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DATE:28th of August, the 70th year after the Coronation
LOCATION: Concord Metropolis
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I didn't pay much attention to the decorations leading up to the restaurant. They were depicting some kind of scene—a battle, I think. Carved marble reliefs, dramatic and overwrought.
I found them boring.
Pamela, on the other hand, visibly paused upon seeing them. Her fingers hovered above the surface as if she wanted to touch them but didn't dare.
"They're just decorations," I muttered, pulling her along.
The restaurant itself was surprisingly intimate. Small. Only a dozen tables, all occupied by the kind of people who spoke in hushed tones and wore watches that cost more than my organs.
A waiter—tall, impeccably dressed, with the posture of a dancer—welcomed us at the entrance. He smiled with the kind of professional warmth that was practiced to perfection.
"Good evening. Right this way."
He led us to an empty table for two, positioned near the window. The table was made of polished black stone—obsidian, maybe—gleaming under the soft overhead lighting.
Three sides of the restaurant were floor-to-ceiling glass, offering a panoramic view of downtown Concord. The city sprawled below us, glittering like a jewelry box. The lights were aggressive, almost blinding, even though the sun hadn't fully set yet.
Too much light. Too much everything.
The fourth wall was a seamless black panel. Presumably the kitchen, though I couldn't hear anything beyond it. Soundproofed, then.
Pamela dragged her fingertips across the surface of the table, mesmerized. The stone certainly was cool and smooth.
"It's beautiful," she whispered.
"It's expensive," I corrected.
The waiter clasped his hands. "Do you have a custom order in mind, or would you prefer to see the menu with tonight's specialties?"
"Menu," I said.
He reached into a leather portfolio tucked under his arm and produced two sleek, rectangular pieces of polished black wood. Golden script was etched into the surface, glowing faintly in the low light.
I stared at it.
A little much, don't you think?
I mean, how would they even edit this thing for seasonal items? Chisel it by hand every week?
I glanced through the offerings. Seafood, cuts of meat I didn't recognize, wines with names that sounded like noble titles.
No prices.
Normally, no prices meant it was a scam. But it was too late to back down now. Walking out would draw more attention than staying.
The waiter gave a polite nod. "I will give you a moment to decide. Please, take your time."
He gestured across the room, where another guest was subtly waving him over.
"Thank you," I said flatly.
He glided away.
I looked down at the menu again, then at Pamela. She was reading hers with wide eyes, her lips moving silently as she mouthed the dish names.
Pamela looked at the menu, her expression shifting from curiosity to something almost nostalgic.
"Most of these..." she murmured, running a finger down the golden script. "These are things my mother used to make in her childhood. They aren't anything special."
I raised an eyebrow. "You're Normandian?"
She nodded.
I leaned back, surprised. Most Normandians I'd encountered were like that hero Morgan—sanctimonious pests. Authoritarians with a savior complex and the military backing to enforce it.
"My parents moved to Concord through a royal decree," she explained quietly. "They were sent to teach the masses 'the proper way.'"
I chuckled. The phrase dripped with colonial arrogance.
Her face flushed. "They were really passionate about helping people. They genuinely believed—"
"I wasn't insinuating anything," I said, holding up a hand.
Her eyes faltered. She looked down at the menu again. "I don't like the current politics in the kingdom."
She was talking about the reputation, I assumed. The way Normandians had become synonymous with occupation and cultural erasure. It wasn't entirely without reason. At the end of the day, their people were oppressors.
Although it's not like I care.
The Ventians used to be imperialists too. History was just a series of people stepping on other people's necks while claiming moral superiority.
I broke the silence by raising a hand toward the waiter.
He appeared instantly, gliding over with that trained grace.
"Have you decided?"
Pamela spoke first. "Andouille de Vire," she said softly.
"Excellent choice," he said with a nod. He turned to me.
"Escalopes à la Normande," I said, reading off the menu. I had no idea what it was, but it sounded expensive enough to justify the lack of prices.
"Wonderful," the waiter said. "And for wine? Normandian cuisine is best enjoyed with the right pairing. May I suggest—"
He rattled off a few varieties, their names blending together into syllables I didn't bother to remember.
Pamela pointed at one. "That one."
He turned to me expectantly.
"Tea," I said.
He blinked. His professional smile wavered for just a fraction of a second.
"Tea, sir?"
