7.5. After a brief layover, Medith boarded the royal warship under a tide of gazes, the gangway gleaming like a blade over the sea.

The new captain wore noble attire, a royal hat, and mirror-bright black boots; handsome as a carved statue, his manners flowed like calm water.

“It’s an honor to have you aboard the Wavebreaker,” he said. “I’m Captain Francis. I’ve long admired General Medith—meeting you today is my great honor.”

He dropped to one knee, a polite smile set like sunlight on polished steel, every inch the gentleman.

Soon, he cradled Medith’s pale, smooth right hand; she drew back with a spring-breeze smile.

“No need for all that ritual. Rise, Captain Francis,” Medith said, her voice warm yet distant, like dawn mist over a lake.

“Your rank and mine stand level, like even scales; I’m a guest besides. No need to be so bound by ceremony.”

Francis’s eyes dipped with a brief shadow, then brightened like a lantern relit.

“Then please enjoy the familiar, beautiful coast,” he said, sea salt sharp as wine in the air. “If possible, let your hand temper my rookies like raw iron; that would be perfect.”

Medith kept a smile like a paper fan, but inside she lifted her guard like a shield.

“Naturally. But... you’re navy and I’m army. Our methods don’t always cross over.”

“If I drill your sailors wrong, I won’t take the blame, okay, currents aren’t the same as marching lines.”

Francis got her meaning, let the hook go slack, and only smiled.

He offered a courteous nod, then slipped back into the cabin like a shadow.

On the voyage, Medith and Francis spoke at length, their words wheeling like gulls above the wake.

From him she learned the flurry of moves Paris made after taking the throne, an iron hand snapping shut like a trap.

His grip on power bordered on obsession, like a fever that burns itself into the bone.

What stunned Medith most was the [War of Black and White], ink spilled across snow in her mind.

The King’s Shield—the dynasty’s staunchest guard of the royal arsenal—fell to the King’s own blade, like an oak felled by its gardener.

The reason given was merely suspicion, a chill word like frost on the tongue.

Leave the common folk aside; even with doubts, such thoughts would never be spoken aloud, swallowed like stones in the throat.

More crucial were the great nobles and vassals who held the reins of speech in court and countryside, banners heavy as rain.

The camps tamed by Elyu and Ostos must carry flocks of client forces under their wings.

They couldn’t have watched a daylight theft of power and pretended it was fog, eyes shut like clams.

The likeliest truth is this: either they sealed their mouths forever, or were squeezed out, or stripped and left to stumble like fish on planks.

By the look of it, Paris likely has the whole Royal Capital in his fist, a city clenched like a stone.

You... what do you want, Paris? Do you truly mean to spark a continent-wide struggle of Emperors, like flint to tinder?

But with what do you fight? What do you have to pit against the Southern Kingdom, a monsoon over open sea?

Medith gazed at the faint island ahead; sea wind combed her hair, and the water seemed to heave with a drift of bones.

...

7.12. Medith arrived at the Royal Capital without mishap; the familiar harbor still stood, high as a cliff, carved against the sky.

An austere, lavishly built hundred-mile wall sealed every main inlet of the island like a ring of iron.

Having seen the Southern Kingdom’s border walls, Medith wasn’t surprised, only nodded like a stone in rain.

As promised, Medith came ashore.

Faces slid past in the avenues—familiar yet strange, like portraits smudged by time.

Some faces shone with joy, respect, and surprise, eyes bright as lamps.

Others spotted her from afar, flinched, and hurried off without a backward glance, like rabbits into brush.

There were far more noble factions about, their colors fluttering like flocks of birds.

Well-dressed scions clustered here, lounging on terrace boxes to chat like cats.

Others watched the troupe’s song and dance like swallows in flight.

Still others stared down at parade drills like statues.

The Dike Guard had disappeared without a trace, like footprints swallowed by tide.

The eastern banner of the Sixpetal Rose was gone, its petals scattered like dusk.

In its place coiled the Six Clawed White Dragon, holy light glinting like ice.

Clang—

Clang—

Clang—

In the distance, the spire that pierced the clouds rang its welcoming bell again, proclaiming the arrival of an honored guest, sound rolling like waves.