Memo 013: (R1)Edict.

"Why…?" she thought, forcing her eyes to stay on him as he raised his goblet with an almost serene grace. "Why isn’t it working on him? Why can’t I see anything?"

The king’s gaze flicked to her, and though his smile was warm, it carried an undertone that crawled down her spine. "You seem troubled, Reporter," he said smoothly. "Is the food not to your liking?" Nagisa swallowed, her voice caught between suspicion and defiance. Cammy had never failed her before. Against monsters, demons, even people who hid behind masks of civility—she could always see their truth. But here… nothing

Nagisa steadied her breath, fingers curling tight around Cammy. If aura-reading wasn’t working, then she only had one option left—the other gift. The one that never lied. "If the truth won’t show itself in color…" she thought, lowering her lashes, "then maybe it will in light."

She shifted camera subtly, the camera’s lens glinting as she set it on her lap. Her thumb brushed against the frame, activating the dormant function only she could summon. Photo Veritas. A truth locked in stills. A glimpse of what the eye refused to see. The king sipped his wine, watching her with that same calm smile. His presence was suffocating, like he already knew what she was thinking.

She decided to strip the moment down to its essence. Not a trap, not an accusation—just the kind of question any reporter worth her salt would ask. 

"Do you truly care about the people of this world of Veylstra?" 

she asked, her tone deceptively simple. The king leaned back slightly, brows raised, as though amused by the choice of question. He opened his mouth to answer, his lips forming the word—

"Yes."

The snap of Cammy’s shutter cut through his reply. A small flash burst, unnoticed by all but her.

Nagisa’s eyes darted down to the photo as it slid into her hand, developing with the steady warmth she’d felt a hundred times before.

Her breath caught.

The image showed the king seated exactly as he was now, regal and composed, wine still in hand. But behind him—where there should have been only velvet drapery and carved stone—there writhed an amalgamation of shapes. They looked like bodies, melted together in grotesque swirls, their faces stretched and twisted, eyes wide and mouths frozen in soundless screams. Wails. A chorus of grief and anguish captured in an impossible still frame, all of them rising from his throne like a tide of the damned.

Nagisa’s hands trembled, but no words came. Her throat locked. The king, unaware of—or perhaps indifferent to—what her lens had revealed, held her gaze calmly. "Was that sufficient, Reporter?" he asked with that same composed warmth.

Nagisa slipped the photo under her sleeve, the edges biting against her skin as if to remind her it was real. She sat frozen, her body tense, her mind reeling. The shapes—the wails, the writhing mass—burned into her vision, but she couldn’t make sense of them. Not yet. Across the table, the king set down his goblet with deliberate calm. His eyes never left her face. "If that’s all you wanted to acquire," he said smoothly, his voice cutting through her silence, "then allow me a proposition."

"Live here,"

 the king continued, gesturing faintly to the gilded chamber around them. "At my castle. You need not trouble yourself with the concerns of my people anymore. Their burdens are mine to carry… not yours."His words slithered around her, deceptively soft, almost coaxing. The fork in his hand lingered over his plate, slicing tenderly into a cut of steak. He lifted it, crimson juices running down the meat like blood. 

As he chewed slowly, his lips glistened. Drool clung at the corner of his mouth, shining in the candlelight. And in that moment, Nagisa couldn’t tell—was it hunger for the food before him, or hunger for something else? For her? The king swallowed, his gaze steady, unwavering, almost feverish. "You would be well cared for here, Reporter. Far more than out there, chasing after truths that only wound."

She could feel him.

A weight pressed against her shoulders, phantom hands resting there. Heavy. Possessive. Fingers curling as though they could squeeze at any moment. Even though he was right in front of her.

Her skin prickled, her muscles locking. She dared not move.

And then it appeared behind her. 

Behind her, reflected faintly in the polished gold of the goblet, loomed something that was not the king at all. A warped silhouette stretched tall, horns jutting like broken spears, its mouth torn into a grin too wide for a human face. Eyes glowed dim and hollow, watching her with cruel amusement.

A demonic visage.

The king—sitting across the table, calm, chewing another cut of steak as if nothing had changed.

Her heartbeat thundered.

