Deep Sea Embers

“The Queen’s key?” Agatha’s refined and carefully sculpted eyebrows lifted in a graceful arc of astonishment, the glimmer of fascination in her deep-set eyes captured unswervingly by Governor Winston’s countenance.

Contrarily, Winston seemed even more befuddled in her presence. His gaze widened to the point of alarm, the glossy sheen of his eyes painting a portrait of profound confusion, “You weren’t informed? How, then, did you manage to breach the security of this sanctuary?”

A wave of unyielding determination surged over Agatha’s expressive face. The mystifying situation unfurling before her seemed to diverge from her original theory that she and Winston, the only two entities with the capacity to penetrate the impenetrable stone wall, shared some esoteric connection. However, she now gleaned that the governor had his own unique and potentially more obscure means of entry.

“I have my own means,” she announced, her voice resonating with an unforeseen touch of threat, “But you spoke of a ‘key’, a keepsake from the Frost Queen. Could you elaborate on its significance?”

A flicker of skepticism flashed across Winston’s face as he studied the woman standing in front of him. Nevertheless, after a moment of intense contemplation, he gave in to the inevitable, releasing a sigh heavy with unspoken secrets—his hand ventured into his chest pocket.

“Seeing as we’re at this crossroad, I see little merit in persisting in secret measures.”

From his pocket, he produced an unusual artifact. It was a brass key, its exterior covered with complex engravings. The handle was fashioned in the form of a horizontal “8”, echoing the mathematical symbol for infinity. Yet, the head did not possess the typical teeth of ordinary keys; instead, it was a cylindrical rod marked with a single groove.

Agatha scrutinized the item, a chilling sense of déjà vu creeping over her. The key bore an eerily similar resemblance, not to conventional keys used for doors and chests, but rather to those used to wind up dolls or other clockwork playthings.

“A wind-up key?” she murmured, almost to herself, “Are you implying that this strange artifact was bestowed by Queen Ray Nora? And how does a simple governor come to possess such an item?”

“From one governor to the next, we’ve been the caretakers of this key,” he confessed, his voice tinged with a trace of sorrow, “It was a gift from the Frost Queen to the rebels. And also… a curse. From the day this key first fell into a governor’s hands, the fate of the Frost Kingdom became entwined with a sinister entity, Gatekeeper.”

Despite the man’s disjointed and nearly hysterical narration, Agatha maintained her composure, waiting for his verbal whirlwind to subside. She countered with calm fortitude, “You concealed the truth about the metal ore mine, didn’t you?”

“If by truth you refer to the fact that the mine was on the brink of depletion during the Queen’s reign… then yes, I was cognizant,” Winston conceded, a heavy sigh interwoven with his admission, “I implore your forgiveness, Agatha. From the beginning, I was fully aware of the repercussions your unearthing would bring about. Yet I clung to a brittle strand of hope that the tides of time would grant us the resources to repair our predicament before the situation further unraveled. I harbored the wish that your discovery would be merely an abandoned mine, and Frost… Frost would uphold the glittering prosperity it was once famed for.”

“I demand transparency, Governor,” Agatha’s voice cut through the tension-laden air like a biting winter wind, her countenance serious and resolute, “If the mine was truly exhausted during the Queen’s reign, what, pray tell, have we been diligently mining and exporting over the past few decades? And what correlation exists between the recent city disturbances, the cultists’ odd behavior, and the mine’s depletion?”

“Indeed, we are extracting metallic ore, Gatekeeper. The ground we’ve breached is rich in pure ore, and the cargo we’ve dispatched is nothing less than unadulterated ore,” Winston raised his eyes, a cryptic blend of sorrowful mirth – or perhaps it was remorse – marked across his face, “It’s not some hazardous waste. We’ve analyzed it thoroughly, as did our forebears during the Queen’s reign. If a substance looks like metallic ore, behaves like metallic ore, and its yield and byproducts align with that of standard ore—then without any shadow of doubt, it is metallic ore.”

“Authentic metallic ore?!” Agatha’s eyes widened in disbelief, her mind wrestling with the staggering revelation, “But the mine was depleted decades ago, and the ore that’s surfacing today…”

“That’s exactly the paradox that makes the blood run cold, isn’t it?” Winston managed a melancholic smile, “The vein was exhausted, yet curiously, new ores replenished the forsaken recesses as if an alternative, illusive ‘Frost’ is continuously pouring its bounty into our reality. Or to put it another way… once the mine extends beyond a certain depth, we’ve been extracting minerals from a shadowy twin of our world, and these bewilderingly ghostly substances… no matter how thoroughly we scrutinize them post-extraction, they affirm themselves as real.”

