Deep Sea Embers

The atmosphere in the room, which had been frigid and tense, eased slightly. The warmth offered a brief relief to those who had been shivering from the cold. Despite the room’s growing comfort, Admiral Tyrian remained indifferent and aloof to the secretary’s string of proposed “solutions.” He seemed lost in thought, staring contemplatively at the assortment of objects spread out on the table in front of him as though he were pondering the weight of a century’s worth of history.

Finally, Tyrian broke the suffocating silence that seemed ready to engulf everyone in the room. “Maintaining order is a wise course of action,” he mused, “something that must have been particularly valuable fifty years ago.”

The secretary met his gaze directly. “You have to remember the state of disarray Frost was in during that time. Strong leaders make monumental achievements, but they can also make catastrophic errors. Sometimes, unpleasant actions must be taken to maintain control. I’ve done my homework, Admiral Tyrian; I have great respect for Queen Ray Nora. But even she couldn’t erase the disastrous aftermath of the Abyss Project.”

Tyrian responded in a measured tone, “You may have studied history, but I have lived it. Both of us understand what was at stake back then. I hold no grudges. From an objective standpoint, you’ve kept Frost stable for the past fifty years.”

The secretary seemed to visibly relax, his tense posture softening ever so slightly. Seizing the moment, he leaned in and started, “So, you’re saying you agree—”

However, Tyrian didn’t say anything. Instead, he placed his hand atop the stack of documents on the table and applied slight pressure. A cold energy radiated through his hand, freezing the paper until tiny ice crystals formed and shattered with a rustling noise. The documents, which had the potential to alter the course of history, disintegrated into worthless fragments.

The secretary’s eyes widened in shock, and General Lister, who had remained mostly silent throughout the conversation, couldn’t suppress a quiet gasp. “You are—”

“I’m not interested in these,” Tyrian interrupted, lifting his head to look squarely at those gathered in the room. “I want the authentic records—specific details about the mine disaster, how exactly the cult infiltrated the city-state, who should be held responsible, who shouldn’t, and the true actions of Governor Winston. I want firsthand information, not sugar-coated reports aimed at ‘quickly restoring order.’ This is essential if we are to truly take control of the situation.”

Caught off guard, the secretary quickly regrouped. “So you’re accepting Frost’s ‘invitation’ then. However, let me be blunt—you will still need the kind of documents that were just destroyed. Genuine information is important, but so is managing public perception.”

He hesitated briefly as if contemplating the gravity of his next words. “The city will face extreme challenges in the near future. Several infrastructure projects will likely be delayed, and due to the pollution from the ‘muck,’ we will experience fuel shortages. Food distribution will become problematic, security will deteriorate, and public unrest will inevitably rise. Diverting the public’s attention toward the failures of the previous government may be our most effective strategy.”

Tyrian spoke with such conviction and authority that the room was immediately captivated. “When fuel becomes scarce, we’ll turn to our reserves. If that’s insufficient, I’ll devise an alternative plan. If food distribution turns chaotic, we’ll implement strict oversight and enforce severe punishments for violations. Rationing will be put in place, not just in the lower parts of the city, but in the affluent upper city as well. Should public security deteriorate, we will institute temporary military rule. People require a concrete target for their frustrations and anger. So let’s give them one by genuinely going after the cultists, the subversives, those who are truly at fault.” His words resonated with an undeniable force, commanding the respect and attention of everyone present.

The room plunged into an almost sacred silence, so quiet that the breaths of those gathered became audible. The secretary, usually a picture of grace and tact, seemed momentarily thrown off balance, uncertain how to respond to Tyrian’s unyielding declaration.

Tyrian looked around the room, breaking into a composed smile and gently shaking his head. “I’m not dismissing your efforts or solutions. Given your limitations and the knowledge you had, you made the best choices available at that time. But times have changed. I have no intention of merely repeating the last fifty years. Mr. Secretary, the Mist Fleet operates differently. It’s time to aim higher.”

Finally regaining his composure, the secretary adjusted his posture and looked at Tyrian with eyes ablaze with intense curiosity. “Can you truly accomplish all that you’ve suggested?”

