Fertility. The word swirled around like a whirlwind in Ezekiel's mind as he continued to tramp through the muddy forest floor.

Once the flames had died down to a whimper, the shaman discreetly buried the ashes of the burnt cadaver underneath topsoil—chanting a few more mantras before ambling away. It took Ezekiel a while to snap back to his senses; the highly unusual sight of unmarked mortal remains baffled him. He was keenly aware that the inhabitants of these distant isles possessed odd customs, but the perfectly virgin land that had—until a few moments ago—been a blazing pit struck him as excruciatingly odd. He had heard tales of scores of bodies being cremated during the Age of Plague, however, if the land he stood upon was truly what he thought it was, it might very well be the single largest burial mound he had ever trekked across.

The storm had subsided. Ezekiel was lucky enough to have stepped onto wet soil on his way there, and so he swiftly and effortlessly made his way back to the known. Mud hugged onto his boots, and his cape was dripping wet. He unfastened his ebony cloak and carried it over his right shoulder. The gaze of the vast verdant universe still fell upon him, yet he was consumed with one thought and one thought only—what if. And so, before he knew it, he had trudged up the steep incline of the rising hillside and made his way to the temporary plateau at the limits of the forest.

He yawned and stretched almost instinctively when the first rays of sunshine washed over his face. He had been here on the first night with the rest of the top brass, yet the sight he witnessed on this foggy monsoon morning was one of splendour and awe that he had never once experienced before.

Rolling hills spread out in all directions, concealing the shores that lay beyond. To his left, towering high above the earth stood a mountain so tall that it appeared to converse with the Lord God Himself. Sticking out silently near the bottom of this colossal creation of nature was the equally sublime Cathedral which sat overlooking the pallid city. Its bell chimed sonorously, the seventh toll emboldening its listener with the knowledge of time.

The city itself sat subserviently between two opposing cliffs. Bathsheba—the City of Light—indeed, it shone as bright as the morning Sun. The limestone walls of its resplendent buildings gave it the semblance of a pure lamb in a field of green, bowing before its divine master who stood atop the cliff. It appeared pale, uncared for, its pristine white figure betraying the true horrors cast upon it.

The gleaming walls cast reflections upon the pristine waters that it hid; waters dotted with grey rocks providing a natural barrier to entry. Just across rose the edge of the neighboring isle—Gomorrah—so named for what occurred there in its near past.

Ezekiel stood, basking in the scene before him for a good thirty minutes, his hunger completely evaporating. He wrung his cloak, squeezing out as much rainwater from it as he could, and let the Sun do the rest. However, the thought of maybe still poked and prodded his mind, and so he was urged, almost unwillingly, to continue down his path to the anaemic city.

As he descended, he came closer to the scattered villages dotted on either side of the unpaved road. The path seemed much longer than he had anticipated, his entire sense of scale scrambled by the immensity of all that surrounded him. Grass abound on either side and farmlands rose in places he did not expect.

Continuing down the path, the slumbering lamb appeared to grow larger and larger, until eventually, it came to encompass the entirety of his view. A large gate—rusted from decades of disrepair—stood before him, blocking him from his destination. Clearly not of Tartessian origin, instead sporting swirling plumes reminiscent of the Moors, the men of the Great Desert.

The steel gate creaked open without much effort, revealing the innards of the White City. A faint waft of feces intermingled with the scent of cinnamon, resulting in a revolting stench only noticeable by those stepping foot into its entrails for the first time. White edifices adorned with windows crafted from translucent turquoise shells filled the spots betwixt the unplanned streets. It had once been the Summer Capital of the Emiraté, evolving naturally from a tribal settlement; now overtaken by the Empire on which the Sun never sets. Built in classical Aquitanian architecture, each house featured statuettes of Arentio and Arentia—the Divine Twins—adorning their pillared entrances. A relic of ancient Celtiberian heritage, assimilated into the Divine Faith as angels that guard the gates of Heaven. The dwellings appeared deserted, devoid of any murmurations. Most of those living in the city proper were either men of God or fidalgos—who were either holed up in their Temples, their homes, or in the markets lining the route to the shore.

