Chapter 32 – Quiet Days
The sea was fickle, as always.
That morning, the sky had been an endless stretch of blue—clear, bright, and warm. By afternoon, it had turned into a roiling cauldron of gray. Thick clouds gathered over the narrow sea, thunder rolled from somewhere deep within, and flashes of lightning tore through the darkened heavens like angry veins of fire.
The waves responded in kind.
Ships that had been sailing smoothly an hour ago now rocked violently on the swelling waters, their decks slick and unstable. Sailors shouted over the wind, their voices hoarse and panicked. Those with weaker legs stumbled from side to side, clutching ropes and masts for dear life as the sea tossed them about like rag dolls.
Below deck, in a small cabin lit by flickering candles, Melisandre stood by a narrow window. Her crimson robes rippled slightly with the motion of the ship, her face composed but tense.
"There shouldn't have been a storm today," she murmured.
Something about it didn't feel natural.
A frown creased her brow as she slipped on her boots and made for the door—only for the ship's violent rocking to suddenly stop.
She froze.
The roar of the wind vanished.
The sea, moments ago wild and raging, fell eerily still.
Even the thunder faded to a whisper as the heavy clouds broke apart, revealing a faint trace of sunlight filtering through.
Melisandre's lips curved into a knowing smile.
"So it was his will," she whispered. "Only the Lord of Light could so effortlessly calm the fury of the Drowned God."
---
Above deck, the ship's swaying finally eased, but Charles barely noticed.
He stood in his small cabin, eyes closed, as the familiar sensation of weightlessness swept over him—followed by the warmth of air that didn't smell of salt or decay.
When he opened his eyes again, he was no longer surrounded by the dark timbers of a ship.
Instead, golden sunlight filtered gently through the blue curtains of a balcony window. Outside, the orange hues of sunset painted the skyline of the city—his city.
He was home.
The sounds beyond his door were faint but familiar: the quiet bustle of servants preparing dinner downstairs—the clinking of metal dishes, the murmur of conversation, the rhythm of daily life.
He wasn't in a hurry to leave his room.
Instead, he took a moment to change out of the long, "otherworldly" robe he'd worn in the medieval realm, slipping into the casual but neat clothes he'd prepared before his departure.
Then he sat by the window, exhaling softly, his mind running over everything that had happened.
"Well," he muttered, rolling a small black crystal between his fingers, "if nothing else, this thing should fetch a decent price."
The crystal was dark, smooth, and cold to the touch—its edges reflecting faint light like polished glass. But what caught his attention most was the faint hum of power within it.
Obsidian.
Or, as the people of Westeros called it—Dragonglass.
A relic said to be forged by the fire of the gods deep within the earth. Of course, Charles didn't buy that story—but whatever it was, this wasn't just stone. It pulsed faintly with something alive.
He smiled faintly.
"Tomorrow, I'll drop by the clockmaker's shop… and that detective agency. It's been long enough—they should have something for me by now."
Just then, a calm, steady voice spoke from outside his door.
"Master Cranston, dinner is ready."
It was Grace, his newly hired housekeeper.
"I'll be right there," he called back.
Now that she mentioned it, he realized just how hungry he was.
Medieval food hadn't been terrible—especially compared to battlefield rations—but ship meals? That was another level of misery.
Pocketing the dragonglass, Charles stepped out of his room.
Grace stood at attention by the door—a slim, stern woman in a neat black uniform. She was nearing fifty, her brown hair streaked with white. Her face was plain but sharply defined, her thin lips giving her a look of quiet authority.
She was meticulous to a fault—utterly intolerant of disorder.
A perfect housekeeper, if not the most cheerful one.
Aside from Grace, there were four other staff members—a cook, two maids, and a part-time laundress—all women. Not by design, but practicality. He didn't need stable boys or heavy laborers; he needed precision, cleanliness, and quiet efficiency.
Descending the staircase, the scent of dinner greeted him.
The long dining table was neatly set—roast pork, grilled fish, beef patties, baked potatoes, fruit salad, and a steaming pot of creamy mushroom soup.
For a household of six, it was almost excessive—but as per contract, the servants dined only after their master finished, so the abundance made sense.
At the far end of the table sat a young girl with wavy brown hair and timid blue eyes. Annie.