"Yes. I haven't had one in a while."
He recovered quickly, nodding. "Of course. Might I recommend Sauge Sclarée et Menthe Poivrée? It pairs well with the dish."
I had no idea what those words meant. I just nodded and handed him the menu.
"Perfect," he said, taking both menus and disappearing again.
I turned to Pamela. "What's with these terms? The Normandians created the Unified Alphabet, didn't they? Yet I don't recognize half of these words."
She tilted her head, thinking. "They were given names before the creation of the alphabet. The dishes, I mean. Normally they're translated."
She paused, looking around the room.
"I'm actually surprised they're using them here. It's... very traditional. Almost pretentious."
"Almost?" I scoffed. "This whole place is pretentious. The moment I saw the wooden menus, I knew we were in for a performance."
She smiled slightly, the first real smile I'd seen from her all day.
"At least the food will be good," she said.
"It better be," I muttered. "For what this is probably costing, it should come with a side of immortality."
She offered to translate what I ordered, but I waved her off. "Don't bother. I'll find out when it arrives."
We sat like that for a few seconds, glancing at each other across the polished black stone. Eventually, she looked away, turning her attention to the glass wall and the blinding sprawl of lights below.
But I didn't avert my eyes. I kept staring.
I still wasn't sure. What was it about her skin? Why did it remind me of myself? Was it the physical similarity—the flawless, unnatural smoothness—or was it something deeper? Was I projecting?
She started fidgeting with her fingers, twisting them together in her lap.
"Is... something wrong?" she asked quietly, her voice tight. She'd obviously noticed that I hadn't stopped looking at her.
I debated playing it off. A compliment, maybe. I was just admiring you. Easy. Disarming.
But then I caught the small gestures. The twitches in her shoulders. The way her breathing had quickened.
Fear.
Of course she was afraid of me. Why wouldn't she be? She'd seen what I was capable of. She'd watched me paste an Inquisitor into drywall and electrocute Yonezu into a coma. And unlike Alice, she didn't have any powers to defend herself.
Or... was she even afraid of me?
She could see those letters. The labels. The cracks in reality that I couldn't perceive. Maybe she saw more than just my scars. Maybe she saw the leash around my neck. The rot underneath.
I let out a long sigh and leaned forward, resting my elbows on the table.
"Why do you even want to help me?" I asked flatly. "Because that whole 'save Yonezu' excuse was transparent."
She blinked, startled. "I... I told you. I wanted to repay you for saving me. I'm trying to be nice—"
I gave her a finger wag, cutting her off.
"No," I said coldly. "That's not it."
I leaned in closer, my voice dropping.
"Stop fucking with me, Pamela. No one in my entire life has selflessly offered their help. Not once. There's always a catch. Always a price. So what's yours?"
Her lips trembled. She covered her face with both hands for a moment, breathing in deeply. Then she uncovered it, her expression focused, resolute.
"As I mentioned before," she said carefully, "I can see those words. On you. Around you."
She paused, her hands gripping the edge of the table.
"But," she continued, her voice trembling slightly, "I see other things too."
I waited.
"I see other lingering spirits," she whispered. "And it horrifies me."
Her eyes were wide, haunted.
"I could hardly sleep my first night back in my body because of the screaming. Dozens of them. Hundreds, maybe. All around me. Clawing at the air. Begging. Sobbing."
She swallowed hard.
"I didn't notice this when I wasn't in a corporeal form. I couldn't see anyone else. I was alone. But now..." She looked down at her hands. "Now I can't stop seeing them."
I leaned back, processing. "Do you hear screaming right now?"
She shook her head quickly. "No. Not here. Not near you."
I raised an eyebrow.
"Your brands," she said, gesturing vaguely toward me. "The marks on your soul. They... they keep the spirits away. Like a barrier. Or a repellent."
I raised my eyes toward the ceiling, thinking.
She was probably right. Biz had said I was brought back "perfectly." A flawless resurrection. It made sense that my contractor had been a powerful figure—someone with enough skill and clout to forge a leash that clean.
And if the contract itself radiated enough necromantic authority to scare off lesser spirits... well, that was useful information.
I sighed again, shifting my gaze to the window. The lights outside were a chaotic, blinding mess. I could practically hear through my eyes how busy the streets below were. Honking. Shouting. The hum of a thousand lives I didn't care about.