Ezekiel soaked in all he saw, and although appreciative of the homely nature of this abode, he knew all too well what took place within the walled city. Sure enough, he had unknowingly made his way into the poorer regions of the cityscape, specifically the adjoining suburbs on either side. Horror overcame him as he witnessed the source of the stench that irked him—a rotting sepulchre of sickly goats and swine. A cesspit left uncovered, wherein the locals relieved their calls of nature. Clutching hard onto his nose—trying his best not to divulge the contents of an already starving stomach—he turned away from the disgusting scene and walked back from whence he came. 

The road straight ahead would lead to the port, another relic of the Emiraté, nowhere near fit enough to berth a ship the size of the Coração. Striking scents of cardamom and cloves emanated from this direction. But since this was not to be his destination, he continued on by veering towards the street to his right. This street led to the region beneath the cliff opposite the Cathedral. Dimly lit, its limestone buildings were musty and gray. These were to be the temporary dwellings that the Mission was willing to lend to their guests, at least until the Grand Ceremony took place.

Ezekiel sighed at the despicable sight. At least it's within the realm of civilization. He knocked on the door—once, twice, thrice—no response. He clicked his tongue, the reinvigorated hunger now burning a hole into his abdomen. He banged on the decrepit wooden door with all the force he had.

"Coming~!", a meagre voice rang in a melodious sing-song.

After four wobbly steps, the door inched open to a peek, "Ah~ If it isn't my favorite twin, come on in now."

Ezekiel rolled his eyes. He took off his wet garb and laid it bare onto a chair.

"What brings you out here, little chap?" The old man's chin seemed to radiate more wrinkles than his forehead.

"I'll get to that, but first, get me something to eat—I am going to faint."

The flambuoyant old man swiveled, his Tyrian purple robes flourishing. "I do wish you would come by more often, my star pupil."

The vice-general groaned. "You were aboard the Esperança for six moons, and this is merely our second day here."

"Excuses, excuses, you just do not wish to see me, is that it?" The man threw an apple into the air. "Here you are."

"Ah—" was the only word Ezekiel could utter before his breakfast fell onto the moldy floor with a thud.

"Feet not as quick as your wits, eh?" The man turned around and sat back on his desk, instantly absorbed in his tomes once more.

"...I wasn't even facing you..." Ezekiel muttered under his breath, grabbing his breakfast from the floor and dusting it off on his pants.

"So," the man flipped a tattered page, "to what do I owe this rare visit?"

Ezekiel seated himself on the chair right behind the occupied man. Crunching into his apple, he said, "You would not believe what I just witnessed."

"No weirder than dog-headed men, I hope. They do mention them quite a lot in historical accounts. Quite odd, I must say."

"...Right, no, this is much more bizarre," Ezekiel sat forward in his chair, opening his mouth agape as if to speak—

"Eureka!"

Instead, he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. Not this again...

"I've figured it out!", the aged man rushed to a table nestled conspicuously in the corner of his room. He picked up a vial of red liquid and poured it into a flask of black. The smell of urine and rotten eggs permeated the room, and Ezekiel felt like he was right back at the cesspit he had just escaped.

The man now stood scratching his head as he stared at the colorless mixture, baffled by the supposed failure of his experiment.

"For the love of God, put that thing away!" Ezekiel plugged his nose with his fingers.

"It's not that terrible, honestly." The man glugged his abominable concoction, immediately vomiting it out the moment after. "....In..edible....N..Noted."

Facepalming once again, Ezekiel regretted being under this lunatic's tutelage for the better part of his life. No doubt the man was an intellectual—some might even say a polymath—but there was one thing that this man had a severe debilitating lack of—common sense.

Still hurling, he managed to muster a few words, "T...This..is..f...fine."

"I walked through a forest of dead men."

The old man's countenance immediately shifted from jovial to intrigued.

Biting into his apple, Ezekiel continued, "Burned bodies are buried beneath the forest. Thousands upon thousands of them."

The man's eyes grew distant, as if in deep contemplation. Knowing not to distract him in his reverie, Ezekiel continued to eat at his apple.

"You are certain?"

An amused grin spread across Ezekiel's face.

"That would imply—"

"That the land is highly fertile, correct?"

The man guffawed, "Human ashes do not grant fertility to land."

Noticing his past pupil's visible disappointment, he continued, "It is quite odd, however, I must agree. I have never once seen trees tower at such unimaginable heights before."

