'Divinum…?'
The word echoed in the space between my ears and my mind, swirling like thick smoke that refused to coalesce into meaning. What was it? My own pure curiosity immediately surged to the surface, followed by a deeper, colder sensation: a kind of suspicion.
In all the fantasy stories I'd ever read on Earth, words of 'Latin' origin or words that sounded Latin, uttered in that kind of low, weighty tone as if touching something sacred almost always referred to the divine, the supernatural, or magic. That immediately made me think: was this the key? Was this the explanation for the 'God' voice in my head? Or for this strange world?
My instinct dove straight into the sea of Friedrich's memories, combing through every accessible corner: market gossip, the pastor's sermons at the Glaubenkirche, drunken chatter in taverns, stories from passing travelers. And the result was nothing. An absolute void. That was surprising. If this were common knowledge, there would at least be whispers, myths, or superstitious nonsense. But if this were a secret… why would a low-level interviewer for a ship crew position ask about it?
My eyes, which must have been broadcasting genuine confusion, locked onto his gray ones. He wasn't just looking; he was observing my reaction. Every blink, every tensed muscle in my face, every slightly deeper breath all of it felt cataloged by his gaze.
"No," my voice finally came out, slightly hoarse. "I have never heard the term 'Divinum' at all, sir."
My words fell into the waiting silence. For a moment, only the sound of my own breathing was loud in my ears. Then, something strange happened on his face. The tension vanished. Not into friendliness, but into a flat sort of satisfaction.
"Good," he uttered, and that single word seemed to close the door on a subject of immense magnitude.
His voice returned to its authoritative tone, as if he were the supreme ruler of this place, as if he had just asked about my lunch habits. "That is good."
Good? Why was it good? Why was not knowing a good thing? I expected an explanation, or at least an acknowledgment that it was a strange question. But no. It was cast out and then withdrawn, like bait yanked back the moment a fish bit, just to see if there was a bite.
The void he left behind was more disturbing than any explanation. It became a huge question mark for me: what was his reason for asking something, and when someone answered "no," he would respond with "good."
As my mind spun, trying to understand his logic, the man had already moved on. "The State, the Church, and the companies those institutions in the colony territories and the companies on the Indropa continent," he said, while straightening the corner of the map he had taken out earlier with his fingertip, "often come into contact with legends, primitive rituals, and wicked people, as well as people with… unusual abilities." He said it in a condescending tone, but there was something forced in it, like someone trying to describe a lion as a large cat. "'Divinum' is our umbrella term for the body of knowledge concerning such phenomena. Knowledge that will be provided to all new employees during orientation training, for safety and work efficiency in the field."
His explanation sounded logical, neat, and very boring. But it didn't explain his earlier tone, or the intensity of his stare. It also didn't explain what happened next.
As he lifted his head and smiled that same professional smile as before, my eyes were drawn to his irises. And I froze.
Their color had changed.
Not an illusion of light. Not a trick of the light. The irises, which had previously been metallic gray with fine cracks like broken glass, had now returned to ordinary blue, the color of calm sea water, utterly unremarkable. The change was so clear, so total, like someone swapping contact lenses between my blinks.
"What is actually happening here?" That question exploded in my mind, much louder than before. This wasn't a small thing I could ignore like before. This time, it truly became an anomaly I could no longer overlook. The connection formed instantly: 'Divinum' then the eye change. Was it some kind of… indicator? Symptom? Or perhaps… magic? Was this man himself part of the 'Divinum' he mentioned? That thought was wild and baseless, but my body responded with cold sweat prickling on my back. My logical knowledge had no answers, and Friedrich's memory was empty. I could only observe and guess what I could, stranded in the middle of a mystery without navigational tools truly bewildering.
However, the interview continued. The atmosphere, previously heavy with metaphysical enigmas and color-changing stares, suddenly dissolved into something very ordinary, very mundane. The man whose name I now finally knew was Herr Schreiber from the small note on his desk picked up my form again and began circling points with the blunt tip of his pen.
His questions shifted to safe, even boring territory: health ("Any serious illnesses? Broken bones?"), physical abilities ("Can you swim? Tolerate seasickness?"), and work references that could be contacted. When discussing salary expectations, I mentioned the figure of seven Groschen a month a figure actually twice my previous carpenter's wage. Herr Schreiber just nodded, scribbled something, without haggling. "Reasonable for an entry-level position with map skills," he murmured, his voice now flat and procedural.