I stayed like that, staring into the noise, until the waiter returned.
He was carrying a tray with my tea—a delicate porcelain cup steaming gently—and a bottle of wine. He set them down with practiced grace.
"An appetizer for the lady," he said with a warm smile, gesturing to the wine. "On the house. A Calvados from our private collection. Aged twelve years. Notes of apple and oak, with a smooth, caramelized finish that pairs beautifully with the Andouille."
He kept talking, his voice dripping with enthusiasm, explaining the vintage and the distillation process and some other nonsense I tuned out immediately.
I rolled my eyes but didn't comment.
That guy probably thinks he's helping me impress the lady. Gotta work for that tip, am I right?
The tea was served in one of those short cups with no handle. I raised it carefully, inhaling. It certainly smelled aromatic—herbal and sharp.
The taste, though... I wasn't so sure. Coughing syrup and mint? Was this what Normandians drank for pleasure?
I set the cup down and looked at her.
"So you're going to cling to me," I said flatly. "To avoid hearing those voices."
She blinked. "That's... a very strange way to put it."
"It's exactly how it is," I said. "You want proximity to the barrier. To the brands. So the ghosts leave you alone."
She bit her lip, then nodded slowly.
At least her displeasure is clear. I didn't want another burden clinging to my conscience—or what was left of it.
We spent another ten minutes in silence, occasionally glancing at each other, but mostly staring at the city lights or the table.
Finally, the waiter returned with the food.
Gosh, I really regretted coming to this place.
I was given what appeared to be chicken with mushrooms and some kind of cream sauce drizzled over it. Pamela's plate held a small cut of steak, seared and glistening.
The portions were absurd. Tiny. This place must have been one of those tasting menu locations where you're expected to order seven courses and sit for three hours.
I really didn't feel like staying.
"Bring us whatever dessert you recommend," I told the waiter before he could ask if we wanted anything else.
He nodded, pleased, and disappeared again.
We ate in silence. I chewed mechanically, barely tasting the food.
"The quality is very good," Pamela said quietly, cutting into her steak.
"It must be," I muttered.
She looked at me, her expression thoughtful. "You don't look like you're enjoying this. Or... most things in life, really."
I set my fork down. "I don't particularly have anything to enjoy. Worldly pleasures..." I gestured at the food. "They lose their appeal after a while."
She glanced downward, her voice soft. "I hope I don't reach that level."
I scoffed.
"You will," I said. "Everyone does. It's just a matter of how much pain it takes to get there."
The waiter returned with what he presented as Crêpes Mylene.
I suppose they looked fine. Thin, folded crepes dusted with powdered sugar, arranged on a pristine white plate.
I took a bite.
Yeah, these were really good. Much better than the main course. The crepes were delicate, almost translucent, wrapped around roasted pears that were caramelized and warm. The sweetness of the fruit contrasted perfectly with the slight bitterness of the burnt sugar on top.
I actually enjoyed it. For a moment.
"Put everything on room number 404," I told the waiter. "And add a tip for yourself."
He showed us a smile—genuine this time. "Of course, sir. But please, wait just a moment. I have a small gift for you both."
He disappeared before I could refuse.
In the time we waited, a young guy approached our table from across the room. He was grinning like an idiot, dressed in a visibly expensive shirt that was buttoned wrong, paired with a gaudy golden tie that hung crooked.
"Exquisite taste in brands," he said, gesturing to our matching Herman outfits. "I have to say, you two have style. I'm hosting a party tonight—private, exclusive—and I'd love for you to join."
I dragged my hand across my face. I could still feel the texture of the scars under my fingertips. They were fading, but they were still there.
And yet he approached me? Strange.
"I'm tired," I said flatly. "But I appreciate the offer."
Pamela giggled.
I turned to her, raising an eyebrow.
"You're surprisingly well-behaved," she said, still smiling. She said that. With this guy standing right there.
I lowered my gaze, my voice cold. "I respect those who respect me."
The young guy caressed the back of his head awkwardly. "Oh, uh, sorry to have disturbed you. That's totally fine. No worries."
He turned around, walking away with what seemed like patience.
But I saw him.
He bit his lip. Hard.
Was he angry that his offer was rejected? Or did he need to get me somewhere? Was he possibly sent by a third party?
So I'm being followed?
No. How could I be? By who? The Inquisition? One of the Agencies? Some random villain with a grudge?