“As long as the remnants of City Hall cooperate to their fullest extent,” Tyrian paused, grinning playfully, “and as for the rest, Mr. Secretary, do you know who maintains the most stringent order in the Boundless Sea?”

“The most stringent order?” The secretary seemed puzzled, thrown off by the question. “Would it be the city-state navy? Or perhaps the overseas merchant fleets?”

“No, it’s the pirates, the great pirates of the Cold Sea,” Tyrian said, chuckling. “The city-state navy has the benefit of stable ports and safe harbors. The merchant fleets have the protection of the church and navy escorts. But the pirates, against the backdrop of the Boundless Sea, can only rely on rigorous discipline and order to survive.”

The secretary fell silent, visibly unsure how to engage with this unconventional perspective, which seemed far beyond the realm of his usual professional responsibilities.

Recognizing this, Tyrian laughed and patted the secretary on the shoulder. “Relax, Mr. Secretary. The situation is more manageable now than it was fifty years ago. I have numerous ‘trade partners’ who will be willing to assist us once they understand our predicament. You need not worry too much about maintaining worldly order.”

He then paused, his gaze shifting to the window. Outside, the deep night had enveloped the city. Gas lamps created a serpentine dance of light around the port. The snow had stopped, the clouds had parted, and the cold, ethereal light of the moon bathed everything in a celestial glow. Under this heavenly illumination, the city rested in a rare moment of peace.

“As for matters that go beyond worldly concerns,” Tyrian hesitated briefly before continuing in an eerie tone that sent shivers down the spines of those present, “I believe my father will find a way.”

General Lister, who had been mostly quiet until now, felt compelled to speak. He referred to Tyrian’s father with an almost reverent “He,” asking, “Is He still watching over Frost? Where is He now?”

A series of detailed answers sprung to Tyrian’s mind. He could vividly picture his father standing by a window on the second floor of a house at 44 Oak Street—a property rented from the city’s citizen service center. But he hesitated and chose not to disclose this information. After all, the people of Frost, represented by the individuals in the room, were still in the dark about his father’s current presence in the city. Revealing this information without his father’s express permission might earn him another paternal scolding—a hit to his pride and dignity that he, as someone on the cusp of leadership, could not afford.

“He’s still very much involved, although I can’t go into details,” Tyrian finally said, artfully evasive. “Let’s just say he has his hands full and doesn’t only communicate with me.”

General Lister seemed surprised for a moment but then nodded quickly. “Ah, I see. That makes sense.” What exactly he understood remained a mystery.

Unable to curb his curiosity, the secretary ventured further. “What does your father do in his free time?”

Suppressing an eye roll, Tyrian pondered how to answer. Ever since his father had re-emerged from whatever subspace he’d been in, veiled in enigma, how could anyone speculate about his daily activities? It’s not like he was a retiree content with fishing or tending to a garden.

Noticing Tyrian’s subtle change in expression, the secretary quickly recalibrated. “My apologies for overstepping.”

“It’s alright,” Tyrian dismissed. “For our mental well-being, perhaps it’s best to avoid discussing ‘him’ too much. Let’s move on.”

He rose from the sofa and approached the expansive window overlooking the city. Street lamps still glowed in the distance. At intersections leading to various city districts, he could faintly discern the temporary barricades that had been erected during recent conflicts.

By tomorrow, those barricades would be dismantled, and the people responsible for governing the city would begin their work to restore order. The constellation of lights from the far-off districts mirrored in Tyrian’s eyes.

“It’s been years since I last saw this city. It appears much remains the same.”

General Lister walked over, standing just behind Tyrian. “But things are bound to change significantly starting today.”

“Fifty years ago, the last monarchists were expelled from this city, a new city hall was established by the rebels, and I became one of those rebels,” Tyrian mused, staring out at the horizon filled with lights and silhouettes of buildings. “Now, half a century later, I return to find the city almost exactly as I left it. It’s like life has come full circle. Everything seems to have reverted back to the way it was. General Lister, what, then, was the point of the past fifty years?”

Lister was silent, evidently deep in thought.

Meanwhile, the secretary walked over and gestured toward the window, his arm extending out to the illuminated city beyond.

“Admiral Tyrian, those lights, those lives, those unbroken cycles of history and struggle—they are the meaning of the past fifty years.”

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