Memo 012: (R1)Audience with a true monarch!

Nateas leans back, arms crossed, eyes narrowing at the passing landscape. Nateas, sitting opposite her, didn’t even look up. His sharp eyes were fixed on the horizon, scanning with a soldier’s caution. “I’ve been watching the road. We’re probably in Outer Veylstra by now.” “Outer Veylstra?” Nagisa blinked, tilting her head. “What’s that supposed to mean? Where were we before?”

Yuranu folding her arms as though settling into lecture mode. “Inner Veylstra. Long ago, it was a patchwork of tribes, each race with its own lands, its own rulers. Demons, elves, minotaurins, beastfolk—the list goes on.” She paused, glancing out at the fading treeline. “But when the Encroaching Ones rose to power, all of that changed. The tribes unified under a single banner. To manage the vast territory, it was split into three spheres: Outer where the king and the royals reside, Inner where you have all the integrated races, and below where you have the ill and his ilk.” Nagisa’s eyes lit up. “So it’s like zones in an RPG map?”“…If that helps you understand,” Yuranu muttered, though the corner of his mouth tugged upward in amusement. Nagisa perks up, tilting her head. Yuranu, sitting across with a calm but matter-of-fact tone, answers.

Nateas’s voice cracked like a whip. “What do you mean my ilk!? And why am I the only one chained? I’m still hurt, damn it!” His glare burned hotter than the iron binding his wrists. Nagisa tilted her head, lips pursing in mock thought. “Hmm, I wonder why… it’s not like you’re the most hot-headed one here or anything.” “Careful,” Memo’s voice cut in, firm but low, like a hand pushing her back from the edge of a cliff.

Nagisa blinked at him, puzzled. “Why?”

Yuranu’s earlier words lingered in her mind—outer Veylstra… The land of the wealthy, the strict, the merciless. He shivered. “If what yuranu said is true about outer Veylstra… then the rich won’t be understanding. Especially since you're the only human.”

The stagecoach jolted to a sudden halt, the wheels grinding against stone. Nagisa’s shoulder smacked lightly against Nateas’s chained arm, earning her a low growl. “Out!” barked a voice outside, sharp as steel. One of the Vanguard platoon stood ready, spear angled toward the carriage door.

Nagisa’s heart thumped as she slid out first, the light of the city nearly blinding after the long ride. Before her stretched towering gates of blackened marble, etched with the crest of Veylstra—a crown flanked by fangs. Guards lined the entrance, armor polished so brightly it reflected the torchlight like fire.

Yano dismounted from his horse, his gaze steady, but his expression unreadable. He walked past the group, then stopped just short of the threshold. “This is where my jurisdiction ends,” he said, voice cutting and final. His eyes locked on Nagisa’s for the briefest moment. “Try not to get your heads lopped off.” Nagisa forced a smile, though her insides twisted. “Cheery as always…” Nateas , chains rattling as he was shoved forward. “I liked him better when he was trying to kill me.” Yuranu’s tail flicked as her golden eyes scanned the palace gates. “Welcome to the lion’s den,” she whispered, her voice laced with unease.

Servants rushed forward in quiet procession, their steps rehearsed, their expressions polite masks. Without a word, the group was separated. Each of them was guided down torchlit corridors that wound like veins through the stone heart of the fortress. Nagisa was taken to a chamber filled with perfumed steam. Attendants bowed low before guiding her toward a polished basin already prepared with hot water. Her camera had been set aside carefully, polished clean as if it too were royalty to be honored. She lowered herself into the bath, the warmth creeping into her bones, washing away blood and ash. When she emerged, they draped her in fabrics dyed in hues that caught the candlelight — garments far too regal for a “reporter,” yet fitting for someone summoned to the king’s presence.

Yuranu, limping but defiant, received similar treatment. He submitted to the baths with a scowl, enduring the attendants’ fussing as they wrapped him in formal attire lined with silver threading. His reflection in the mirror showed not the rugged traveler who had fought for his life hours earlier, but something closer to nobility. It unsettled him.

