The heavy, gold-leafed doors of the palace slammed shut, leaving Mr. Horitoshi alone with the biting wind of the road.
He stood there for a moment, his breath hitching, looking back at the towering spires that suddenly felt like a cage.
"What do those fossils in their silk robes think they're doing?"
He hissed to himself, his fingers curling into tight fists. "They talk about control, yet they have no idea whose shadow they are trying to box in."
Then, it hit him. It wasn't a sound or a sight, but a sudden, violent shift in the air—a cold pressure that seemed to vibrate through his very marrow.
It felt as if needles were pricking through Horitoshi's bones. In the air, there was an invisible signal, as if the vacant throne had suddenly been filled.
His eyes widened, and for the first time in years, his knees felt weak. A primal realization flooded his mind, chilling his blood.
"He... that boy... he claimed the Authority!"
It wasn't just a thought, it was an awakening. He could feel it, and he knew every high-ranking member of the clan felt it too, the seat was no longer vacant.
Panic, sharp and jagged, replaced his arrogance. He turned and practically sprinted toward the Evernight Club, his heart drumming a frantic rhythm against his ribs.
He didn't stop until he reached Angela's inner chamber.
"Angela?"
His voice came out as a strained rasp.
Angela rose from her mahogany desk. She didn't startle, her movements were slow, measured, and carried a quiet, royal grace that made the room feel like a sanctuary.
"Good day, Captain."
"The two in Alola,"
Horitoshi cut through her poise, his eyes wide and bloodshot.
"What is the word?"
"We haven't received any new information from them today, Captain,"
She replied, her brow furrowing slightly at his disheveled state.
"Tell them to return. Immediately,"
He commanded, his hands trembling as he smoothed his coat.
"And tell Marco... tell him I want every breath, every blink, every word that came out of Izochi's mouth. If he did anything serious out there, I need to know before the sun sets. Understood?"
"Yes, Captain."
She didn't ask questions, though a flicker of confusion crossed her eyes. She recognized the gravity in his voice, a weight that suggested their lives now hung by a very thin thread.
"Happy birthday, Izochi."
"You knew? Thanks a lot for the treat!"
Izochi's face transformed instantly. The terrifying presence he had shown at the palace vanished, replaced by a radiant, innocent glow. He looked less like a leader and more like a child seeing snow for the first time.
There was no grand hall, no music, and no crowd.
They sat in a corner of a dim patisserie, where a single, sharp wedge of dark chocolate cake sat on a white porcelain plate.
It was a masterpiece of midnight-hued indulgence. Its edges were precise, revealing a dense, velvety heart that promised a bittersweet surrender.
The surface was draped in a glossy ganache, so dark it mirrored the warm cafe lights like a still pool of obsidian.
"It's my favorite flavor,"
Izochi whispered, leaning in with wide-eyed curiosity.
"Did you know that? How did you know?"
Marco stared at the steam rising from his cup, his voice sounding dry and forced, as if he were fighting back a hundred other questions.
"How would I know what's in your heart?"
"That's true,"
Izochi laughed, undeterred.
"But either way, thanks."
As his fork slid through the layers, the cake didn't crumble; it yielded with a rich, fudge-like resistance, releasing the intense, earthy aroma of pure roasted cocoa.
Izochi took a bite and let out a long, happy hum, his voice sweetening like a child tasting the best food in the world.
"Thanks a lotttttt!"
Marco watched him, his face a mask of habitual boredom, though his eyes remained sharp.
"By the way, Izochi... what did you mean back there? All that talk about 'Authority' and the 'Laws of Blood'?"
Izochi didn't stop eating. His cheeks were slightly puffed as he spoke.
"Oh! 'Authority' is the supreme title of the Horitoshi clan, the ultimate seat.
And the 'Laws of Blood'? That's the divine force that binds every subject of Horitoshi.
It makes them obey. They don't have a choice, their blood answers the call."
"But your parents,"
Marco prodded,
"They didn't stay with the clan, did they?"
"Partially true, partially false,"
Izochi said, his tone casual despite the heavy history.
"They left when I was eight. That's when I learned it all. My sister was only four. We were being groomed to be the next Leaders.
But my parents... they hated the luxury. They just wanted us to lead a normal life. They wanted us to be free."
Marco rested the weight of his head on his palm, focusing on Izochi with a rare, quiet intensity.
"So they moved us to the Capital,"
Izochi continued, chewing happily.
"They thought they could hide us from what the clan's superiors have become."
"Then why?"
Marco asked, his voice low.
"Why claim the Authority now? After all these years of running?"
"Because it was the only way to stop them from threatening us,"
Izochi's eyes sharpened for a fraction of a second, a cold glint appearing in the darkness of his pupils.
"They were coming for us. So I took the only thing they can't fight."
Marco opened his mouth to ask more, but Izochi suddenly flicked his left hand—the one holding a chocolate-stained spoon—in a perfect, playful mimicry of Angela.
"Details,"
Izochi chirped, waving his hand dismissively.
"I won't tell you any more history unless you get me another cake. A strawberry one. I need to change my taste."
Marco blinked, a look of annoyance crossing his face.
"You just finished a rich chocolate cake! Why eat that if you wanted to change your taste?"
"You wouldn't understand,"
Izochi replied with a smirk of mock contempt.
"You haven't tasted the things I have. Besides, I know you're curious about my past. Even if I can't remember every little thing."
Marco let out a heavy sigh, but his curiosity won. He signaled the waiter.
Soon, a perfect triangle of cocoa-infused artistry arrived.
The sponge was a warm, mahogany brown, dotted with tiny air pockets that promised a cloud-like softness. A thick, swirling layer of frosting sat atop it, crowned with delicate chocolate shavings that curled like autumn leaves.
Izochi began his second round, his mood shifting back to a serious, yet careless, tone.
"What makes you think the elders killed your grandfather, even if they obey you?"
Marco asked.
"Good question. I respect your senses,"
Izochi said, swallowing a piece of the mahogany sponge.
"The previous leaders were soft. They freed the people and refused to claim the Laws of Blood. They thought kindness was enough. But in this clan, kindness is a death sentence."
"And you... you're not soft?"
"Authority and Laws of Blood only demand one thing,"
Izochi murmured, his fork slowing down.
"One specific bloodline. My mother told me all this when I was a kid, mostly to answer my endless questions. But... history class is over."
He set the fork down, the plate finally clean.
"That's 560 yarks you owe me,"
Marco complained, standing up and checking his thinning wallet.
"Don't forget that debt."
"Yeah, yeah. I will,"
Izochi nodded, his mouth still slightly full of the last bite.
Marco stepped outside into the cool evening air, trying to shake off the weight of the boy's words. But the peace was short-lived.
A grey pigeon spiraled down from the sky, landing firmly on his outstretched arm. Its claws were cold, and tied to its leg was a small, tightly rolled parchment.
As Marco unfurled the letter, his face turned to stone. The words on the paper were few, but they were heavy.