The throne room of Agashima was a cathedral to weight and industry. Vaulted ceilings, ribbed with iron beams like the skeleton of some colossal forge-beast, stretched into shadows thick with the warm, familiar scents of pine resin, distant baking bread, and the ever-present mineral breath of the Grand Forge. Light filtered through tall, narrow windows set with panes of greenish glass, casting long, hard lines across the flagstones. The air itself felt dense, each inhalation carrying the taste of cold stone and forest damp.
Queen Ayana El Mahrusa sat upon her seat of office—not a traditional throne, but a massive, beautifully engineered chair of dark wood and reinforcing steel bands. At four and a half meters tall, even seated she was a monolith of regal power. Her obsidian horns curved back like a crown, and the ceremonial false beard of braided metal gleamed against her chest. Her gold-flecked eyes, calm and measuring, held the steady patience of a master mason watching mortar set. To her right, seeming almost small despite his two-and-a-half-meter frame, stood Archibald Winn Lima-Sabin.
Archibald was a riot of color and nervous energy against the room's heavy palette. His multi-colored silk vest was dusted with a fine, pale powder from his chalk, a stark contrast to the somber crimson of his Carthaginian cloak. His blue-grey face, marked by the scar that pulled his mouth into a perpetual near-grin, twitched with unspoken jokes and calculations. His fingers, stained white, drummed a silent, rapid rhythm on his thigh.
The great iron-banded doors groaned open. Shamrock entered, his footsteps echoing in the vast space. He was a man who carried his own gravity, a sharp, focused pressure that cut through the room's dense atmosphere. His eyes, cold and assessing, swept past the intricate ironwork murals depicting the forging of the Grand Chrono-Anchor, past the hanging tapestries of woven steel fiber, and locked onto the two figures awaiting him. He did not bow. He did not kneel. He simply stopped, the space around him growing quiet.
"Queen Ayana," Shamrock said, his voice a low, flat stone dropped into a deep well. His gaze shifted. "Archibald." He then looked between them, then past them, as if searching for a third shadow. His eyes, level and unblinking, settled back on Ayana. "Where is your Sovereign?"
Archibald cleared his throat, a sound like grinding pebbles. He forced his performer's smile wider, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Ah. The Sovereign. Yes. Currently… detained. By pressing matters. He sends his deepest regrets but won't be joining our little gathering."
Shamrock's brow, a crimson ridge over his sharp eyes, lifted a fraction. It was the only movement on his still face.
Ayana's rich, melodic voice filled the space, a deliberate counterpoint to Shamrock's clipped tone. "His duties to the Hitotsume and the Anchor chain cannot be postponed, even for a summons he himself extended. I apologize for his absence." She spoke the royal 'we', each word chosen and placed with the care of a cornerstone.
Shamrock exhaled. It wasn't a sigh, but a slow, controlled release of air that held the heat of a banked furnace. Annoyance, tightly leashed, bled into the room. "And where," he asked, the words precise and cold, "is the girl?"
Archibald swallowed. His Adam's apple bobbed against the high collar of his tunic. He shifted his weight, the fine chalk dust on his shoulders puffing into the light like ghostly snow. "About that. They have, um… Well, you see… The situation developed a… a certain momentum. They…"
Shamrock's scowl cut him off. It was a swift, sharp change in the landscape of his face, like a cliff shearing off. "Just say it."
The silence stretched, filled only by the distant, rhythmic thump of the island's great forges. It was Ayana who answered, her voice never losing its dignified timber, though a flicker of something hard—pride wounded, a project flawed—passed through her eyes. "They escaped."
The two words hung in the iron-scented air.
"I apologize," Ayana continued, "for making you come all this way for a report of failure."
Shamrock's jaw flexed. A muscle jumped along the line of it, the only sign of the storm beneath his calm. Without another word, he spun on his heel, the heavy fabric of his cloak whipping around his legs. The sound was a sharp crack in the quiet.
"The Gorosei will be informed," he stated, already walking toward the towering doors.
The sound of Ayana rising to her feet was a subtle shift of weight, the creak of reinforced wood and the chime of metal ornaments. "That will not be necessary," she said, her voice gaining a firmer edge, the voice of a queen used to commanding mountains of labor. "We can recover the situation. The northern currents are ours to command. The girl and her ship cannot—"
Shamrock stopped. He didn't turn fully, but glared over his shoulder, his profile a sharp cut-out against the greenish window light. "You can what?" he interrupted, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Fail again?" He let the question hang, poison-tipped. "Your Sovereign is otherwise occupied, deeming himself too important to follow through with a summons he initiated. Your island's stability is… compromised. Your assistance is not necessary."
He resumed his walk, each step final. The message was clear: Agashima had fallen in his estimation. They were no longer reliable pillars, but cracked stone.
As he marched through the echoing, vaulted hallway, past silent Ogre guards who stood as still as the iron statues lining the walls, Shamrock's hand slipped into his pocket. His fingers closed around a small piece of cardstock. He drew it out. A Vivre Card, its torn edge gently, insistently, pulling toward the distant sea. The name Sanza was written upon it in a familiar, elegant hand.
A smirk, thin and devoid of warmth, touched his lips. It was the first true expression he'd shown since arriving. He clenched his fist. The Vivre Card crinkled in his grip, the paper protesting, yet its persistent pull remained, a tiny, unyielding compass pointing toward a debt soon to be called due. He didn't look back at the throne room, at the Queen or her chalk-dusted jester. Their part in this was over. His, however, was just beginning.
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