And that's when I finally realized it: a subtle yet fundamental shift. The impression that this man was a figure of supreme authority, an entity holding the keys to the world's secrets, had simply evaporated.
The aura of intensity that had made the air feel dense was gone. He now truly felt like what he was: a company administrator, a competent but unremarkable interviewer, whose face I would probably forget as soon as I walked out the door. His cold professionalism remained, but the quality of being 'other' had extinguished. He wrote, asked questions, and nodded in a predictable rhythm, just like dozens of other bureaucratic officials I had faced in my old life.
This atmospheric shift was too stark to be coincidence. And, carefully, I observed his eyes again from behind my lowered lashes. Ordinary blue irises. The color had persisted after its reappearance, stable, not flickering back to that unsettling metallic gray.
My suspicion quickly hardened: the disappearance of his "special impression" coincided precisely with the return of his eye color to normal. As if a certain mode of interaction the mode in which 'Divinum' was discussed had been switched off, and with it vanished the strange aspect of his physique. It was a disturbing data point, a correlation pointing to something far beyond Friedrich's or my understanding.
Yet, what could I do? Interrupt the interview to ask, "Excuse me, sir, did your eyes just change color because of magic?" That was a direct path to failure, or something worse. So, with bitter resolve, I decided to ignore it. I suppressed the wave of questions and anxiety, forcing myself to focus on my performance in the remainder of this mundane interview, all the while hoping inwardly that my decision not to pursue this mystery wasn't a fatal mistake.
Soon after, he brought out another parchment and there was another expensive parchment, but this time somewhat different. The vellum quality was equally high, perhaps even finer, but its condition was new. No deep folds, no age-yellowed color, no scent of dust and time. Its surface was perfectly white, fresh, as if it had just come out of the parchment maker's workshop yesterday.
The man, with a movement more like a ceremony than a transaction, slid the parchment across the dark wooden table. It stopped precisely at the edge, in front of me. I didn't need to read it to understand: this was a contract.
For a moment, two different kinds of relief collided in my chest. Friedrich's genuine pride that he had succeeded, that he could support them burst like a warm bubble amidst the interview's stiffness. On top of it, with a drier, more cynical tone, was my own satisfaction: wow, first job interview in a fantasy world, and I actually pulled it off. Not bad.
I took a breath and leaned forward, my eyes running over the lines of perfectly printed Rethian script, the black ink so dense it seemed to absorb light.
"ARTICLE 1: Employee Friedrich Wolff is bound to a term of service for twenty-four full calendar months, commencing at the first dawn of the month of February 1632, and concluding at the final dusk of the month of January 1634. Primary destination and assignment shall be within the colonial territory of the Gilgamesh Archipelago, with specific placement under the Eastern Exploration Sector, as determined and subject to change at any time by the Board of Directors of the Compagnie Maritime de Weimar."
Two years. Nearly a lifetime in a foreign world. My index finger moved down, to the administrative clause section: absolute obedience to the chain of command, maintenance of company equipment, strict prohibition of gambling and strong drink aboard ship, sanctions for sleeping off-schedule.
Then I stopped.
"ARTICLE 7: Absolute and Perpetual Confidentiality. The Employee, by signature below, swears upon their honor and binds their body and soul not to reveal, disclose, discuss, or hint at, whether orally, in writing, pictorially, or through any means of communication known or hereafter devised, to any party outside the official hierarchical structure of the Compagnie Maritime de Weimar, and authorities such as the state and church as delineated, regarding:
a) The specific processes, stages, or questions administered during employee selection.
b) Special terminology, concepts, or vocabulary introduced or utilized during selection.
c) The results, reactions, or observations from any psychological, physical, or mental tests administered.
d) Abnormal physical, mental, or behavioral conditions observed in other employees during the selection or training period."
My breath caught. This wasn't an ordinary confidentiality clause. This sealed your mouth shut before you even saw what needed hiding.
"Violation of this oath shall result in:
i) Immediate termination of the contract without compensation or severance.
ii) A financial penalty of One Hundred Gulden of the Lahelu Empire, payable in full within thirty calendar days of termination.
iii) Legal prosecution for breach of contract and disclosure of trade secrets."
One Hundred Gulden, huh? It made my head spin. In the economy I understood from Friedrich's memories, that was a figure middle-class workers couldn't even attain. That was the price of a house in the city, or freedom from hard labor for a lifetime.