"Right?! There must be something to it. Some... alchymy or... chymistry..."

The mention of the sciences perked up the man's ears, "Wrong. No rational science can explain this, yet. This... this is uncharted territory, and we are its principal—nay—only explorers."

"So, what do we—"

"Give me your shoe."

"Pardon?"

"Your shoe. Give it to me."

Ezekiel gave the man his shoe reluctantly.

Hobbling over to his corner table, the man used a thin knife to scrape away at the now dried mud that still stuck to his former mentee's boots. He grabbed two flasks from the shelves above, pouring in one a liquid that gave off a repulsive, pungent odour. In the other, he poured in fresh water and mixed it with a strange white crystal. He poured bits of the mud into either flask and to his astonishment—nothing happened.

"Another failure?"

"No... this is... "

Ezekiel craned his neck to look at his flabbergasted teacher. Through the years of being by his side, he knew to distinguish his mentor's expressions. The old man's eyes were genuine, this was not another one of his childish escapades—this was true, this was real—for the old man's visage showed an air of bewilderment, his face seized by an amalgam of shock and wonder.

"Impossible. No reaction whatsoever... this is absurd."

Ezekiel's eyes lit up as he heard the words, the curious exhilaration of his master transferring onto his own countenance.

Fertility. The word that clung innocently to his mind now blossomed endless—albeit widely differing—possibilities within the minds of the two learned men.

A thunderous knock on the door barged in unannounced owing to the unlocked nature of the entrance.

The startled men's eyes turned in the direction of their new guest.

"Eleazar," the guest dressed in a gold-embroidered ebony cloak spoke.

"Ah, Gabby, it's just you, you nearly scared your old man to death."

"I need a word—"

"Aye Eli, ye already have one of ye two feet in the grave," the second guest chortled heartily.

"Daring today, aren't we Matthew?"

"Name's Mattheus," the Captain spat onto the wooden floor.

"The purest Gallaecean, as always. Come on in— Ah, Danny, is that you out there?"

An audible tongue click echoed outside the door.

"Yo~!"

"Why the fuck do you pretend like you're still young, you old fart?"

Eleazar shrugged, "Do not be so hasty now. I am certain the Elixir is right within reach."

"Within reach like the mold that abounds here? Y'know, the chymists say that the properties of mold are quite linked to death," Ezekiel chipped in.

Tired of the puerile conversation, the old man retreated back to his study to continue his experiments, forgetting entirely about his liege's initial request.

Gabriel was glad to see Ezekiel in good spirits once again.

"Zeke, I—"

"Boss, I'd like to apologize for my behaviour yesterday," Ezekiel now stood bowing to his superior, "but there's something extraordinarily important that I wish to report."

His superior narrowed his eyes in anticipation.

"What, in your opinion, is the worst part about this city?"

"The dogshit hospitality?" A half-asleep Daniel interrupted.

"Its location... it was splendid back when the neighbouring Gomorrah was still under the Emiraté, but now that Gomorrah is a no man's land, this city is awkwardly positioned," the true recipient of the question responded.

"Precisely. I have a proposition—a new Capital."

"Ya bonehead, we dun even have gold to erect a proper dock."

Ignoring the interruption, he continued, "The Mission relies heavily on trade.. why waste time and resources trying to beat them at a game they know all too well? Instead.. let us pull the rug from right underneath their feet."

"I do not understand."

"It's simple, really. The Mission bleeds import tariffs. All we need to establish is a pure export-oriented economy, anchored at our new Capital."

"You mean, to turn Gehenna into a trading hub—the likes of Saragossa?"

"Exactly."

"And how do you propose we do that?"

"We undercut deals with the same clientele as the Mission's. Actually, we undercut everything."

"Are ye insane, laddie?"

"Hold on, Mattheus, he has a point," Gabriel turned back to the enthusiastic speaker, "And, how do you propose we source sufficient raw materials or manufactured goods to undercut their prices?"

A wide grin swelled across Ezekiel's face, consuming him entirely. Fertility. The cocooned word had finally metamorphosed into maturity. It had finally grown massive enough to escape the confines of his mind, to fly out into the far reaches of the somber world before him. For he knew, this singular innocuous word could serve to turn the tides of History itself, to usher in a New Dawn over the morose islet—and this word—this word was entirely his to utter.