Chapter 7: Down The Rabbit Hole

The boat cut through the slow current, leaving a soft wake behind that rippled and vanished into the reeds. The city's old piece loomed faintly in the distance—its jagged rooftops catching the early light, its towers wrapped in haze. Old ruined buildings standing there, bring up the melancholic thoughts. Old Port district.

Neither man in the boat spoke. The engine murmured low and steady, the sound blending with the calls of seagulls circling above. A few drifted low over the water, wings flashing white in the sun before veering off toward the docks. The river smelled of salt, oil, and old mud, never really washed clean.

Corvo sat near the stern, his gaze fixed ahead, though his thoughts drifted somewhere else—past the water and the horizon.

Samuel, on the other hand, kept one hand on the tiller, squinting into the light. He glanced at Corvo now and then, as if to make sure the man was still real.

After a long while, his voice broke the quiet.

“Never thought I’d see the Lord Protector like this,” he said, not unkindly. “The stories they tell in the streets… you’d think you were ten feet tall and dressed in smoke.”

Corvo didn’t answer right away. He followed the movement of the water against the hull, the faint glimmer of sunlight on its surface.

“They tell stories about everyone,” he said finally, voice flat but calm. “Doesn’t make them true.”

Samuel chuckled softly. “Aye, that’s fair, sir. But still—seeing you sitting there, breathing free air after what they’ve done to you…” He shook his head, steering the boat around a half-sunken barge. “Can’t help but think maybe there’s a bit of truth in some of them after all.”

Corvo gave the faintest nod, eyes still on the water. The sun climbed higher, painting the surface gold.

Samuel stayed quiet for a stretch, guiding the small craft along the gentle bend of the river. After a moment, he gave a quiet sigh, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Heh. Guess I’m not much for talk, am I? Should’ve kept my mouth shut, sir. You’ve had enough voices thrown at you lately, I reckon.”, the man said with an awkward, apologetic smile. His voice is still raspy, but still caring warmth.

Corvo glanced his way briefly, but said nothing. There was no reproach in his gaze — just the same steady calm that had carried him through Coldridge mere hours ago.

Samuel nodded once, as if to himself, then cleared his throat. “Anyway,” he muttered, eyes on the river ahead, “we’re almost there.”