Salih led her up a narrow staircase to a snug upper floor. He pointed to the first door on the left. "Your room. Bathroom's through there, connected." He gestured down the hall. "That is my study. And that," he indicated to a closed door on the right, "is my room. No entering without permission. Naturally, the same goes for me. I'll leave some clothes on the bed, okay? They'll be... serviceable. New, unused underthings, and casual wear." He paused, pushing his glasses up. "I do not, however, possess any structured upper undergarments. You'll have to manage or procure your own later."
[Thank you. Anything will be an improvement.]
He gave a curt nod. "We will discuss the specifics of your service after you've... ceased being a biohazard. Take your time." With that, he descended the stairs, leaving her in the quiet hallway.
The guest room was simple, and surprisingly neat. A single bed with a thick quilt, a sturdy wardrobe, a clock, and a window looking out over the snowy lane. A fine layer of dust sat on the sill, but otherwise, it was clean. The door to the bathroom stood ajar.
The bathroom was modest but miraculous. A deep tub with a shower attachment, a toilet with a bidet, a sink. A high window, most likely for ventilation. On a ledge sat plain soap and a bottle of herbal shampoo. Towels. A trash bin sat in the corner. It was all profoundly, mundanely human. She stripped off her makeshift clothes—the dirt-ice underwear. She balled up the earth and let it crumble into the trash—with the water going down the sink hole. Her new body, coloured flat and unmarred, seemed to almost glow in the light.
The tub felt foreign. She turned the knob, and after a few seconds, hot water cascaded down. It was the first shower she's had since waking in this world. She stood under the stream, letting it sluice away the grime of the tundra, the psychic residue of the blood, the lingering void of the stars. She used the soap, rubbing until her skin felt new, then lathered her hair with the scented shampoo.
Wrapped in a towel, she returned to the bedroom. Folded neatly on the quilt were the promised clothes: soft grey boxer briefs still in its packaging, heavy linen trousers, a thick wool sweater, and fuzzy socks. They fit well enough. The sweater smelled faintly of cedar. She felt quietly presentable. Sitting on the edge of the bed, the muffled sounds of the town made a gentle afternoon hum through the window. Her mind, lulled by the comfort and the quiet, turned inward. The peace was a catalyst, allowing darker thoughts to surface with clarity.
Her biggest goal: find Antikleia. Virgil's confidante. Most likely the architect of the corpse-island. The bodies there weren't fresh, but preserved by powerful, morbid magic. She had explored that floating graveyard for years and sensed not a whisper of living consciousness—not even in its surroundings. If Antikleia had been behind it, she was long gone. Either departed to some other corner of this world, or finally dead.
'But I can't take that chance.' The thought was a cold stone in her gut. If even a shred of Virgil's inner circle survived—if his empire, philosophies, or technologies persisted, they were a cancer on reality itself. She would chase even just the possibility of Antikleia to the ends of this world and end it herself.
Seeing this town—its people, its greenhouses, its library—had shown her that thankfully, Virgil's empire had not completely eradicated humanity's capacity for simple, stubborn decency. That was worth protecting.
A long time had definitely passed, judging by the level of technology. However, the fear remained: his legacy might not be dead. Followers, cults, archives containing his techniques... She took a slow breath, the sweater scratchy against her palms. Anger and disgust is a waste. Guilt is a paralysis. Just do what needs to be done.
... She wanted to protect people. At the very least, from him. From what he represented. She had seen his reign through his own eyes, a front-row seat to world-wide tyranny, and it had almost broken her mind—many times. Yet, she knew that even having lived his memories, she still had no idea of the full, intimate extent of the suffering he had caused. The individual terrors were blurred in the grand, narcissistic narrative of his consciousness.
Now, she held the power that had caused that suffering. The same magic that had terraformed nations and stolen countless souls was dormant within her, waiting for her will. It was her responsibility—her grotesque, inherited penance—to make sure that legacy ended for good. To use his power to scour away the last remnants of his influence.
There will be no 'Virgil.'
First, she needed to integrate. To understand this world from the ground up, not from a conqueror's vantage. Salih's probationary community service was an ideal opportunity. A chance to learn language, history, and current events while proving her intent. A few predatory bears to deal with, she mused, a faint, grim smile touching her lips. And a basic education to acquire. It's a start.
From downstairs, she heard the clink of a kettle. The smell of tea wafted up. The ordinary sounds of a life proceeding. She stood, straightened her sweater, and headed for the stairs. There was a bear problem to discuss and a world to understand.