But Nateas… Nateas was left untouched. He was shown to a room, but there was no bath drawn, no silken cloths waiting, no eager attendants pressing him toward restoration. Dust clung to his skin, dried blood stained his shoulder, and his clothes bore the ragged scars of battle. Where Nagisa and Yuranu were polished into figures meant for a throne room, Nateas remained raw, unpolished, and unacknowledged. The difference was clear, deliberate. And as the night settled over the castle, the three of them lay in separate quarters — dressed, washed, or forgotten — each with their own thoughts gnawing at them before the inevitable meeting with the king.

Morning light filtered through tall, latticed windows, gilding the castle’s corridors in soft gold. One by one, the three were stirred awake by servants’ polite knocks and hushed voices.

Nagisa stepped out first, her hair neatly brushed, her new garments flowing in pale blues and silvers. She touched her camera slung across her shoulder, surprised at how spotless it was. Yuranu followed soon after, her stride quieter now, the folds of her dress rustling as she walked. It was strange to see her like this — adorned with ribbons at her wrists, her battle scars hidden beneath fine fabric.

When their eyes met, Nagisa and yuranu couldn’t help but laugh under her breath. “Whoa,” she said, holding her camera up to capture the moment. “They really gave us the hospitality treatment. You look like you belong at a royal banquet, Yuranu.” Yuranu tugged self-consciously at the collar, her lips curling in a reluctant smirk. “Don’t remind me. I feel like a doll someone’s dressed up for display.” Footsteps echoed behind them. Nateas came into view at last, his wrists still bound in iron cuffs that clinked with every movement. His clothes were the same as yesterday — torn, bloodied, and stiff with dust. His hair hung ragged over his face, shadows clinging to his eyes from a night of restless turning on the cold floor. He dragged his boots, yawning wide enough that his jaw cracked.

Nagisa lowered the camera, her smile dimming. The contrast was too sharp to ignore — the kingdom had dressed her and Yuranu in silks and perfumes, yet left Nateas chained like a prisoner. For a moment, the three of them simply stood in the corridor, reunited yet divided by the treatment they’d been given. Somewhere in the depths of the castle, a bell tolled, summoning them to what came next. until at last, They reached the king’s chamber. The room itself was a monument to power. Golden candelabras hung from walls of marble veined in crimson, each flame casting glints of fire across polished obsidian floors. Velvet banners depicting the crest of Veylstra—the crown and fangs—hung like the very jaws of a beast poised to devour.

At the far end, upon a dais of seven steps, loomed the throne. It was no mere chair, but a twisted construction of ivory and gold, engraved with sigils that pulsed faintly with magical resonance. Seated upon it was the king himself, posture regal, eyes sharp as a hawk’s. His mere presence pressed against the lungs of all who entered, the air heavy with authority. Around the chamber, armored bodyguards stood like statues. Their plate shimmered, etched in runes of protection, and their expressions turned sour the moment the three outsiders crossed the threshold. Their eyes lingered on Nateas the longest—part revulsion, part dread. His chains clinked with every forced step forward, echoing louder than the booming silence of the chamber.

Nagisa tried to keep her chin high, though she felt the weight of every sneer. Yuranu’s tail twitched nervously, though her eyes shone with defiance. Nateas, jaw set, only spat on the polished floor, earning a sharp gasp from one of the guards. They didn’t belong here. That much was clear. Yet here they stood—before the very heart of Veylstra.

The sound of heavy boots echoed across the marbled floor, each step like a deliberate warning. The tall figure emerged from the gilded archway, his presence stretching through the chamber like a shadow. His appearance bore the refinement of a high elf—long, tapered ears, golden hair swept back to reveal a proud brow—but marred by the sharp curve of a beaklike nose that gave his visage something predatory. His robes trailed with threads of silver and emerald, and the jeweled crown upon his head caught the torchlight, scattering it in shards.

He mounted the steps to his throne with ease, each stride deliberate, each pause lingering long enough for the silence in the room to thicken. The massive chair of carved obsidian and ivory embraced him as he sat, one hand curling over the armrest like a talon. His eyes swept over the visitors brought before him.

“A viper beastling from the gutters?”

“That thing.” eyeing nateas.

