Carver Island

Just west of Dentpeak Island, shrouded in sea fog and hushed conversation, lies Carver Island—a place both forgotten and remembered with guilt. While it bears the remnants of an ancient sight in the form of moss-covered ruins and crumbling monoliths, it is not history that defines Carver Island today. It is the leper colony that now calls it home.

For decades, Carver Island has served as a place of exile for those afflicted with leprosy. Without a known cure, those diagnosed are quietly ferried across the water and left to live out their days in forced isolation. Though provisions of food, water, and basic supplies are consistently delivered by Imperial order, no leper may return to the mainland, and few Edisonians speak openly about what happens there.

Originally, the colony lived in appalling conditions—natural caves and wind-beaten shelters that offered little protection against the elements. It was only after a wave of public outcry—sparked by the hidden accounts of a sympathetic courier—that the city was stirred into action. A massive charity initiative, funded in part by religious orders and concerned nobles, led to the construction of basic housing and communal buildings, including a chapel and infirmary. These improvements, while significant, remain a thin veil over the harsh reality of permanent exile.

Among the few voices that continue to speak for the island is Empress Sophronia II herself. A longstanding advocate for public health and social dignity, she frequently calls attention to Carver Island in her addresses, describing the residents not as pariahs but as “citizens unjustly punished for the misfortune of illness.” Despite her efforts, political momentum for reform is slow, hampered by stigma, fear, and a deep cultural unease with the subject of disease.

Carver Island remains a wound on the conscience of Edison, a place where compassion is tempered by containment, and mercy is bound in silence. Some say the ancient ruins on the island once housed a temple of healing. If so, it’s a cruel irony—now the island holds only those whom the world refuses to heal.

Until real change comes, Carver Island will remain what it is: a monument to isolation, resilience, and the quiet cruelty of quarantine.