Chapter 19 - Under the Gilded Mask

Clashing swords on the raised stage send a cascade of sparks into the air, each burst accompanied by ovations from the enthralled crowd. Around us, the Grand Festival roars with life -- funky buddies, clinking coins, laughter, and marching boots -- Beneath the surface, though, there’s a tension that never quite leaves the streets of Rosebell -- a taut string pulled tight by the iron grip of the monarchy.

Leader and I push through the crowd to Nation Elite First Lieutenant Eliza, who stands at the edge of the stage. She watches the stage performers, arms crossed, but with a fascinated expression.

Along with Omine, the three of us had flagged down Eliza some time ago and informed her about her interest in obtaining a foothold with the Nation Elite. From there, we became acquaintances of sorts.

“Brawler, Leader!” Eliza is bright as she greets us. “Long time no see. How are the commodities selling?”

“It’s going great.”

Leader gestures to the packed square. “Not as exciting as this, though. Amazing, isn’t it?”

Eliza nods avidly, her gaze back to the performers. “I wonder why their swords are sparking so much?”

“I heard they line the edges with flint,” the walking textbook answers.

“Ah, that makes sense.” Eliza chuckles. “If we made fires like that during dueling practice, our officers would have us doing drills. It ruins the blades. Wasteful, they’d say.”

Around the stage, Central Street stretches out into a labyrinth of stalls and banners. Red and gold dominate the decor, the colors of Maltrex’s royal family. Portraits of the king, queen, and Princess Glace hang from every available surface, their stern faces staring down at the festivities like silent overseers. The air smells of roasted meat, baked pies, and sugary confections, though it is undercut by the officious metallic tang of soldiers’ armor.

As Leader and I walk with Eliza, I glance at the Silver coins in my palm. We’ve been saving every spare for Omine’s final treatment, so we agree to buy something modest, a small indulgence amid the grandeur. When the sweet smells hit, combined with the hailing trumpets, it’s hard not to buy a whole stall.

At one of the bakery stands, Eliza calls out to a tall man with sharp features and a Nation Elite uniform. He turns, smiling politely, and salutes her.

“This is Corporal Charles,” Eliza introduces, her mood friendly. “One of my good friends. Charles, meet Brawler and Leader.”

Corporal Charles bows slightly. “Good friends? You flatter me, Lieutenant. I’m just one of your subordinates.”

“Too humble, as always. Don’t let him fool you, though. Charles is a fantastic tactician.”

As we chat, the aroma of freshly baked pies wafts over. I glance at the display -- rows of golden, flaky pastries filled with fruits, nuts, and spices. My stomach growls before I can stop it.

Charles notices. “Not much of a sweet tooth myself, but these are apparently the pride of the capital. Would you like one? My treat.”

I light up. “Really?”

“A friend of the First Lieutenant is a friend of mine.”

“Thanks, Charles!” Leader appreciates, eyeing a strawberry pie slice.

“Looking for another promotion, are we?”

“Not at all. If anything, I’ll take a demotion or transfer. A deduction in pay is worth the less paperwork.”

As we savor our treats, soldiers patrol the streets in synchronized formations, their boots striking the cobblestones in unison. The crowd parts instinctively, their laughter dimming ever so slightly but cheers remain in respect for the parade. Banners flutter in the breeze, proclaiming slogans like ‘Glory to Maltrex’ and ‘For the Crown, For the People, For Eternity.’

Marginally apart from these soldiers -- a tall woman in ornate armor approaches the stalls, her presence imposing. She strides with her own purpose, her knight cape of Maltrex’s army billowing, and the ornate crest of the Guard Regiment gleams on her chestplate.

Eliza and Charles straighten immediately. “Captain Alexandria.”

The Guard Captain nods at Eliza before turning her piercing gaze on Leader and me. Specifically, to the daggers at our hips and back to us as a group. “And who might these two be?”

“Acquaintances,” Eliza admits quickly, her tone neutral but her posture slightly stiff.

Alexandria tilts her head, a hint of amusement flickering across her face. “Acquaintances, is it? Rare for academy scholars to be carrying weapons like those. Has Sir Eliza recruited you yet? Then perhaps I should. Dedicate yourselves to our brilliant country. There are… perks.”

“What kind?”

Leader jumps in, his say polite but firm. “We’re not looking to be recruited. Nation Elite or otherwise. We have plans of our own.”

Alexandria’s smile sharpens as she glances at Eliza. “Not the Nation Elite? Nor our military? Boys, you must have dangerous plans. No matter. Today is a celebration of our country’s efforts -- efforts seen and unseen. All of it ensures our safety.”