But when his eyes settled on Nagisa. His lips curled into something between a smirk and a sneer, tongue darting across them in a reptilian motion, as though savoring an unspoken thought. When they bowed — or in Nateas’s case, tilted his head with minimal respect — the king rose. His robes whispered like smoke as he descended the steps, gaze never leaving Nagisa.

The king leaned forward on his throne, long fingers drumming against the carved armrest. His voice, low and edged with authority, filled the chamber. The king’s gaze lingered over them, sharp and unreadable, until his voice finally broke the silence. “Why,” he said slowly, his words cutting through the chamber like drawn steel, “are these three standing in my hall?” One of the Veylstra guards stepped forward, armor clinking as he bowed. “Your Majesty, they were discovered trespassing at the Orca-a-Gubble restaurant after closing. An unconscious foxkin was found locked in the cellar. These three were the only ones present at the scene.”

The king’s eyes narrowed, his long fingers drumming once on the armrest. “And instead of being dragged before a jury for immediate trial, they are paraded into my chamber. Why?” The guard hesitated, exchanging a glance with the Vanguard platoon leader. The latter cleared his throat and stepped up. “The documents we sent them to retrieve were…not there, Your Majesty.” His tone tightened with every word, as though speaking them risked his own head. “Given the circumstances, we deemed it prudent to bring them directly before you.”

The king scoffed, the sound echoing through the vaulted chamber like a lash of disdain. “Documents?” he said, his voice dripping with mockery. “Trivial scraps of parchment, hardly worth the breath you wasted reporting them missing. What I do concern myself with…” His gaze slid downward, pinning the three like insects under glass. “…is whether any of you laid eyes upon them.”

He paused, savoring the silence that followed, his lips curling into a half-smile. “As long as you have not, then you are not required to die here in my hall.” The guards stirred, murmurs of relief—or perhaps disappointment—passing through the room. But the king was not finished. His eyes, pale and cold as frosted steel, roved across Nateas and Yuranu only briefly before fastening on Nagisa. “And yet…” His tone shifted, dark honey masking something far fouler. “You.” Nagisa stiffened as his attention weighed upon her. The king leaned forward, resting his chin against his hand. His long, sharp nose caught the glow of the chamber’s lanterns as his lips wet themselves with a slow, deliberate lick.

“You are no Viperian. No demonill. No foxkin, elf, or beast of claw or scale. You are… beyond comprehension.” He chuckled, low and amused, though his eyes glistened with something hungrier. “What are you, girl? never in all Veylstra, has one such as you been seen. ”The bodyguards shifted uneasily, their disgust now mixed with curiosity as they too studied Nagisa, though their king’s gaze lingered far longer—too long. Nagisa straightened, her chin tilting high as if she were back on the streets of her own world, memo in hand, chasing down the lies of men who thought themselves untouchable.

“A human,” she declared, her voice carrying across the chamber. “A journalist. A human journalist—always searching for the truth. And nothing will stop me.” The king’s eyebrows rose, more in amusement than shock. His lips parted, ready with some mocking reply—but Nagisa cut across him, her words striking like arrows. “Tell me, King,” she pressed, eyes narrowing into daggers. “What do you know about that restaurant? About the maids—about the girls kept in cages?”

The throne room stilled. Even Yuranu’s ears twitched at the accusation. The king leaned back, his expression twisting, half perplexed, half insulted. “Cages?” he repeated, voice a silken drawl. “Girls? I know not of what you speak.” She could see—the feigned confusion, the polished mask of ignorance. Her hand tightened on Cammy, her weapon gleaming under the golden light of the chamber’s chandeliers.

She snapped, thrusting the barrel forward until it pointed directly at the king. Gasps rippled through the chamber. The two bodyguards flanking the throne moved instantly, armor clanging as they drew their weapons. Spears slid free, steel tips flashing, and in a heartbeat both were leveled at Nagisa. “Lower your weapon!” one barked, venom dripping from his voice. The king’s smile returned—curved, cold, and utterly entertained. Nagisa’s knuckles whitened on Cammy’s grip. Her breath trembled—but her aim did not. She glared at him, unflinching. And asked him again "Do you know anything regarding the restaurant and the girls in cages.

Yet… nothing.