"I’m still in his chambers… I know I’m in his chambers…" she told herself. But the phantom weight didn’t ease. It was as if the castle itself breathed with him, every corner of the chamber his domain. He king swallowed slowly, his smile warm, oblivious—or perhaps deliberately cruel. "So?" he asked, his voice resonating deeper now, almost doubled with a hidden echo. "Will you accept my offer, Reporter?"

"Vaffanculo!"

The word cracked like a whip, echoing off the vaulted ceiling.

Nagisa flinched, her eyes darting down. Nateas was still on the floor, wrists bound, dirt smudged across his face. But his eyes—fierce, burning—were locked on the king. His lips curled into a snarl, defiance dripping from every syllable. "You're a crook," Nateas spat, his voice rough but unyielding. "You don’t care about her comfort. You just want another girl you haven’t broken yet. Isn’t that right?" His chest heaved, his words fueled not just by rage but by something bitterly certain. "You’re not satisfied with the ones you already keep here… so you’ve set your eyes on her."

Then it returned, smoother than silk, dripping with false amusement. "Such coarse language," he said evenly, dabbing at the corner of his mouth with a cloth, though the glisten of drool remained. "But spirited. I see why you keep him around, Reporter."

Nagisa’s voice finally broke through the tension, quiet but steady, though she could feel the phantom weight lingering over her shoulders. "If I decide to agree to this…" Her eyes flicked between the king and her two companions bound on the floor. "What happens to those two? Will you ensure they’re okay?"

For a moment, silence. The king’s fork lingered above his plate, his expression unreadable, before he set it down with deliberate care. He leaned back in his chair, studying Yuranu first. His gaze softened—almost reverent.

"The viperian… she is of value. Blood of venom, a legacy that whispers of power. She’ll stay here. Intact." Yuranu’s jaw tightened, but she said nothing, her tail coiling against the floor in restrained agitation. Then the king’s gaze slid to Nateas. The softness evaporated. His lips curled into something harsher, crueler.

*"But the demonill…" * His voice lowered, as though savoring the word. "His kind were never meant to walk above. He will fight in my dungeon. A pit where he can be useful." He dabbed at his lips with a cloth, smiling faintly. "He should be grateful I don’t throw him to the dogs outright. A wretch from below ought to take what mercy he can."

Nateas let out a sharp laugh, bitter and unafraid, even as his cuffs rattled against the stone. "Your mercy’s worth less than spit, old man." The weight of the photo pressed against her arm, the phantom hands still hovering over her shoulders, and her friends’ fates dangling in the balance.

The king seemed to savor her hesitation. His smile stretched, glistening at the corners, and he snapped his fingers once. The sound echoed sharp across the chamber. "Very well," he said, his tone sliding into something colder. "If the reporter cannot decide, then I will." His eyes fell to Nateas, still chained with fire in his stare. "This one shows his teeth too often. Insolence must be answered."

He gestured lazily toward the great doors of his chamber. "Bring him in… Eirikr." The guards saluted and moved with mechanical precision, opening the gilded doors. The sound of heavy boots followed—each step striking the marble like a drumbeat. Nateas tilted his head, spitting blood to the side, a crooked grin carving across his face. "Figures. He wouldn’t dirty his own hands." The king’s laughter rumbled low, curling like smoke through the chamber. He tapped a jeweled finger against the armrest of his throne.

"This will prove… an amusing show."

The words carried across the hall like a decree, final and merciless. Eirikr stepped forward into the light. His face was half-hidden behind a helm marked with gouges, but his eyes—hungry, wild—gleamed with savage delight. He rolled his shoulders, his armor groaning, and cracked his neck as though warming up for sport.

His gaze locked on Nateas, and his lips twisted into a grin. Glee flickered there, the joy of a predator given free license to maim. At a gesture from the king, the guards dragged Nateas upright. The clank of his shackles rang harsh in the chamber. "He will fight chained," the king announced, his voice echoing. "Let him learn what defiance costs. Let all of you learn."

The stage was set. Nateas stood chained, defiant but bound. Eirikr loomed, glee sparking in every movement. And the king leaned forward, eyes glinting, ready to savor every second.