She leans in slightly, her voice lowering just enough to unsettle me. “And yet, there are whispers of those who would undermine it. Conquerors, for example. Do you know what we do to problems like that? We cut them at the root.”

Her declaration is heavy with implication. Eliza’s expression tightens, but she says nothing.

Alexandria straightens, giving us one last appraising look. “Enjoy the festival. And remember, loyalty to the crown is loyalty to peace.” With that, she strides away, her cape sweeping dramatically behind her.

Eliza exhales slowly, her shoulders relaxing. “Don’t let her get to you,” she mutters, her usual cheer dimmed. “She’s… intense. But she’s one of the few soldiers here who respects the Nation Elite through and through. She recognizes us as an untouchable cactus of justice for the world. That’s more than I can say for most of them.”

“She doesn’t respect us, though.”

Eliza sighs. “She doesn’t trust anyone. Not really. But she’s an angel compared to the nobles who don’t think twice about spitting in our direction.”

“I don’t know why, but a little voice in my head tells me she may even have some Conqueror friends,” Charles adds. 

…

Hollering and hooting, clinking glasses, distant totalitarian marching, the rippling of Maltrexian flag after flag. Away from the crowded center of bursting merriments, Figura strides in feminine form, the attracted gazes they draw never lingering long enough to pierce the sharp edge in their eyes.

They pause to take in the bright scene -- a vendor selling roasted chestnuts, children of nobles darting between stalls. For all its noise and color, the city feels strangely hollow to them. They know the corrupt core of the rotten apple.

Unexpected, an adult hand reaches out and grabs a tuft of their dress, the pull halting Figura mid-step. They brush the pommel of their concealed short sword but stop -- Public restraint overriding instinct.

The hooded character responsible sits at a table outside a pub, leaning back in their chair with the lazy ease of someone entirely in control.

“My,” Figura drawls in honeyed nobility. “Grabbing ahold of me without so much as a ‘hello’? Someone’s bold tonight.”

“You’re as funny as ever. Looking mighty cute today too.” He chuckles, a deep, warm sound that feels strangely familiar. Silas tilts his head, letting the hood slip to reveal his wide, impish grin. “Figura.”

At once, their lips are dry with unease. Figura leaps back a meter in panic, yet their legs fail them. The ground feels like water, unstable, unreal. “S--Silas??”

“Hello, Figura! Haahaha~, it’s been a while.”

“…!!”

Figura’s breath vanishes. In the entire world, there is a minuscule number who can discern Figura without prior knowledge of the form they’ve taken. So minuscule, that you can count them on one hand.

However, it isn’t the fear of being compromised that petrifies Figura. Instead, it’s Silas’s mere presence unsettling them. All it takes is standing close to Silas to make death gnaw at Figura’s mind.

[I… I might die!]

[What?!] Leviathan’s outcry is instant. [Where are you? I’ll call Luka right--]

[Seek Luka immediately! Hurry!]

Similar to the situation with Captain Brutus’s Strength Armament, if they engage, it won’t last long enough to be considered a fight. Even the possibility of escape is slim if Silas chooses to activate his Armament. With a hand on their arm already-- “What a distressed look you have,“ Silas’s carefree words pull Figura’s attention back. “Like a kid caught doing something bad.”

Figura surveys every surrounding, seeking escape. “Silas.”

Breathing like they’ve been doing sprints, Figura knows his name, his face, his look. Silas is one of their heroes. He’s turned the tide of battles with nothing but his Armament and a laugh.

“P-Please. You’ll let me go, won’t you?” He’s someone Figura respects. ‘Respects’ but in two senses of the word -- absolutely admires… and absolutely fears as their natural predator.

Silas lifts his hand off and speaks in a relaxed tone as he returns his meal. His posture is like he’s chatting with a close friend rather than threatening anyone. “It’s okay. I only wanna talk. Look, I don’t even have my lance with me.”

“Am I supposed to find that amusing?” Even upon noticing Silas doesn’t have his weapon of choice, the urgency Figura feels hardly decreases. Hand teetering on their short sword’s hilt, they’re steadying themself to commit to a quick draw and make Silas’s blood rain on the street. Silas isn’t bothering, his back is kept wide open.

“How can I believe you?”

“How troublesome. Besides, doing our best to not get peaceful civilians involved is an unwritten rule of Conquerors, isn’t it? As if I would ever activate my Armament here.”

“That’s strange. Jot it down so you don’t forget it, will you?”

Silas can tell that Figura is trying to gain the upper hand by opening past scars. This type of taunting may work on Luka, but Silas sighs darkly. “You know I quit the Nation Elite long ago. Once was enough. I’m never doing the Nation Elite Upper Echelon’s bidding again, you hear? Never again.”

