Commander Alfred raised his empty goblet like a hollow crown, tilted it toward Shelika, and signaled the soldiers to close in like a tightening net.

A chill skittered through Lance’s chest like spilled ice.

Exposed? The thought snapped like a twig in a storm.

He’d heard the Celestial Race sensed more than humans, like owls in night wind, especially the scent of mana beyond the five senses.

Maybe this Celestial had sniffed a loose thread under the veil.

At his order, several Heavenly Spirit soldiers drifted toward Shelika like boulders rolling downhill.

Heavenly Spirit troops were often Titanborn, and these men were Titanborn, skin dark as sun-baked earth.

In looks they passed for human in a fog, but where humans held wheat-gold skin, theirs was deep umber like wet cedar.

Beyond skin, Titanborn were born to Battle Aura, like a fire waking at dawn.

So even common soldiers of the Heavenly Spirit Empire carried weight like iron cliffs; if Shelika’s disguise tore, disaster would land like a hammer.

They drew nearer, step by step, like tides licking a stranded boat.

Lance’s hand, by reflex, slid to his waist, to the Sirius Sword sleeping under his shirt like a hidden star.

A heartbeat later he drew back, knowing “Lance” alone might fail like a dull blade; the true self might have to blaze.

Then a cooler thought fell like evening rain: he shouldn’t save her; he should watch her get yanked out, then spin a new excuse so the collection wouldn’t suffer.

Fulin’s mind, in that blink, tangled like a forest of threads in wind.

Luck, thin as a dragonfly’s wing, favored them; Alfred’s doubt wasn’t on Shelika at all.

He kept the empty, expensive goblet aloft like a mock scepter, and his pointing drifted past the girl to the pack behind her.

Check her pack, the commander said, voice flat as iron.

Yes, sir. The Titanborn didn’t waste a breath; they took her backpack and spilled its contents like a small cupboard upended.

Clothes, dry rations, and several rolls of parchment lay like fallen leaves.

Alfred tapped one roll with the goblet’s rim like a knuckle on a door. Let me see that.

Yes, sir. The Titanborn reached for it.

No! Shelika flared like a cornered doe; she snatched the roll from the dirt, hugged it to her chest, and refused.

Lance frowned, annoyance pricking like nettles; boarding might stall here, so he ordered, Hey, hand it over.

His tone brooked no doubt, like a line carved in stone. Shelika looked up at him, pleading, eyes wet as rain glass.

He’d seen that look many times, like the same play on repeat.

At first the eyes were fake, all sugar and knives; then the deceit thinned, leaving simple begging like a bare branch.

Even if she meant no harm now, he couldn’t forget what she’d done, a stain like old wine on cloth.

Hand it over! Lance raised his voice, sharp as flint.

Shelika stared, stunned, despair breaking like the last strand of silk; then calm came like a lake at dusk.

She passed the parchment out; the Titanborn ripped it free, skimmed it with a frown like a knot in wood, then gave it to Alfred.

He read, and his brow furrowed deeper, like plow lines in dry earth. What kind of nonsense is this?

He beckoned the army mage. Mage, get over here and identify it.

Here. Let me look. The mage peered close, eyes like lanterns, and after a careful read he reported, It’s no spell scroll.

Aside from half the writing done in blood, the paper’s clean as an empty plate.

Alfred tossed the parchment back to Shelika’s feet like refuse. Pitiful little servant, can’t even afford ink.

He shot Lance a look of disdain, like spitting sideways. Seeing humans like you makes me treat my own servants better. What a buzzkill.

Shelika recovered the parchment like a lost jewel; she rubbed off the mud and folded it with care like a prayer.

Their reactions blurred past Lance; a touch of fog sat in his mind, but since boarding went smooth as a calm tide, he let it go.

Once all were aboard, the airship rose with a low whoosh, like a whale lifting from black water.

It climbed and climbed, and Lance stepped onto the deck to gaze down at the shrinking earth like a map burning at the edges.

A city scarred by overnight war shrank in his view like a crumpled sketch, growing small, growing irrelevant as ash.

A familiar voice stirred behind him like a warm draft. Enjoying the view?

He turned. Violette stood there, and when she saw he’d noticed, she went on, Our Heavenly Spirit Empire rules Nordland because of airships.

Lance frowned, puzzled, like a fox at a closed gate. Isn’t it your mighty Imperial Knights?

Violette flashed a mischievous smile, quick as sunlight. Don’t be silly. Without airships, how would knights ride south and north?

Fair point. Lance asked, Since you march everywhere, why not just conquer your nemesis?

Violette tilted her head and stared down at the dwindling land, and the endless sea that stretched even at this height like a blue blade. That’s another question.

