Sir Frederick's footsteps echoed with a solemn rhythm through the polished stone halls of the Vexian citadel, a sound that spoke of duty and the weight of impending decisions. In his hands, he carried scrolls of testimony and sensor-readout parchment—the formal trappings of a procedure that felt increasingly like a facade. He entered the sun-drenched solar where Princess Elara awaited, as was their custom following any significant investigation.
She stood by a tall window overlooking the city, the kingdom's blue banners snapping gently in the breeze, their crests catching the afternoon light. At seventeen, she was a vision of nascent royalty—her silver-gold hair woven into intricate braids, a gown of sky-blue samite draping her form, and an expression of eager authority that had not yet been weathered by true hardship. Her face brightened at the sight of him.
"Sir Frederick! You return. Your diligence is, as always, the shield of our realm." Her voice was light, gracious, echoing phrases she had heard from her advisors.
Frederick bowed deeply, the motion practiced and flawless. "Your Highness honors me with her trust. I merely follow the path you have set." His words were humble, yet his mind was elsewhere. She was the one who, three years prior, had lifted a disillusioned, wandering swordsman from obscurity and granted him a title, a purpose—a reason to believe in order once more. For that, he owed her a loyalty that ran deeper than any oath.
He straightened and carefully laid the documents upon a marble-topped table. "The matter of the foreigner, Lucid. The evidence is... contradictory, Your Highness."
She offered a dismissive wave, a gesture she believed conveyed royal decisiveness. "The sensors do not lie, Sir Knight. The rift-essence was upon him. Causality is clear. A life was lost; a price must be paid. A public sentencing will reassure the people that our transit corridors are secure." She spoke of sacrifice and order with the unsettling ease of one who has never witnessed the true cost of either.
Frederick studied her—the slight pout of her lips, the way her eyes skimmed the documents without truly seeing them. He recognized not malice, but a profound and dangerous naivety. "Your orders are, of course, absolute," he began, his tone carefully measured. "Yet my duty is to bring you the full truth, not merely convenient facts." He tapped a specific parchment. "The assurance team's report corroborates the passenger testimonies. A figure was seen on the *exterior* rails *before* the attendant's death. Our suspect was documented inside the first-class cabin at that very time. Moreover, the temporal signature of the rift absorption coincides not with the attack, but with the *saving* of the train."
He then placed two small items beside the scrolls: a worn but legitimate noble stamp from the House of Valerius—a minor but recognized line from the southern outskirts—and a simple, functional traveler's pouch. "He is properly registered. By all accounts, he is just a traveler. The evidence that condemns him is circumstantial. The evidence that exonerates him is factual. To punish him would not be justice, Your Highness. It would be expediency."
Princess Elara's brow furrowed. She was unaccustomed to her straightforward solutions being unravelled thread by thread. A flush of frustration colored her cheeks. "You speak in complexities! The people see a culprit. The guards have a culprit. Why do you insist on muddying the waters? A swift resolution maintains order!" She crossed her arms, the very picture of imperious immaturity.
Frederick did not retreat. Instead, he softened his voice, adopting the tone of a mentor reminding a student of a forgotten lesson. "You once told me that the crown's purpose is not to wield power, but to be the guardian of truth, so that power is never wielded unjustly. What is the truth here, Elara?"
The use of her name, not her title, caught her off guard. It was a gentle rebuke, a reminder of an ideal she had professed but had not yet been forced to practice. Her eyes darted from the noble stamp to his earnest, unwavering face. Her pout deepened, but the defiant light in her gaze wavered, replaced by a flicker of confusion. He was not challenging her authority; he was asking her to live up to her own professed principles.
"Then... what would you have me do?" she asked, her voice smaller.
"Allow me to continue the investigation. Hold him lawfully, but not as a condemned man. Let the truth, whatever it may be, run its full course. The true corruption, Highness, is not always in the act of evil, but in the willingness to overlook truth for the sake of a tidy conclusion."
She fell silent, her gaze drifting to the bustling, orderly city below—a kingdom she ruled but did not yet truly understand. She saw simple streets and content subjects; he saw the intricate, often messy web of causes and effects that held it all together. She was young. She was impudent. She believed in simple solutions, and that very belief allowed genuine corruption to fester in the shadows she never thought to examine. Yet he could not abandon her. She was his princess, and she needed experience.
"Very well," she conceded, the words unfamiliar on her tongue. "You may have three days, Sir Frederick. Find your truth. But if the evidence does not change..." She left the threat unspoken, a final vestige of her need to assert control.
He bowed again, deeper this time, relief and resolve settling in his chest. "Thank you, Your Highness. Experience is the finest tutor, and you are taking your first lesson."
As he departed the solar to return to the grey cell and its enigmatic occupant, Frederick understood the real work was only beginning. He was not merely solving a crime; he was carefully, patiently, guiding a princess toward becoming a queen. And the key to it all, for reasons he could not yet fully articulate, lay with a guilt-ridden man haunted by the scent of the sea.
***
Lucid was deep in his sleep, but it was not restful. In the dark space of his mind, the scene played again—not as memory, but as visceral sensation. The feeling of cool scales under his palms, the resistance, then the give. The sound of shattering crystal was a scream. A voice, not his own, echoed in the vault of his skull, a mournful, resonant whisper that built into a deafening plea: *It hurts. It hurts. It hurts.*
He jolted awake with a gasp that was half a sob, his body rigid on the hard bench. Cold sweat traced his temples. In his mind, Alice gasped, a sound of shared, startled pain. He felt… scoured. Tortured from the inside out.
The cell was a cube of seamless, pale grey stone, cool and silent. Lucid sat on the narrow bench that served as a bed, his back against the wall. He stared at the opposite wall, seeing nothing. In his mind, the memories played on a cruel loop: the feeling of scales giving way under his fingers, the taste of salt and cold light, the final, peaceful smile on a face that was not his to touch. The phantom howl of an ocean and the mournful song of a whale were a constant, faint murmur in the back of his skull, Neptune's final lullaby.
"This is your first day in Vex," Alice mused within his mind, her voice a brittle attempt at observation. "A kingdom of wonders. You should be... exploring. Not this."
Lucid offered no response. He was profoundly out of it, a ship adrift in a sea of his own guilt. The vibrant world outside the small, high window meant less than nothing.
The heavy cell door clanged open. A guard stood there, a man with a sneer etched into his features. He looked Lucid up and down, his eyes lingering on the faint, shifting haze that seemed to cling to Lucid's face. The fog.
"On your feet, fog-bastard,"
the guard barked. "You even human under that cloud? Or just some void-spawn that got lucky with a ticket?"
Lucid slowly lifted his head, his eyes dull. He registered the words as one might register distant thunder.
"The evidence is stacked higher than the castle walls," the guard continued, stepping inside. He began to pace, listing the charges with relish. "Unauthorized rift manipulation. Trespassing and Causal interference with royal transit. And, of course, culpability in the death of a crown-contracted attendant. They'll throw away the key. Unless..." He stopped, leaning in with a false, conspiratorial air. "You plead guilty to the lesser charges. Accept the facts. Makes it easier for everyone. I'll even throw in a little word for you with the magistrate. Might just lessen the sentence from 'forever' to 'a very, very long time.'"
Inside, Alice was a storm of silent, outraged fury. "The audacity! The ignorance! He is baiting you, Lucid! Do not listen to this worm! Your silence is defiance!"
But Lucid barely heard the guard, and he didn't hear Alice at all.