Taking in a long breath, Silas’s joyful demeanor returns, looking at Figura as a friend. “Right now I’m talking as a fellow Conqueror. So relax! I’ll even buy you a drink of your choice. You’re at the legal age now, aren’t you? Come, come, take a seat.”

Silas half expects Figura to join him at the table. But Figura stands there, speechless, their grip only marginally loosening. The opportunity to escape is open.

Figura takes steps away. Silas lays his head down and pouts. “Boooo~. Drinking alone is no fun. You so look hilariously cute in this form too.” He is making himself nearly defenseless, truly showing Figura that he only wants to have a good-natured chat.

Figura takes this moment to reevaluate the situation, just as Leviathan hurriedly communicates telepathically. [Luka is ready to act. I’ll also support you.]

[Wait. If Silas really wanted to engage in a fight, he would’ve done it already. If I think back, he saw me way before I noticed him.]

[What should I do? Should I tell Luka to teleport?]

[No, I’m safe. It seems I overreacted a bit after being caught off guard.]

[Are you really safe?]

[Yes. Thank you. Hearing your voice calms me too. Sorry if I scared you. Now that I can step back, I’m reminded that this handsome boy isn’t at all the type of person to attack others unless he’s facing against someone he considers an enemy. I’m calling the defensive assault off for now.]

[I’ll apologize later. I bet Luka is mad too.]

[No, he’s happy.]

[Figures.]

“What is it you want to talk about?”

Silas swirls his cup around, the light alcoholic drink forming a miniature whirlpool. “It’s about the Tremors of War.”

“…All I can say is that the speculations about what’s going on are true. The entire world is going to change, and drastically.”

“Are you serious??”

“Yup. And unfortunately, I’ll decline your offer to drink. I don’t hand secrets over easily.”

“Can’t you at least give me more hints? A good lady, the best in my opinion, always does. It’s a big help to us dense men.”

“Poor Belariz. And you’re not most men. You have that Armament. If you let me go, I might tell you more.”

“This again? You’re acting all anxious for no reason. I was honestly hoping we could catch up and share a few laughs.” Silas waves his hand absentmindedly. “If you’re not in the mood, leave whenever you want.”

Figura reconsiders but ultimately decides that it is better not to get involved in unnecessary trouble, especially since their and Luka’s mission to kill the Maltrexian royal family is underway. “Alright. Maybe next time, old cutie.”

Figura walks away strangely, sidestepping and shuffling so that their gaze doesn’t leave Silas in case they need to act. Silas can’t help but snicker at the strange scene. “This cold nature is so unlike you, Figura.”

“Don’t blame me. It’s your presence’s fault.”

Silas tosses a single, flawless Gold coin through the air, and Figura catches it.

“Now can you tell me the meaning behind the Tremors of War?”

Figura manages to mirror Silas’s smile. “Kyaha~, nice try, but no.”

“It looks like I lost good money and my dining partner. Oh well. You seem worried about your own safety, …but I can’t shake the feeling there are too many people’s lives at stake here. I… can’t have you leave just yet. You know something. Something other than the Tremors of War.” Silas’s cup slams down. “…Talk.”

Figura flinches at the all-piercing gaze that isn’t aimed at them. Ready to not shudder again, he responds to Silas’s back. “You wouldn’t know how much determination it takes to not have my plans foiled, by anyone, including my dearest friend. You have no idea! So I won’t. Even if we level this whole area, I won’t give.”

“There’s no reason to be scared.”

Figura’s furious willpower tells him everything. It isn’t that Figura is scared -- not a sliver of fear -- It’s only that nobody, absolutely nobody, is going to get in Figura’s path.

Only Figura knows that it’s a path of vengeance.

“I’m asking you to tell me what you can. Please. As a favor. I know you’re a good person. Seeing you this out of it is… honestly, it’s making me scared. Whatever’s bothering you, I may be able to help. This once, I offer to shoulder any burden. Speak your heart and I will do everything in my power to help you.”

Figura feels a significant amount of tension leave them. “I…” They take a shaky breath as if holding back unseen tears. “I can’t. I really can’t, Silas. Instead, I’ll give you something else. Something important in the large scheme of things. About the Tremors -- the truth is dangerous, and it’s as otherworldly as the Labyrinth. It’s an ancient story retold at a ridiculous pace. A final tremor will take place in a few weeks and it’s predicted to be the strongest of its kind… But the oddity will continue afterward, even if no more earthquakes occur. Seek out sailors and consult about recent voyages. After that, you can probably find out the rest on your own.”

By the end of Figura’s easygoing riddle, they have blended back with the crowds passing through the street.

Silas chows on his appetizer, his expression full of curiosity. “Dangerous ancient retelling, a final tremor, and sailor voyages?”