Cammy remained inert. No aura shimmered. No truths revealed. Just the king’s calm, smug face staring back at her. Nagisa blinked, her heart sinking. Why…? Why isn’t it working? There's nothing …The king chuckled low, as if he could read her confusion. “Strange, is it not? Whatever that contraption of yours is….it isn't proving useful. Perhaps you should have realized—kings do not play by the same rules as the rabble.” He leaned forward on his throne, resting his chin against his fingers, eyes gleaming with cruel humor. “And tell me, madam...you bring up the restaurant.  how do you think the masses will feel, hm?” His tone turned mocking, every syllable dipped in disdain. “Their beloved restaurant… shut down forever. Their bellies empty of the meals they adore, all because you decided to tug at strings that were never meant to be touched.” Yuranu shifted nervously, tail flicking, while Nateas strained against his bindings. But the king kept his eyes locked on Nagisa, as though the entire chamber had dwindled to just the two of them. “Well?” he pressed, voice silk and venom. “Will you starve my people for your… truth?” 

“Do you truly believe that information will benefit them? When they are already content in their blissful ignorance? Imagine—” His eyes gleamed as he leaned from his throne. “Imagine you tell them their favorite restaurant is serving human flesh. What then? Some… would weep, curse the betrayal, swear never to touch it again. But others—” His grin spread wider, sharp as a blade. “Some would be curious. Some would crave it. Some, who never dared before, would now want to try. Do you understand what I am saying, reporter?” The hall felt colder. Nagisa’s camera weighed heavy in her hands, and behind her Yuranu stiffened. Nateas only sneered under his breath, as though the king’s words confirmed something he already knew.

The king straightened, his tone returning to regal calm. “Truth is not a cure. Truth is a weapon. And like any weapon, it cuts indiscriminately. It wounds the innocent as easily as the guilty. So, I ask you…” His gaze locked with Nagisa’s, unblinking. “Do you believe the masses are prepared for the actual truth?” 

Then his tone shifted — the edge softening, though no less commanding. He placed a gloved hand over his chest, posture upright, the very picture of sovereign duty. “You see,” he said, sweeping his gaze across all three of them, though it lingered longest on Nagisa, “it is not for them to carry such burdens. My people live, work, love, and laugh in pure bliss. They eat their meals with joy, raise their children in peace, and lie down at night untroubled. Why?” He paused, voice deepening with solemn pride. “Because I take the weight upon my shoulders. Because their king sees what they should not. Because I bear the truth so their eyes do not have to.”

The words echoed against the stone, sinking into Nagisa’s chest like lead.

“Whatever foulness festers in this… restaurant of your imagination,” the king continued, turning away to ascend the steps back to his throne, “rest assured, reporter — my Vanguard will see to it. Quietly. Efficiently. My eyes open so theirs may remain blissfully shut.”He lowered himself back into his throne, settling like a shadow rejoining the dark.“That is a king’s burden. That is a king’s mercy. Do you see now, reporter?”

Nagisa’s jaw tightened. She raised her camera, not to take a picture, but as though the weight of it steadied her resolve.

“Now, what you think is nothing might be something after all,” she said, her voice carrying across the chamber. “If it wasn’t for us being there that night, what were you going to do about it? Cover it up? Pretend it never happened? You don’t want the public knowing because you claim it’s in their best interest…” Her eyes narrowed, catching the light. “But to me, that just makes you as crooked as they come, King.”

The hall froze. Servants stiffened at the brazenness of her words, and even Yuranu inhaled sharply. Nateas, though, only smirked faintly, his chains rattling as he shifted his weight.

The king’s gaze fell heavy upon Nagisa, like the shadow of a hawk descending over prey. His lips curled not into anger but into a cold, dismissive sneer. Distaste radiated from him, as though the very act of being questioned was an insult too vulgar for words.

And yet, he did not lash out.

 Instead, his expression shifted, something sly flickering in his eyes. His posture loosened, and with it came a faint, unsettling smile that seemed to shine in the torchlight. “You are bold, reporter,” he said softly, voice laced with dangerous calm. “Far bolder than I expected.” He leaned back into his throne, the glow about him almost radiant, though it was not warmth that radiated — but control.

 “We shall talk more… over lunch.”