Dorothy’s Forbidden Grimoire Novel - Chapter 424

**Chapter 424: Summertree**

Under cover of night, three ferry ships ferrying pilgrims quietly emerged from the heavy sea mist and glided across the glassy surface of the open ocean. There was no sign of the armed church vessels that should have escorted them. To any watchful predator, these solitary ships looked like helpless prey—unguarded, vulnerable, ripe for the taking.

On one such vessel, a number of sailors lay sprawled across the deck, motionless. The planks beneath them were slick with water, and though unmoving, their faint breathing showed they were merely unconscious. Just behind them, a cluster of terrified crewmen knelt with hands raised in submission.

Among the fallen lay a man in his early thirties, barefoot and bare-chested, standing with an air of cold detachment. His tangled black hair framed a gaunt, stubbled face, his only clothing a pair of worn leather trousers.

The quiet was broken by the soft splash of water beside the ship. A lean, wiry figure sprang up from the sea with the ease of a sea creature, landing smoothly on the deck. Also clad in nothing more than trousers, the young man steadied himself and spoke in a tongue the trembling sailors didn’t understand.

“Bahuoda, the other two ships are ours. Every Brilliance pilgrim is accounted for.”

Bahuoda’s eyes, steely and unreadable, shifted to him. “Sookai. Any opposition?”

“Barely any. Not a real warrior among them. Took them down without much of a fight. Our people weren’t even scratched. We taught them a lesson or two regardless. Pathetic.” Sookai’s voice dripped with smugness.

Bahuoda gave a single, approving nod. “Good. Get the crew moving. Turn the ships around. We sail home at once. Make haste—we disappear before Brilliance catches wind.”

“Right away.” Sookai turned to leap back into the water.

“Hold.” Bahuoda’s sharp tone stopped him. “The injured pilgrims—are any gravely hurt? Treat them. Don’t let anyone die.”

Sookai blinked, arms spreading in disbelief. “You want us to *treat* them? Bahuoda, they’re from Brilliance! They’re our enemies! We showed mercy by not killing them during the boarding—and now we’re patching them up?”

“They *are* our foes,” Bahuoda replied coolly. “But alive, they’re useful. Killing them now serves no purpose. Every living pilgrim increases our leverage. You understand?”

Sookai stood silent for a beat, jaw tight, then gave a clipped nod and dove overboard without another word.

Turning back to the shaken sailors, Bahuoda barked in fluent Ivigran, “Back to your stations. We’re changing course.”

……

The sea, with its endless stretch and hidden depths, had always drawn dreamers and adventurers alike. Its ever-changing moods and boundless mysteries filled countless stories. Even today, after generations of navigation, large portions of the oceans—especially parts of the Conquerer’s Sea—remained unexplored.

In one such mist-cloaked stretch, far from any well-traveled path, where ships sometimes vanished and became the stuff of myth, sat a secret cluster of islands.

One such island rose high from the black waters, shrouded in drifting fog. At its center, under a towering and ancient tree, small flames flickered and fought against the thick gloom. In front of the fire loomed a figure—not carved but *grown*—from the very roots of the earth. Formed from living wood, the shape of a woman stood tall, arms stretched in offering. Her form, all gentle lines and full curves, radiated peace.

By the fire’s edge sat Ananmus, Priest of the Tree of Plenty. Fifty harsh winters had shaped his face, and coarse robes hung loosely on his lean body. His brow was furrowed deep with concern as he stared into the dancing flames. Around him, others in similar garb mirrored his uneasy silence.

A narrow-faced youth sitting beside him, Obuye, spoke softly. “Venerable Ananmus, do not let doubt take root. Bahuoda is sharp, and strong. One of our finest. He won’t fail.”

Ananmus exhaled, the sound dry and weary. “His strength isn’t in question, Obuye. But this is no ordinary mission. He dares to strike directly at Brilliance. That zealotry… it devours all. Our power cannot compare. It is a perilous gamble. And I feel its weight.”

“Yes, Glorious is mighty,” Obuye acknowledged, “but even they have blind spots. Rumor says their fleet was for show—no real power aboard. None of them match Bahuoda in skill. He outclasses them.”

But Ananmus remained grim. “Words float easily. Truth is another matter. I dread the unknown in this action. Had desperation not cornered us, I would never have allowed such risk.”

