Chapter 390 - 380: Escape from Steinbach (2)

Chapter 390: Chapter 380: Escape from Steinbach (2)

He carefully poured the remaining half of the potion from the bottle into a bowl. He walked to the bedside, pried open his daughter’s lips—cracked and dry from the high fever—and fed her the potion, little by little.

After giving her the medicine, Anton was hit by a wave of irresistible exhaustion. He knew he was at his limit, but the instinct to survive forced him to cling to his last shred of consciousness. He staggered to the door, slid the bolt home, and double-checked that the windows were securely shut.

Once all this was done, he all but collapsed onto the low stool by the bed. His head slumped to one side, and he fell into a deep sleep, sinking into a long-forgotten dream.

In his dream, there was no plague, no panic, and none of the suffocating, acrid stench of something burning.

He was back in his workshop. Warm sunlight streamed through the window, and the air was filled with the familiar, clean scent of oak.

Lina was in the courtyard chasing butterflies, her laughter like a Silver Bell. His wife, Martha, was hanging freshly washed clothes out to dry. Everything was so warm and peaceful.

He could even feel the sensation of his rough palm gliding over a smooth plank of wood. The solid, real feeling of it made him let down all his guards, wanting only to lose himself in this moment forever.

It was the deepest sleep he’d had in almost a month.

At dawn the next day, a ray of morning light woke Anton. He shot up and immediately scrambled to the bedside. He saw that Lina’s fever had broken. Her little face was no longer flushed and burning, and her breathing was much calmer. Though an occasional cough still rattled in her throat, it was no longer the gut-wrenching hack it had been.

At the same time, Anton noticed the itch in his own throat had greatly subsided, though his body felt exceptionally weak.

’The potion... it really works.’

The joy of his family’s salvation didn’t last long. When Anton left the house to buy some oats—the price of which was climbing by the day—he noticed something strange about the town.

The people who had drunk the Holy Water were indeed free of their symptoms. But they seemed... like they had become different people.

Their minds seemed to become completely absorbed in a single task, unable to pull away.

Anton had once seen Klaus the blacksmith sitting at his own doorway, tirelessly polishing the stone path in front with a small stone for a whole afternoon.

His child was crying and fussing nearby, and even took a nasty fall, but Klaus didn’t lose focus for a second. It was as if the only thing in his world was the stone that needed to be smoothed.

The atmosphere in town had shifted from panic to an eerie tranquility.

One afternoon, Anton saw the town’s Baron Adler trying to leave through the west gate with a troop of his Personal Guard and several carriages loaded with luggage. But a few men in the armor of Church Knights blocked the gate. They argued briefly with the Baron’s Captain of the Guard, then drew their swords.

The Baron’s procession retreated.

That night, Anton saw the lights in the lord’s castle burning all night. He saw the Baron’s silhouette pacing back and forth in front of a window, then raising a bottle to his lips again and again.

Just as the entire town was sinking into this bizarre "recovery," the arrival of a letter shattered the peace of Anton’s family.

A traveling merchant, braving the journey north, had brought the letter from the distant south.

The envelope was made of coarse papyrus. The handwriting on it was somewhat sloppy, but Anton recognized it at a glance as his cousin Hans’s.

Hans was a down-and-out blacksmith who couldn’t make it in the Royal Capital last year. He had supposedly followed some pioneering noble to the southern Swamp. Anton had assumed he’d long since died in some forgotten corner.

He tore open the letter.

Anton, my dear cousin, I hope you and your family are well.

You’ll never guess where I’m writing to you from. This place is called Minas Tirith, the territory of Count Velin Klein. I’m still alive, and doing very well.

There’s no plague here. No, I should say, there’s order here. Because I can forge horseshoes and some farm tools, and my wife works in the textile workshop, we’ve even managed to save a little money.

There are no whips from lords here, no "atonement fees" for the church. You get back what you put in. The Count is building massive dams and workshops, and he needs craftsmen like you and me everywhere.

If you’re still alive, if you’re still worrying about your next meal, come here. Follow the Golden Sail Commerce Association’s trade route south. As long as you can prove you’re a skilled craftsman, you can find work in the White Tower Territory.

And be sure to give my name to the registrar.

At the bottom of the letter, a crude map had been drawn in charcoal.

Anton read the letter once, then again. Martha, standing behind him, had also finished reading it. They looked at each other and saw the same fire in each other’s eyes.

"Should we... go?" Martha’s voice trembled, but this time it wasn’t from fear, but from something else.

Anton didn’t answer. He walked to the window and looked across the street. Klaus the blacksmith was standing in the sunlight again, that same vacant smile on his face.

Anton yanked the curtains shut.

"Pack our things," he said, turning to his wife, his voice resolute. "Only take the tools, money, and rations. We leave tonight."

That night, after Lina was fast asleep, the couple packed up their last remaining possessions by the dim light of an oil lamp.

Anton carefully wrapped his most prized set of coopering tools in oilcloth, while Martha packed the last of their black bread and cured meat into a cloth sack.

Everything was done in silence, the only sounds their own ragged breaths and the soft rustle of cloth.

Martha gave the knot on the sack a final check as Anton shouldered the heavy tool bag.

He walked into the inner room. By the faint moonlight filtering through the crack in the door, he looked at his sleeping daughter on the bed. Lina’s breathing was steady, her cheeks still holding a slight pallor from her recovery.

Anton leaned down, wrapped his daughter tightly in a thick, old blanket, and then carefully lifted her into his arms. Lina stirred in his embrace, let out a soft, sleepy murmur, and fell back into a deep sleep.

"Let’s go," Anton whispered to his wife.

They didn’t use the front door. Anton led Martha out through a little-known broken fence in the workshop’s backyard, stepping onto a dirt path that skirted the edge of town. The darkness was their best cover.

The cold air that filled their lungs, carrying the scent of earth and wild grass, washed away the nauseating stench of char and decay from the town.

Martha kept looking back over her shoulder, feeling as if countless vacant eyes were watching them from the darkness. Anton, however, stared straight ahead, his only movement to hold his daughter tighter in his arms.

His steps were heavy and firm, each one seeming to crush the life they were leaving behind as they walked toward an uncertain future.

Only when they had finally bypassed the town’s perimeter and stepped onto the southern trade road did Anton stop and glance back. Under the hazy moonlight, Steinbach Town looked like a slumbering beast, terrifyingly quiet.

He knew they would never be coming back.