The procession moved away from the relative openness of the docks and into the throat of Metz-Oni. The air grew warmer, thicker, carrying the scent of hot metal, baking stone from the Quiche-Forges, and the underlying, acidic tang of the distant Iron Swamps. The streets were canyons, flanked by buildings whose foundations were carved directly into the mountain, their upper stories reinforced with beams of black iron as thick as ancient trees.
Vesta, shoved to the front, found her fear momentarily swallowed by a performer's awe. Her head swiveled, trying to take in the soaring, grim architecture. Gargoyles shaped like snarling Oni spat geothermal steam instead of rainwater from gutter spouts. High above, on gantries that defied gravity, Ogre workers the size of houses moved segments of gleaming, silverish metal—"Memory-Steel," a rumbling overseer called it—with careful, earth-shaking steps.
She glanced over her shoulder at her fellow prisoners, her eyes wide not with terror but with inspiration. "I could totally play a killer concert here," she breathed, the words slipping out. "The acoustics in these plazas…!"
Jannali blinked, her face pale under her headscarf. A bead of sweat traced a path down her temple. The Voice of All Things here was a roaring, industrial headache—the lament of ore being crushed, the weary sigh of stone holding impossible weight. Atlas, walking stiffly beside her, caught Vesta's comment and shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose as if physically pained by her audacity.
"It would be epic!" Vesta continued, undeterred, gesturing with her shackled hands toward a massive, vaulted foundry hall from which a wave of heat and a deep, resonant BONG echoed. "Look how the sound would carry! You could fit thousands!"
Eliane, clutching Jannali's hand, whispered, "Is she really going to play a concert?"
Jannali managed a weak smirk, her accent flattening the words with exhausted sarcasm. "Nah, she's just dreamin' big again. Head in the clouds, even when we're in the belly of the beast."
"That's what this place needs!" Vesta insisted, starting to spin, her colorful hair a faint protest against the monochrome iron and stone. "A little joy, a little—YEOW!"
Jeanne "La Lionne" de Clisson's grip was like a sea-iron manacle on Vesta's arm, yanking her back in line. The pirate captain's amber eyes were chips of frost. "You will not be singing or performing," she stated, her voice cutting through the industrial din. "Keep. It. Moving. I want this business concluded and my feet back on a deck, not trapped on this suffocating rock."
After a tense moment, Archibald Winn Lima-Sabin sidled up beside Vesta, his multi-colored vest a bizarre flag in the grim march. He walked with a bounce, unaffected by the gravity of the place. "So, you're a performer," he said, his tone congenial, as if discussing the weather.
Vesta, ever unable to resist an audience, beamed. "I'm a singer! It's my Dream to—"
"Oh, I know all about Dreams," Archibald interrupted, his grin widening. "They make the world spin. And sometimes," he added, dusting a flick of chalk from his shoulder, "they get people into magnificent amounts of trouble."
Jeanne groaned audibly as they approached the inner citadel—a fortress of riveted plates and towering, narrow windows that looked like arrow slits for giants. A voice boomed from a gatehouse, echoing in the confined avenue: "Halt! State your business!"
Jeanne didn't flinch. "We are here to see the Sovereign and the Queen! They are expecting us!"
With a groan of protesting metal that set teeth on edge, the colossal gate—a single slab of iron-stained oak banded in black steel—swung inward. The prisoners were herded through, and the vista that opened before them stole the breath from even Atlas's lungs.
They stood in a courtyard that was a cultivated piece of myth. The ground was paved with smooth, dark river stones, worn flat by eons. In the center, a tree with bark the color of tarnished silver and leaves like hammered copper grew, its branches twisted in graceful, agonized shapes. But it was the walls that captivated and intimidated. They weren't simply built; they were inscribed. Every stone block, every mighty pillar, was covered in deep, intricate carvings—not words, but sequences of interlocking gears, phases of six distinct moons, and vast, sleeping forms curled around mountains. This was the history of Agashima, the story of the Genroshi and their eternal vigil, told in a language of mechanics and celestial bodies.
"The Lugh-Grange archives," Jannali murmured, her voice thick. "It's all here… in the stone. The weight of it…"
Their march ended at two towering doors of polished, deep-green stone. Without a command, Varo and William fell back, flanking them. Archibald stepped forward, threw the doors open with a dramatic flourish, and announced to the cavernous hall beyond, "Captain Jeanne de Clisson and her… acquisitions, for Your Graces!"
The throne room was a testament to scale. Vaulted ceilings vanished into shadow high above. Light fell in heavy, dusty shafts from windows set miles up. The air was cool, still, and carried a faint, clean scent of wet slate and cold forge.
