The King's Manner stretched long and quiet, its marble floors polished to a mirror shine, its high windows casting slanted rectangles of gold across the corridor. Outside, the crowd murmured and laughed, the distant clatter of vendors setting up their stalls—a low, constant hum like the tide coming in.
Phởlaurant Vanluc walked beside King Vitis Koshu, his boots striking the stone in a steady rhythm. His navy blue uniform was crisp, his commendation pin a colorful, metallic contrast. He held a leather folder under his arm—status reports, casualty lists, repair estimates. The weight of the kingdom pressed against his ribs.
"The harbor repairs are at sixty percent," Phởlaurant said, his voice low and measured. "The Fermentation Current damaged the eastern docks more than we thought. But the crews are working double shifts. We'll have full capacity within the week."
King Koshu nodded, his silver-gray hair shifting as they passed the windows. The Vine Crown rested on his head, delicate silver grapevines that seemed to glow. His deep burgundy robes whispered against the floor.
"The casualties?"
Phởlaurant's jaw tightened. "Thirty-seven confirmed dead among the civilians. Twelve missing—presumed lost at sea. Twenty-one Coast Guard injured. Three critical, but Doctor Trance says they'll pull through."
Koshu's gray-blue eyes—exhausted, thoughtful—fixed on the far wall. "And the Coast Guard's readiness?"
"We're undermanned, sire. The Navy took some of our people prisoner during the occupation. We've gotten most back, but..." Phởlaurant exhaled. "We're patching holes with prayer and ramen."
Koshu almost smiled. "Ginger's ramen?"
"The best."
They stopped in front of a tall window overlooking the courtyard. The glass was old, slightly warped, giving the scene below a dreamlike quality.
The courtyard transformed into a festival ground. Wooden booths lined the perimeter—food vendors, craft stalls, a makeshift bar serving Amaretto's signature drinks. Lanterns strung between poles swayed in the evening breeze. And at the center, raised on a platform of polished wood, stood the stage.
Vesta Lavana stood at the edge of the stage, her rainbow hair reflecting the sunset like a prism. Her violet eyes sparkled as she shouted across the courtyard.
"Hey, no, Bianca—the monitor needs to point that way! That way! My left! Your right!"
Bianca Yvonne Clark scrambled across the stage, her waist-length black hair escaping from its messy bun, a pencil stuck through the tangled strands. Her grease-stained overalls hung open over a floral dress. She carried a tool that looked like a cross between a tuning fork and a sonic screwdriver.
"It's, like, totally calibrated!" Bianca shouted back. "The frequency is, like, perfect! Just sing something!"
"Something?" Vesta placed her hands on her hips. "Something is not a song! Something is—"
Mikasi shifted in her hands. The guitar's wooden grain rippled, the coyote's face in the wood grinning.
"Okay, fine." Vesta took a breath. She opened her mouth and sang—a single note, clear and warm, that rolled across the courtyard like the first wave of an incoming tide.
The lanterns flickered. The crowd paused. Somewhere, a child stopped crying and started laughing.
Bianca nodded, her like-frequency spiking. "That's, like, the one! Perfect resonance! Hold it right there!"
Across the courtyard, Charlie Leonard Wooley adjusted his pith helmet, his round wire-framed glasses glinting. A booth selling carved wooden animals wobbled beside him. He grabbed the corner just as it tipped.
"Ahem!" He cleared his throat, pushing the booth back into place. "Proper vendor placement requires, ahem, attention to weight distribution. The salted fish stall is, ahem, too close to the honey booth."
The vendor—a burly man with tattoos—glared at him. "And?"
"And the smell will, ahem, conflict. I have seen this before. The Battle of the Scented Bazaar, year three of the Grand Line Expedition. A tragedy of epic proportions."
The vendor stared. Charlie adjusted his glasses and walked away.
Jannali Bandler sat on a bench near the drink stall, her afro swaying in the wind, her headscarf pressed tight against her forehead. She spun one of her Echo Boomerangs around her finger, her golden hoop earrings swinging.
"Bloody hell," she said, watching Vesta test her note. "She's got pipes, I'll give her that. The wind says she's gonna knock 'em dead."
The wind. Jannali tilted her head, listening to something no one else could hear.
Atlas Acuta leaned against the support beam of the main tent, his rust-red fur blending with the wood grain. His blue sapphire eyes—slit pupils glowing faintly with Electro—tracked the crowd. He cracked his neck.
"Doesn't anyone have anything to eat?" he muttered. "If I don't get some food soon, I may have to..." his head lifts as he sniffs the air. "Hmmm… think I will investigate."
He pushed off the beam and wandered toward the fish vendor, his hands in his pockets. A woman selling flowers smiled at him. He ignored her.
King Koshu watched the scene below, his hand resting on the windowsill.
"Tonight is just what the people need," he said softly. "A celebration. Music. Joy." He turned to Phởlaurant, a genuine smile breaking through the exhaustion. "This will be a spectacular event!"
Phởlaurant did not smile. His eyes remained fixed on the crowd, on the stage, on the horizon beyond.
After a long pause—stretched thin like wire—he spoke.
"The Sigillum Dei Aemeth."
Koshu's body went rigid. His hand tightened on the windowsill. The silver grapevines of his crown pressed against his temples.
Then he sighed. The sound carried decades.
"I have always been aware of its existence."
Phởlaurant's eyes narrowed. His thumb ran along his wedding band—a nervous habit, the tide pulling.
"Is that the real reason the World Government is always hovering around like vultures?"
Koshu looked out at the courtyard. At his people. At the stage where a girl with rainbow hair was singing a note that chased away shadows.
"Possibly." His voice dropped. "But I suspect there are not many left who truly know about it. It is a relic from the Lost Century. Stories have been passed down through the generations, but time and forgotten knowledge are rivals for the future."
He turned to face Phởlaurant. His gray-blue eyes—the eyes of a scholar, a king, a man who had carried secrets for forty years—held the Commander's gaze.
"I cannot tell you the true purpose of the thing, other than that it has been told to be able to power the gateway to the divine. Whatever that means." He paused. "And my family has been tasked to protect its secrets through the generations."
Phởlaurant nodded. His expression remained grim.
"The Dracule girl..."
Koshu nodded. His gaze drifted back to the window, to the empty stage where Vesta had finished her sound check and was now arguing with Bianca about microphone placement.
"Yes. I noticed too. She appeared to be able to tap into its power without interacting with it." He shook his head. "I have no idea what that means."
Phởlaurant moved to stand beside the King. He placed his hand on the windowsill, his knuckles white.
"Regardless," he said, his voice low, "you have been able to carry on the legacy of your forefathers, sire."
Koshu turned to him. His smile returned—smaller this time, but warmer.
"Shall we?" He gestured toward the doors leading to the courtyard. "The show will be starting soon!"
Outside, Vesta's voice rose in song—a warm-up, nothing more—and the crowd cheered.
The King and the Commander walked toward the music.
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