"Greetings, dear friend. The news of your survival is most pleasing to us all."
Archbishop Lorenzo, Date Unknown.
By the time Francis' shift finally ended, he was a breath away from collapsing. Two hours of sleep, a night hike through half the island, a morning full of stress, and a packed workday had him practically hallucinating. Every step toward home felt heavier than the last. His only thought was of his bed—cool sheets, a quiet room, blissful unconsciousness.
A fantasy, as it turned out.
Because waiting beside his building, illuminated by the late-afternoon light, was Camila. Hands clasped, posture straight, smile bright enough to sting his tired eyes.
Francis paused mid-step. A small, instinctive part of him almost felt bothered—just a flicker of resentment from sheer exhaustion—but it died instantly. Not when she was standing there like that. Not when her expression carried such earnest warmth.
Besides, she has no idea about my secret.
He exhaled, forcing a smile of his own as he approached.
"Francis!" Camila stepped forward, hands clasped behind her back. "I missed our reading sessions."
He blinked slowly, forcing his brain to catch up. "Right… yeah. We haven't had one in a while." A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "If you want, we can read now. Inside. Like usual."
She squeaked—actually squeaked—and bounced on her toes. "Really? Yes! Of course!"
Francis couldn't help a tired laugh. "Come on, then."
They stepped inside. The familiar wave of warm, humid air wrapped around them, the little room smelling faintly of old wood, wood that could collapse at any moment.
Perhaps I should start praying the Rosary.
Camila moved without needing direction, sitting on the edge of the bed with practiced ease, hands folded neatly in her lap.
She looked up at him, eyes bright. "So… what are we reading today?"
Instinct guided his hand more than thought. He reached for The Odyssey—the simplified edition—and held it up. "This one," he said. "It's… about a man trying to return home to his wife after a long war. Gods, monsters, storms—everything in his way."
Camila's eyes lit with interest. "That sounds wonderful." She patted the empty space beside her on the bed, a small, expectant gesture.
Francis sat, the mattress dipping under them both. Her warmth radiated through the humid room. He opened the book, cleared his throat, and began reading, her gaze fixed on him like he was reciting divine scripture.
Sing to me, Muse, of the clever man who wandered far and wide after the fall of Troy.
Traveled to many lands and learned the ways of man, woman, and boy.
Suffered greatly at sea he did.
Survival of self and company was the bid.
Yet perseverance was in vain.
For his men appeared to love pain.
Hyperion, they offended.
Leaving them and their loved ones ever fragmented.
The simplified version helped. The original text was dense—too dense for him, definitely too dense for her. He'd once tried the real thing; it nearly melted his brain. Greek, Latin, Arabic, Mandarin… ancient languages felt like puzzles designed to humble him.
His voice droned softly as he read, but his thoughts kept drifting. Circling. Tripping. He blinked at the page once… twice… the words blurring into meaningless strokes.
Am I even making sense anymore?
He kept going because Camila wasn't interrupting, wasn't asking questions, wasn't tilting her head the way she usually did when something confused her. She simply listened, smiling quietly.
Somewhere between one sentence and the next, the parchment-colored page darkened. His head tilted. His voice faded mid-word.
Then everything slipped into black before he even realized he'd fallen.
***
It didn't take long for Francis to realize he was dreaming—though the realization came only after the fact, when clarity caught up to him.
A Shanty of Dominion you shall hear.
Shielding you from both cold and fear.
The familiar ravings were there again, the same feverish litany of conquest, dominion, possession. The same insistence that something was his, waiting to be claimed.
But the setting was different this time.
He was underwater.
Suspended in a vast blue that stretched endlessly in every direction, the light shifting like liquid silver above him. His clothes drifted around him in slow motion, hair swaying as though he belonged there. And yet… he could breathe. Each inhale was cool and effortless, as natural as standing on land.
The voice—if it even was a voice—echoed from everywhere and nowhere all at once. It vibrated through the water. Through his bones. Even through the space behind his eyes. He turned, searching for a source, a silhouette, anything—but the blue remained empty.
Still, the whispers pressed in.
Claim it.
Take it.
Yours.
Yours to rule.
Yours to seize.
They grew louder, overlapping, stacking on top of one another until the water itself seemed to pulse with them. His ears began to ring, a sharp, rising pressure that made him clutch at his head. The world trembled around him, the colors bending—
The ringing spiked.
And Francis jerked awake with a sharp gasp, heart hammering, lungs dragging in the warm air of his room like he'd been drowning instead of breathing. Camila was already asleep beside him, curled sideways across the narrow mattress like she had simply collapsed there while he drifted off. Her head rested squarely on his chest, warm and surprisingly heavy, and one of her legs had draped over his like she was anchoring him in place. The cramped bed didn't leave room for dignity, she'd practically claimed half of him in her sleep.