She looked up as Charles entered, hesitated for a moment, then gave a small nod. No greeting, but at least she didn't flee this time. Progress.
After more than a week of living together, she'd finally stopped being afraid of him.
It hadn't taken much—just patience, small talk, and a lack of pressure. Children, after all, forgot fear as easily as they learned it.
"Waiting for me, huh?" he said with a teasing smile, sitting down across from her.
Annie nodded silently. She was polite—too polite for a child her age. No tantrums, no shouting, no mischief. Just calm obedience and the occasional shy glance.
It wasn't normal, not really.
But maybe it was her nature—or maybe it was the shadow of her past.
Either way, Charles didn't mind. As her guardian, she required little effort—except for one thing.
"You've been taking the medicine Dr. Domo prescribed?"
"Yes," she answered softly.
"Feeling any better?"
"A little."
"Good. Tell me right away if it gets worse."
"Mm."
Their dinner passed quietly—no laughter, no tension, just a simple rhythm of shared peace.
Afterward, the servants cleared the table, and Charles bid Annie goodnight before retreating to his own room.
The trip to the other world hadn't been dangerous, but the stress of pulling off such a reckless plan still lingered. Combined with sleepless nights on a rocking ship, exhaustion hit him hard.
He barely made it to the bed before collapsing onto the velvet sheets.
Within minutes, his breathing steadied, and the house fell silent.
---
For the first time in weeks, Charles slept without dreams.
The next morning,
After washing up and finishing breakfast, Charles slipped into his usual refined attire: black trousers, polished leather boots, and a fitted tailcoat. He topped it off with a crisp white shirt, neatly tied cravat, and a high-crowned top hat—the latest fashion in Pita City.
With his silver-handled cane in hand, he stepped out into the brisk morning air.
Today's plan was simple. First, he would take the dragonglass crystal to the clockmaker's shop for appraisal—see if it was worth keeping or selling. After that, he intended to stop by the Little Imp Detective Agency, conveniently located on Martin Street, just a few doors down from the clock shop.
The morning air in Pita was sharp and clean, carrying the faint salt of the distant sea. A thin layer of white mist hung low over the blackstone streets, coiling lazily around lampposts and carriage wheels.
The rhythmic clatter of hooves echoed across the damp cobblestones as his hired carriage rattled through the quiet city. Few pedestrians were about this early, so the streets were open and the ride quick—barely fifteen minutes later, Charles arrived at his destination.
But the moment he stepped down from the carriage, he realized something was off.
The detective agency was in chaos.
Through the frosted glass door, he could see movement—shadows flailing, furniture toppling, and the muffled crash of fists meeting flesh.
"…They're fighting?" he muttered.
With a sigh, he turned to his driver and murmured something low before adjusting his tie and hat. Then, cane tapping lightly against the floor, he strode through the door.
Inside, the place was a mess. Two groups of men were brawling amid overturned chairs and scattered papers. One of them—a burly man with a long scar running down his cheek—was clutching his bruised eye, half bent over in pain.
Charles cleared his throat, his voice calm but sharp as a blade.
"If I were you," he said clearly, "I'd leave this place. Right now."
The fighting froze.
The scarred man turned toward him, glaring through his swollen eye.
"Mind your own damn business, kid!"
He reached for a stool, ready to swing it at the tall young detective across from him—
Until Charles added, in the same lazy, almost amused tone:
"I'd love to, honestly. But the police might not feel the same way."
The word police landed like a stone.
Every head turned toward him. Even the scarred thug hesitated.
"Police?"
Charles gestured toward the window with his cane.
"See the coachman out there? You probably recognize which direction he just went."
The thug's face twitched.
"You—"
Before his companion could finish, the scarred man raised a hand to silence him. After glaring once more at the detective opposite him, he growled under his breath,
"We'll remember this, boy."
Then, shoving Charles hard in the shoulder as he passed, he and his crew stormed out the door and vanished down the street.
The office fell silent.
Charles straightened his coat with mild annoyance.
"Pity," he murmured to himself. "I half expected to have to throw a punch or two… maybe even pull a flashy move for once."
A pause.
"…Though, without magic, I probably would've been flattened."
Still thinking about that, he glanced around at the stunned employees, removed his hat with a polite smile, and greeted the person behind the desk.
"Good morning, Miss Zoe."