“We had no choice,” Obuye pressed. “If we are to protect Summertree Isle, preserve the old faith and the blessings of the Goddess—then this was our only path. Now Glorious *must* negotiate. The mask of pride must finally fall.”

Ananmus drew breath to respond when sudden footfalls echoed. A young acolyte in rough clothing dashed into the circle, breath ragged.

“Honored Ananmus! A message from Bahuoda! Success! The Brilliance pilgrims are captured! They’re on their way back!”

For a moment, no one moved. “It… it truly happened?” Ananmus whispered, slowly rising. Relief moved like a breeze through those gathered, softening their tense features.

Beside him, Obuye spoke with satisfaction. “A breakthrough, Venerable One. With these captives, Glorious will be forced to listen. At last.”

Ananmus stood still, lost in thought. Then, his voice sharpened with renewed urgency. “Signal Faisar on the mainland. Send the letters—immediately. To Glorious. Make our demands clear. They will *not* be misinterpreted.”

“At once, Venerable Priest!” The messenger sprinted away.

Ananmus watched the youth disappear into the darkness, then turned once more toward the living statue of the Goddess. Her face, though featureless, seemed to glow with gentle power. His voice trembled, barely audible.

“To be brought… to this point…

“O Bountiful Mother… forgive our trespass… Protect Summertree.”

The prayer drifted into the night.

……

Pace, capital city of Ivig. On the northern edge of the Conquerer’s Sea.

The city slumbered. In the purified heart of the Church District, a glow of candlelight pierced the shadows inside Purifying Heart Cathedral.

Archbishop Antonio stood alone near a stained-glass window, tall and arched. His silk robes hung modestly on his heavyset frame, hands clasped behind him. The silver streaks in his hair glinted softly. Before him, a younger priest stood stiffly, nervous.

“Repeat that? The Lecher Valley convoy attacked? The pilgrims… all missing?” Antonio’s tone was one of disbelief held tightly in check.

“Confirmed, Your Grace.” The priest gave a small bow. “The Third Escort Fleet of the Holy Order sent word via Illuminator. They were caught in dense fog—manipulated by Tide Singers. Multiple enhanced combatants involved. Ships and escorts suffered little harm, but the three ferries… all gone. Eight hundred fifty-one souls. Lost without trace.”

Antonio stood unmoving. A cold fire sparked behind his eyes. Though his face stayed calm, tension rippled through the air. When he finally spoke, each word came laced with frost.

“The Third Escort… Yesterday those same zealots insisted purging heresy was vital. So much so, they found it acceptable to insult four consecrators. Hmph. I suppose *this* tragedy barely stirs them?”

“Your Grace…” The priest paled, voice low. “Such remarks… dangerous if overheard.”

“Oh?” Antonio gave a dry, cutting laugh. “You fear they’ll hear me say our Tribunal is a nest of incompetents? That from Cardinals down to incense boys, we are ruled by buffoons? I would call them mad—but madness suggests vigor. These are dullards.”

The priest wiped sweat from his brow. Antonio turned away, pacing now, anger barely leashed.

“A pilgrim convoy struck… It’s been years since anything of this magnitude. Three ships. Eight hundred lives. Gone. Who would dare this? Cultists? Snake worshippers again?”

He stopped. The weight of the moment pressed on him. *Summertree Isle…* How far had the fringe sects been pushed?

The doors swung wide as a messenger burst into the hall.

“Your Grace! Urgent word!”

Antonio spun. “Speak.”

“A wiregram, Your Grace. From Summertree Isle.”

His shoulders stiffened. “The contents?”

The messenger swallowed hard. “Their warriors claim to have ‘invited’ the Glorious pilgrims to their isle. They promise their safe return—*but only* if we cancel the planned military operation against Summertree. They demand a public assurance that no missionaries will set foot on their shores. That the people of Summertree will *never* be forced to abandon their gods.

“They insist they will remain true to their ancient traditions. That they will forever worship the Bountiful Mother—the Goddess of Growth, who nurtures life—and they reject any foreign faith.”

Antonio stared into the silence. Time stretched, heavy and long. At last, he spoke—soft and grave.

“Summertree Isle… To go this far… What desperation must have driven them.”