”

That settled the matter. Harold thought of arguing, but knew it was futile. “You know you’re welcome at the house whenever you like, Kyrel,” he finally said. “I only hope you understand my intentions.”

“I do, Harold. And I’m sure you understand my reasons better than anyone.”

He nodded. There was little more to be done.

“Buck up, young lad,” Kyrel said, giving him a friendly shove, as if speaking to a boy. “It’s just another night. Everything will be fine.”

Harold gave her an incredulous look. Kyrel responded with a confident smile and took a few steps toward the lighthouse. “As I said,” she concluded, “just a precaution.”

Harold chose to stay outside and breathe the fresh air. Of course, the sea breeze didn’t affect him at all, but… what else could he say? It was already the habitual excuse for that increasingly frequent cough. Better to cling to the script than face the truth.

Meanwhile, Gretta, at the very top of the lighthouse, watched the sea illuminated by the crescent moon. The serenity it transmitted was welcoming. She glanced around; the place was surprisingly tidy and clean. For someone so stoic, Kyrel was quite orderly. Gretta hadn’t expected it. Her surprise grew when she discovered a pot with a small rosebush whose flowers were beginning to turn blue.

“You’ve found my secret, dreamer,” Kyrel said as she climbed the spiral stairs. “I hope you won’t tell anyone.”

“Who would have thought… you have a sensitive side,” Gretta teased, though her tone was more tender than mocking.

“It gets lonely here, and these roses are good company,” Kyrel replied with a wink.

From that height, the world unfolded like a nocturnal map. Inland, she could see her house and the barns; the faint light reminded her that her mother was waiting with dinner. She could also distinguish the village and most of its streets. Jared’s house stood on higher ground, and Gretta could see servants using the moonlight to finish wedding preparations. Even at the end of the market, she could trace the path leading to the Shell Cove.

Much closer to the lighthouse, a long, wide pier jutted into the sea. And there, at the very end, the figure of an old woman sitting in a chair immediately caught Gretta’s attention.

“It’s the old woman of the pier,” she said, recognizing her.

Kyrel stepped to the window to see better. “She sits there almost every evening.”

“Do you know for how long?” Gretta asked, feeling a knot of pity.

“Many years now,” Kyrel replied. “Since long before I arrived in town.” By the way she said it, it was clear she knew the story well.

“People call her ‘The Pier Madwoman’,” Gretta whispered. “I don’t like calling her that.”

“There are many things in that old woman’s past and mind, Curly… things few could understand. One could call it madness, yes… but not the kind of madness people think. Perhaps she is, in truth, the most lucid person in this town.”

Gretta tucked those words into her heart. If they came from Kyrel, they couldn’t be empty.

Walking around the lantern room, Gretta saw her father waiting outside, his gaze fixed on the sky. Harold’s silhouette—firm despite the fatigue, bread bag hanging from his hand—gave her a warm sense of peace. There was something about him—that silent resilience, that inner light that stayed lit even when no one was watching—that always made her feel safe.

“Thank you, Kyrel…” she said with a smile before leaving.

She descended the stairs slowly. From above, the lighthouse keeper waved in a carefree gesture; Harold responded with a serenity that contrasted with his recent unease. Then he reached out for his daughter’s hand—a simple, everyday gesture. So ordinary that Gretta didn’t think of its value. But the day would come when she would give anything to have it within reach once more.

One, two, three steps…

…"

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