Agatha processed the revelations with a measured determination, these fantastical truths assaulting her already turbulent psyche. Nevertheless, she kept her composure, her voice a mere whisper in the storm, “The Mirror Frost, Governor, are you suggesting its existence? It seems a Mirror Frost does indeed persist. The fog enveloping our city, the relentless deluge of imitations emerging from it, all stem from this mirrored dimension. This phantom city is slowly corroding and replacing our tangible world.”

A change swept across Winston’s countenance. After a weighted silence that hung in the air for what seemed like an eternity, he released a sigh burdened with capitulation, “Ah, so this is the tariff we are to pay for the metallic ore.”

“Tariff? You wield that word with such nonchalance. Those bearing the weight of this ‘tariff’ are not merely you and I, but the entirety of the city, a majority of whom remain blissfully unaware of the truth…”

“But the majority relish the benefits of the ore trade. Within this harsh, frost-ravaged city, it’s the metallic ore that fuels warmth in their homes and richness in their meals. It’s this ore that maintains our prosperity even in the wake of the mountain’s depletion, Gatekeeper.”

Winston paused for a few moments, gathering his thoughts, then waved his hand dismissively.

“You should understand, I am not one for ostentation. I possess no vast estates, hoard no personal wealth, I don’t even have an heir. Madam, every decision I’ve made, none of it was for personal gain.”

Agatha peered into the governor’s eyes, but all she saw within their depths was the exhaustion of a man stretched to his limits.

“Did they have no choice…” She murmured, seemingly to herself.

“No one had a choice,” Winston shook his head, “I understand your insinuation. The path we tread today, the toll we pay today, our city’s inhabitants did not choose any of it— but neither did I. No one had an alternate course to follow.”

“Our city-state, you see, is merely a speck amidst the vast wasteland of the world. We lack the privilege of another Frost to settle within the boundless maritime expanses. We hunger for sustenance, warmth, shelter, and pure water. Despite its roots being entwined in the fabric of a perplexing mirror world, we yearn for the metallic ore. Strip us of this sustenance; a brutal winter would consume a quarter of our populace. The remaining survivors would slowly revert to the bleak era preceding the industrial revolution, each subsequent year shaving off another quarter, or perhaps even more…

“Gatekeeper, permit yourself some rest. You carry the same exhaustion as I do. Perhaps it’s time we confronted the harsh reality that our city-state resembles a steam engine speeding towards a chasm. Everyone is on board. The only difference between the city’s caretakers and the common folk is that the latter journey through life blindfolded, while we… we travel with our eyes wide open to the truth.”

Yet Agatha brushed aside Winston’s cynically shaded comments. She stood defiant in the encroaching darkness, feeling the relentless chill battling her defenses once more, sensing the life-giving blood within her veins crystallizing into a frigid slush.

Finally, Agatha shattered the hushed silence, “Someone did dare to blaze a new trail.”

“…Indeed, there was one. The Frostians hailed her as ‘the Frost Queen’, while the annals of history vilify her as ‘the Mad Queen’,” Winston started to laugh. However, it wasn’t clear whether his jest was directed at the Frost Queen or himself, “An indomitable spirit, she dared to challenge the expansive sea, to gaze fearlessly at the monster that resided in its abyss.”

“The Abyss Plan…” Agatha murmured, fragments of historical knowledge gradually knitting together in her mind, forming a cohesive narrative, “So, the Abyss Plan was not just a simple exploration initiative as the documents suggest… The Frost Queen endeavored to uncover the enigmas that lay beneath our city?!”

“We’re uncertain why she inferred that the perpetually regenerating ore in the mine was linked with ‘the deep sea’, but unquestionably, she was on the right track—the failure of the Abyss Plan and her ensuing grim fate validated her suppositions. The world’s most brutal irony lies here,” Winston resettled himself by the tree stump, eyes fixated on the boundless chaos and writhing shadows above, his tone remarkably serene, “Truth engenders insanity, insanity precipitates failure, and every step you take towards your goal is a step towards the abyss.

Winston expelled a weary sigh.

“She aspired to reveal the truth behind the metallic ore mine, to face the hidden dangers threatening our city, to pit her intellect and might against the sea itself… Noble ambitions, yet as fate would dictate, she merely hastened her inevitable descent.”

“So, you ‘successors’ chose not to follow her footsteps and feign ignorance like the rest, barreling towards the abyss aboard this doomed train. And the Frost Queen, who once strived to halt or divert this course, was ultimately caricatured in the annals of history as a madwoman, ensnared by subspace.”

“The old Frostian adage—The departed should make way for the living,” Winston slowly rotated his gaze, meeting Agatha’s eyes, “A once magnificent sovereign, if her tarnished portrayal could expedite Frost’s return to stability post-crisis, she’d likely not protest.”

Agatha attempted to respond, but her words were trapped.

After a moment’s pause, all she could muster was a faint shake of her head.

“But how did the key… find its way into the first governor’s hands?”

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