When Francis jolted awake, he sucked in a sharp breath, eyes wide. For a split second he thought something was still dragging him down beneath that impossible ocean, until he realized the weight on his chest wasn't water.
It was Camila.
Soft. Asleep. Wrapped around him like they'd been doing this for years.
His heart kicked hard against his ribs. He froze, unsure if moving would wake her… or if waking her would make this somehow worse.
Camila, disturbed by his sudden jerk, made a tiny noise, a half-whimper, half-sigh, and nuzzled her cheek more firmly against his sternum, tightening her leg around his like he was a pillow trying to escape.
Francis swallowed.
He lay there stiff as a board, trying very hard to remember how breathing worked.
The unfamiliar proximity, her warmth pressed along his side, her leg hooked over his like she owned the territory. It was more than enough to send a chaotic rush straight through him. Francis felt his pulse hammering against his throat, waking up next to a woman was the last thing he expected to experience this morning.
Especially her.
A woman he genuinely liked.
A woman who had absolutely no idea what she was doing to him.
He squeezed his eyes shut, struggling to wrestle himself back under control. Waking her up would be a disaster. A level of awkward he wasn't emotionally equipped to survive. So he forced his body to still, forced his breathing to slow, forcing himself to pretend that this was all perfectly normal and that he wasn't seconds away from imploding.
Her fingers twitched lightly against his shirt. She shifted just enough for her thigh to brush higher along his leg.
Francis nearly stopped breathing.
I really underestimated her, huh? he thought, defeated, staring up at the ceiling as if it could save him.
With no other choice, he lay perfectly still, trying to ease himself back toward sleep while the girl he fancied slept peacefully wrapped around him like the world's most alluring blanket.
***
Valeria sank into the icy embrace of the bath, the chill biting pleasantly against her skin. She preferred it in the dead of night. During the day, the crew's eyes would inevitably linger, no matter how accustomed they were to her form. Shameless as she was, daily exposure in front of dozens of people still pushed boundaries.
Clothed baths were an option, of course—but the constant dampness, the daily chore of drying soaked clothes, was a nuisance she had no patience for. Nighttime offered a perfect compromise: just her, the cold water, her thoughts, and the endless expanse of dark blue stretching to the horizon. And if someone dared to spy? Well, she could always make use of such curiosity if the mood struck her. There were few drawbacks for someone like her.
Perhaps I should commission one of those "bikinis" that are all the rage in the colonies.
Her reverie shattered with a sound barely audible to most—a melodic hum, faint but insistent, carrying through the town. To anyone else, it would have been nothing. To her, it was unmistakable.
Claim what is rightfully yours.
My blessings shall aid in opening those doors.
Someone in Saint Agnes had reached the cusp of Descension. The question that lingered in her mind wasn't whether it had happened, but who had taken the first step.
Normally, the odds of survival were negligible. The reward, slim. Pain, almost guaranteed. But once the right person was ready? The probabilities flipped entirely, and the stakes—whatever they chose to play for—became absolute.
It's rarely a good fate, now, is it?
***
By the time morning came and Francis woke up, Camila was still there, lying sideways against him. Head rested on his chest, and legs draped over his. There wasn't a speck of awkwardness or embarrassment on her face.
"What… happened?" Francis asked, his voice tight with a mix of surprise and fluster.
"You slept while reading the book," she said, her smile mischievous. "I was about to leave, but leaving you like that didn't feel right. So I took care of you."
"I didn't know tucking me in included sleeping next to me," he said, struggling to push past the initial embarrassment.
"Consider it a fee," Camila replied, that same teasing smile lingering on her lips.
Not simple indeed.
The two of them eventually got up. Francis fumbled awkwardly, doing his best to not make things awkward, while Camila moved as if nothing were out of the ordinary, her expression carefully neutral.
"We should probably go to mass," Francis said, grasping at any distraction he could find, his voice slightly strained. Camila didn't object, letting him steer the moment, and followed along silently.
They stepped out of the building and, unsurprisingly, were met with the curious gazes of the townsfolk. Another snippet of gossip in the making, no doubt.
Neither of them paid it any mind. Their upcoming wedding made such stares meaningless.
The thought of said wedding crept into his mind, sharp and unavoidable. A week from now, everything would need preparing—a larger bed for starters, enough food and ale to feed the town, and more. His own savings, along with what little he'd inherited from his parents, would cover it, but the cost still bit at him. Planning a wedding, even a simple one, was never cheap.
The walk to the chapel was quiet, yet far from uncomfortable. Francis found the silence… comforting, in a way. It meant they were becoming at ease in each other's presence, and that, he decided, was a good thing.