At the room's end, upon a dais, two high-backed chairs—thrones hewn from a single, mammoth piece of basalt—sat. In one lounged Grutte Pier Dorian, the Sovereign. He was a mountain of a man, his frame suggesting a density that defied logic. He wore simple, heavy clothes, his arms crossed, his head resting on a fist, his expression one of profound, weary boredom. In the other sat Queen Ayana El Mahrusa. She was towering, slender where he was broad, her posture regal and watchful, her eyes sharp as chisels.
Jannali felt a fresh wave of dissonant whispers from the stone and a bead of sweat slid down her neck. Eliane tried to make herself smaller, hiding behind Jannali's taller frame. Vesta, however, stood slack-jawed and mesmerized, staring up at the tiered dais. Atlas narrowed his sapphire eyes, muscles coiling under his fur, assessing angles, distances, threats.
Pier's gaze, slow and heavy as a tectonic shift, moved from Jeanne to the cluster of prisoners. His voice, when it came, rumbled through the chamber stones. "This…" he gestured vaguely with his free hand, "…is the price for a Celestial Dragon?"
Jeanne took a steadying breath. "These are the ones she was traveling with. The terms are clear. She gets them back, she hands over the Dragon."
Pier raised a single, thick brow. "And you are confident she will not simply abandon them? Sentiment is a currency that often devalues at the first sign of real cost."
Queen Ayana El Mahrusa moved. She unfolded from her throne, rising to her full, staggering height. The simple act made the room feel smaller. She descended the dais steps, each footfall a soft, definitive tap. She bent at the waist, bringing her face level with the prisoners. Her gaze was curious, analytical.
Eliane gasped, shrinking back. Vesta, after a stunned second, beamed and gave a small, shackled wave. "Wow! You are so big!"
A genuine, rich chuckle escaped Ayana. She looked over her shoulder at Pier. "They are so adorable! We should keep them!"
Jeanne's groan was the sound of pure, strained professionalism.
Pier, his skepticism etched into the lines of his face, stood and approached. His movements were deliberate, each step a statement of possession over the space. He looked them up and down—the fiery Mink, the shrouded woman, the cowering child chef, the rainbow-haired singer. His eyes narrowed.
"You are an eclectic group of unique individuals," he boomed, his brow furrowing. "How did you all come to be traveling together?"
Vesta, thrilled to be asked, burst forward, chains jangling. "Oh, that's because of Marya! She's trying to open a door or something and she needed—well, I'm not totally sure what she needed, but it's super important! Did you know her dad is a Warlord? And not just any Warlord, the Warlord, Dracule Mihawk!" She beamed, riding the momentum of her own revelation. "How cool is that? I mean, she can be all stoic and distant and stuff, but—"
"Vesta," Atlas hissed, his eyes bulging in warning.
Jannali winced, the sound of so much vital information flooding out into the open making her head pound harder. "Strewth, girl, put a sock in it," she muttered.
Atlas lunged to try and physically silence her, but it was far too late.
Pier had gone utterly still. The weary boredom vanished from his face, replaced by a crackling, focused intensity that changed the pressure in the room. He turned slowly, a massive continent shifting on its axis, to face Vesta fully.
"WHAT," he said, the word not a shout but a low, seismic boom that vibrated in their bones, "did you just say?"
Vesta blinked, head tilting. She tapped her chin with a shackled finger. "Um… I dunno. What did I just say?"
Pier stomped forward, the green stone floor trembling. Atlas immediately shifted, placing himself squarely between the advancing sovereign and Vesta, his body low, a growl building in his throat.
Pier's eyes flicked to him. "Step aside, kitten."
Atlas smirked, all reckless defiance. "Make me."
"Gladly."
The backhanded swipe wasn't a punch; it was a geological event. It connected with Atlas's crossed arms, and the sound was like a sack of anvils being dropped from a cliff. Atlas didn't stumble; he flew, a blur of red fur across the chamber. He hit the far wall with a sickening, wet crunch of stone and body, and slid down into a silent, motionless heap.
"ATLAS!" Eliane's scream was a tiny, shattered thing in the vast room.
Pier didn't break stride. He stepped into Vesta's space, his shadow engulfing her. The playful, curious sovereign was gone, replaced by something raw and vengeful. "Did you say," he repeated, each word dripping with a cold, ancient fury, "Dracule Mihawk?"
Vesta stammered, finally sensing the cataclysm her words had triggered. "I… I…"
Jannali stepped forward, pulling Eliane behind her. Her voice, though laced with her accent, was steady and hard. "Yeah, mate. She did. What's it to you?"
Pier's jaw flexed, his shoulders tensing like coiled mountain ranges. The air grew hotter, heavier. When he spoke, the words were a guttural promise. "He took something from me." He turned his blazing eyes to Jeanne. "Good work. Leave them with me."
He looked back at the three remaining prisoners, his gaze settling on them not as bargaining chips, but as newly revealed instruments of a personal, long-burning war.
"I know exactly what to do with them."
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