I stared at his back as he disappeared into the crowd.
Whatever.
I really couldn't bring myself to care right now.
The waiter came back with another bottle of wine and a small sealed box wrapped in black ribbon.
I looked at it, then at him. "What's inside?"
"I don't know, sir," he said with a polite smile. "But it was sent as a gift for William Carter."
I nodded, taking both items. I handed the wine and the box to Pamela without looking at them.
"Thank you," I muttered, standing.
We returned to my room. I threw myself onto the couch, letting the cushions absorb my weight. Pamela placed the wine and the box on the coffee table, then took a seat on the armchair across from me.
"Who could possibly have sent you a gift?" she asked, staring at the box. "That man from earlier?"
I shook my head, exhausted. "Open it if you're so curious."
She hesitated, then carefully unwrapped the ribbon and lifted the lid.
She gasped.
"It's a ring," she said, holding it up to the light. "No... a wedding ring?"
It was delicate, gold, clearly designed for a woman. A large stone—diamond, probably—glittered on the band.
I just closed my eyes, annoyed.
"There's something else inside," she said. "A letter."
"Read it out loud," I said, not bothering to open my eyes.
She unfolded the paper.
"My love, you've been avoiding me. I left you a little gift. I hope that we meet tomorrow at the Starzat."
I cracked one eye open. "What even is the Starzat?"
She released her hands in confusion, then grabbed her phone from the table and typed quickly.
"It's a fancy restaurant," she said, scrolling. "A few streets away from here."
She looked up at me. "Could this be a mistake? A wrong address or something?"
I gestured dismissively with the tips of my fingers, waving her concern away.
"You think this fancy establishment is foolish enough to do something like that?" I asked sarcastically.
I sat up slightly, rubbing my temples.
"It's not that strange that I'm being followed."
"Followed?" she asked, her eyes widening.
I ignored her question.
"This ring is a poor joke," I said. "Someone thinks they can take me for a fool. I won't go to that restaurant."
"But..." she hesitated. "The person may come here themselves. At the very least they know your hotel..."
I let out a long, tired breath.
Great. Another problem.
"Exactly," I said. "If I was so important, then I certainly deserve to be given that much effort."
I gestured vaguely at the ring. "You can have it."
Even with my eyes closed, I could hear her cringe.
"I... I don't really want it," she said quietly.
I covered my eyes with my forearm and sighed. "It's not like that. I'm not proposing to you, Pamela. Relax."
I gestured toward the coffee table without looking. "Then leave it there. I'll sell it tomorrow."
Silence.
"You're free to go back to the dorms," I added.
"The spirits," she reminded me softly.
Fuck me.
I sighed, sitting up. "Fine. You can take the couch."
I stood, gesturing toward it with all the enthusiasm of a man directing traffic in his sleep.
"Get comfortable," I muttered. I couldn't even put the energy into being sarcastic about it.
I walked tiredly toward the bed and threw myself onto it, face-first into the pillow.
At some point, I started hearing the television in the room. The low murmur of voices and background music. Pamela wasn't sleepy, apparently.
I rolled onto my back, staring at the ceiling.
My mind drifted back to the tea. That awful, medicinal concoction they'd served me.
How can Normandians even drink that?
No. A good tea was simpler. Less about complex blends and exotic ingredients, more about primary flavors. Clean. Direct.
Even the tea from cheap cafes was better. Tea like...
I frowned.
Why do I even like tea?
It was always out of place.
Why was I nostalgic for tea?
I turned onto my side, pulling the pillow closer.
Where did that even come from?
The memory felt old. Buried. Like it belonged to someone else.
In that dream, I was nostalgic for tea. Just like the Southern deserts.
But I hate the deserts of Salvia. The heat. The sand. The emptiness.
So why do I like tea?
I didn't drink tea in my childhood. I was certain of that. Water, always. Not even coffee. But tea?
So when did it happen? During my time at Balmundi?
I searched my memory. Training. Combat drills. Late nights in the dorms. Meals in the mess hall.
Nothing.
I just can't remember.
The harder I tried to grasp it, the further it slipped away. Like trying to hold smoke.
And then...
I found myself drawn into a black void.
No light. No sound. Just the weight of nothing pressing down on all sides.
I floated there, suspended, waiting for something to emerge.
But nothing came.