Fine. Seeing she didn’t want to answer, Lance didn’t press; silence pooled between them like shade.

Thanks, Blazing Fire Knight, Violette murmured, voice soft as felt.

You thanking me for saving your skins? Yeah, yeah, got it. I’ll treasure the gratitude, he said, all easy breeze.

Ha! Violette snorted a laugh like a popped bubble. You really are fun.

Lance glanced at her, then looked away again, and drawled, To delight a royal of the Heavenly Spirit Empire is my greatest honor, I, Lance Morrison.

Violette spoke her heart first, like setting a stone down. Blazing Fire Knight, you’re the most unwavering person I’ve met.

Lance played indifferent, a shrug like a ripple. That so?

Then she shifted her tone like changing strings. Speaking of it, you braved rain and wind for us; you’ve actually got another agenda, right?

Lance stayed casual, a cat in sun. I figured you already knew.

Can you tell me what it is?

Money, Lance said, plain as iron.

Violette’s eyes widened like moons. Eh? You don’t look short on cash. Didn’t you pay a hundred gold coins at lunch? In Nordland many knights won’t make that in a lifetime, if I’m right.

It’s nowhere near enough.

Not enough?

Hands behind his head, Lance leaned on the bulkhead, eyes on the endless blue like a bottomless lake. Kid, you wouldn’t get it even if I said.

Why do you keep calling me a kid? Pelted by his brush-offs, Violette finally pouted, and her small fists thumped his chest, light as rain.

He kept silent, so she kept fussing, a sparrow pecking seed.

Lance sighed. What about you? You keep asking my purpose. Why won’t you say why you joined the tour?

Me… Violette’s bright eyes dimmed like lamps at dusk.

I actually ran away… She lowered her voice like a curtain, and spoke of her disgust for politics, its madness like wildfire, and the weight of royal duty she couldn’t bear.

It rang true, and that truth made Lance frown like a crease in silk. If you hate politics, why’d you try to lure me to be your knight, so you could climb the Empire’s ladder?

He meant the time right after they crushed the Shadowspirit Legion’s fleet, a memory like steel still warm.

Violette answered, ashamed, a blush like dusk. I was impulsive then. Later I thought about it. I don’t deserve you.

Don’t deserve? What do you mean? Aren’t you of the Heavenly Spirit?

Violette’s voice carried a trace of regret, like smoke. It’s not about that… If I made you my knight, your brilliance would only make my rivals find my flaws faster.

Flaws?

Yes. I say I want to run, yet even after running I couldn’t let go, so I said foolish things trying to recruit you—

Many times I should’ve led from the front, yet I watched you step out, watched you risk yourself—

You’re brave and steadfast, so my enemies would soon point to my softness and wavering…

She finished and lowered her head, sunk and sad, like a flower in rain.

Lance listened, then smiled. That’s why you’re the kid.

Violette bristled, a cat puffing up. Why do you keep saying that?!

You care too much about other people’s judgment.

What do you mean? She tilted her head like a curious bird.

He lifted a thumb and pointed at himself, boasting like a banner in wind. Be like me. Don’t care what they say. Don’t fear any ridge or storm. Step forward, step after step, till the end. That’s how you do what you want.

A gust hit right then, pulling his knight’s cloak into the air; the fabric danced in the wind like a free banner.

Violette stared at him, caught like a moth by flame.

Then she snorted, sweeping off the gloom, her smile bright and open like noon. Haha, you’ve got some nerve, praising yourself like that.

Lance felt a prickle of annoyance, like a burr. What’s wrong with that?

Violette smiled, understanding in her eyes like a quiet lake. Nothing. It’s great. I envy you, Lance.

Hey, you two! A soldier down the corridor waved, his shout cutting like a whistle. We’re landing soon. Get back to the cabin.

Let’s go back, Violette said, a little reluctant, like leaving sun for shade.

Landing? Lance blinked, puzzled. We’ve flown not even two hours. Isn’t the capital at least a day away?

Violette looked puzzled, then understood, a light dawning like sunrise. First time on an airship, Blazing Fire Knight? For the past decade the Empire tightened border checks.

Airship passengers get screened when crossing the Empire’s frontier, strict as sieves. If you’re fine, they won’t hassle you. Relax.

Figures, Lance thought, a sigh curling like smoke. No wonder that bastard Alfred didn’t dig deep when he checked us. I thought he was lazy. Turns out he didn’t need to.

He hid the worry under his ribs like a sheathed knife, and asked evenly, Then where do we get checked? And I thought there’s no port of entry between Empire and Republic.

There is. It’s what you humans always call the border defense line.

What?! The word hit Lance like a collapsing roof.