But as a fine? It was an impossible debt, a snare that would crush anyone, turning them into debt slaves forever. But why? What was so terrible about an ordinary interview process that it needed guarding with threats like this?
I took a deep breath, forcing myself to continue. My eyes, still pulsing with anxiety, jumped to the section I always, for some reason, thought of as the main point for both Ray and Friedrich: salary.
"ARTICLE 9: Compensation. The Employee shall receive a monthly salary of Twelve Groschen of the Empire..."
Twelve Groschen. That was twenty-four times Friedrich's weekly wage as a carpenter! That was money that could pay their damp apartment's rent for a year in advance. That meant meat on the dinner table more than once a month. That meant medicine for Mother when her joints creaked in winter. That meant books and sewing tools for Lisa, maybe even a down payment for her dream textile design school. A feeling of genuine happiness enveloped me, so much so that I wanted to grin like an idiot.
"...with an increase to Fourteen Groschen after six months of active service without any record of serious infraction."
Then, below it, there was an additional note in slightly different ink, as if added later:
"Note: Based on initial assessment of cartographic competence and spatial logic, the employee may be placed in an additional position as Assistant Navigator (Entry Level) under the direct supervision of the ship's Chief Navigator. This assignment carries an additional allowance of Two Groschen per month, effective upon completion of basic training."
I stared at the interviewer. The man with the now-returned blue eyes stared back, his expression as clear as a freshly washed windowpane. No urging, no explanation. Just waiting.
"All of this…" my voice came out cracked, still so happy I had to clear my throat. "All of this is standard?" I tried to inject a wary note of doubt.
"Every word there," he replied, his voice like cold cast iron. "This is the result of decades of experience operating on unmapped frontiers. Confidentiality prevents public panic and is also part of the state and church's mandate for major corporations. And we pay very well for unconditional loyalty and useful skills." His blue eyes were fixed on me, as if challenging me to question that logic further.
Then, from the desk drawer, he produced a pen. He handed it to me.
My hand took it almost reflexively. The dream of a large salary, responsibility to family, the hope shining in Lisa's eyes this morning… all of it pressed behind this action. Signing this wouldn't just be for Mother and my sister. It was also a way out from starvation for myself.
I pressed the pen's tip onto the line marked with an 'X' at the bottom of the parchment. I filled in the lines of my name automatically. I wrote that name:
F-R-I-E-D-R-I-C-H W-O-L-F-F.
As the pen lifted, the signature ignited.
Not a metaphor. Literally. The strokes of blue ink emitted a pale blue light, dim like fireflies trapped in ice, glowing with a steady intensity for perhaps two heartbeats. Then, as quickly as it appeared, the light died out, leaving the signature now just ordinary dark blue ink, slightly glossy, as if coated with a thin varnish.
This was magic!
That word struck my mind with physical force. This was no illusion, no trick of light. This was exactly like the magic found in popular works on Earth. This was something from another world, utterly foreign to me or the real Friedrich!
The insane confidentiality clause from earlier suddenly made sense in the most horrifying way: it wasn't to protect trade secrets, but to hide this. I had just bound myself to something that used entirely different laws of reality.
With a startled movement, I pulled my hand back as if the parchment had just burned me. My eyes burned as I stared at Herr Schreiber, searching for an answer, a denial, something.
He just smiled. Not a friendly or professional smile, but a thin, knowing smile, like an expert watching his student witness the fundamental principle of their field for the first time.
"Calm down," he uttered, his voice suddenly becoming almost… soothing. "That's just a contract paper from the Divinum. No need to worry. It just ensures no violator can run off if the contract is agreed to."
I was frozen. Fear and confusion wrestled with the urgent need not to look like someone who knew nothing, like someone unworthy of this job. I nodded, once, firmly, as if I understood completely. Pretending to understand. That was the only way.
"Good," he said, and the smile vanished, replaced by his usual administrative expression. "Now, as an advance and initial fund for equipment use it wisely for proper work clothes and basic personal gear you will be called within a week for preliminary observation."
He opened another drawer and took out three larger, thicker metal coins than Pfennigs. Groschen coins! The pure silver metal gleamed softly in his palm before he tipped them into my own.
Three Groschen. Worth thirty-six Pfennigs. Probably enough to buy a pair of new, waterproof leather boots, a backpack, and still have some left over for a piece of meat as a celebratory meal tonight.
The weight of those coins in my hand felt real, concrete, grounding… and pleasant.