[Ayame's POV]
I walk a little ahead of him. The train is before us, a long vessel clad in overlapping silver plates etched with intricate, glowing runes. It is a complex design, a fusion of technology and magic. Lucid stares at it, his head tilting as he takes in the sight. He is intrigued, maybe even awed. I, on the other hand, have seen this. The design varies by line and by kingdom, but the principle is always the same: a shell to protect fragile life as it hurtles through the unforgiving void.
We walk onto the crystallized glowing pathway that extends from the black obsidian platform out into the open air. The path is solid underfoot, a ribbon of hardened light leading directly to the train's open entrance. The air here is still, but it smells cold…
I shrink my form. The interior of the train carriage is elegant, but space is always carefully measured. My smaller, more compact shape is efficient for boarding and moving through the narrow aisle. People already seated glance at me. Their eyes note my baggy, torn travel clothes, the faint stains, the general air of someone who has recently been in a fight but they quickly come up with a realization when they see my label. I do not concern myself with their looks. Their opinions are irrelevant whispers.
I look back. Lucid is still amazed, his gaze darting from the intricate carvings on the train's hull to the vast, star-dusted purple expanse of the void beyond the platform.
I admit… I feel a slight pang. A feeling I miss. Being truly *seen* by him. He does not gaze at me with that same wonder anymore. Has he grown accustomed to my appearance? Could that be the reason I so often assume my larger form lately, despite its lesser travel efficiency? Is it a silent bid for his attention, a desire to be more than just a practical companion? Has he changed me, influenced me in ways I did not consent to and do not fully understand? I will examine these vague and impure thoughts later.
He takes the lead then, his moment of awe passing into purpose. He reaches back and takes my arm, his grip firm and guiding, as we step over the threshold into the train's interior.
It is elegant inside. The air is cool and lightly scented with something clean, like wood and leather. Rows of seats upholstered in deep red leather face each other, divided by a narrow table of polished dark wood. Next to each seating pair is a large window. Not glass, but a clear, solidified crystal that offers a breathtaking, unobstructed view of the swirling purple void and its field of floating debris. It is quite beautiful. On the surface of the window, a faint, luminous projection shimmers into being. Fate resonance technology. It displays shifting advertisements, announcements, and short, looping clips of what humans call 'film'.
Lucid is completely drawn to it. He sits down opposite the window, leaning forward. He is not just looking; he is processing it, like when I hunt for prey, absorbing every detail as if trying to decode a new language. Only the wealthy commonly have access to such seamless, ambient technology. It is useful, though I have not seen much of it in recent memory. A fractured recollection surfaces: a faction, technologically advanced, masters of this particular domain. The memory has no particular source, but only a sensation of sterile halls and tall rectangular buildings. It is not of any interest to me now.
I take a seat, positioning myself so my back is to the front engine of the train. This allows me to observe most of the other passengers in the carriage, all facing in the direction of travel. Lucid sits on the plush seat opposite me. It is the correct, efficient arrangement. Yet, a quiet, stubborn part of me wishes he would sit beside me. To share the view, to feel the solid line of his shoulder against mine.
I am being greedy. I have to chastise myself internally. Greed is a destabilizing emotion.
My eyes drift to the projection on the window-screen. A familiar program format begins. A charismatic host with a digitally enhanced backdrop.
Hello, Hello Folks!
Today on the Fugitive List, we are presenting five individuals! Amongst them, we have managed to acquire portraits for four! Keep your eyes peeled, as their bounty prices are high and might fetch you a one-shot at retirement!
I see an old man with a white beard and a clean-shaven head appear in the projection. The host's personality is enthusiastic, a practiced act. I do not care for such entertainment. But something compels me to watch. A habit from a forgotten past, perhaps.
On our first person on the bounty list… YOU GUESSED IT! It is the same person for the past century! This individual is said to be the most feared shadow in the Scattered Realms, notably due to their rumored connections with the Seven Heavenly Virtues! Their possible cause of the downfall of the old commission of the scattered realms and the list goes on!
A shiver, cold and unwelcome, traces my back. The Seven Heavenly Virtues. That is not a children's tale. It is a legend. I can't recall.
We don't have a confirmed portrait but their legends continue to grow out there! Capturing this person results in a reward of FIVE DIAMOND COINS!
A murmur ripples through the carriage. Five diamond coins is a sum that could buy an entire empire and a kingdom, it can also fund an army for a lifetime. It is an abstract, almost mythical number. But money is of no value to me.
However it is more advised to stay clear from this person, even if you find them! BAHAHAHA! If you value your life!
The host laughs, but the warning is real. This is not a bounty for bounty hunters. It is a statement. A reminder that some things are beyond the reach of kingdoms and coins.
I also… remember this now. This program. This… person. They are a legend. They are spoken of in hushed tones by my clan elders, in the war councils of every empire, in the nightmares of kings. This individual is wanted by every faction under the sun. I cannot imagine what crime one must commit against civilization itself to warrant such a unified, eternal hunt. Merely being affiliated with the Seven Virtues seems to be condemnation enough.
I hope I never cross their path. The thought is a quiet prayer to no god in particular.
On our second list! This individual is said to serve directly in the organization that targets nobles, royalty, and people of high influence alike!
The projection shifts. New graphics flash.
TRENT LOCKHEART! THE FOUNDER OF THE CHAPEU!
The name.
It hits me like a physical blow.
The air leaves my lungs. The sounds of the train, the murmurs of passengers, the host's cheerful voice, all of it recedes into a dull, roaring static. My vision tunnels, focusing on the glowing letters of that name hovering in the air.
This person is said to craft any bad ailment, any curse, for any foe, which made him rise to the top of the underworld! Though he is a businessman and runs a 'legitimate' enterprise, he is wanted by multiple kingdoms!!! His reward is sixty-eight platinum coins! That is almost a diamond coin!
Trent Lockheart.
The Chapeu.
A businessman. A curse-forger. A target.
My mind is not sent into a torrent. It is shattered by it. A dam of fragmented memories, held back by sheer will and confusion, bursts.
Not with a flood of clear scenes, but with a catastrophic crash of sensory recall.
The taste of expensive, bitter wine.
The feel of fine, black gloves on my hands.
The sound of a calm, analytical voice discussing demographic projections and casualty estimates.
The weight of a dagger, not as a tool, but as a symbol of office.
The sight of a ledger, its pages filled not with numbers, but with names… and next to them, prices.
I look at Lucid.
He is watching the show, his misted face turned toward the projection. He seems interested, perhaps mildly concerned by the bounties. A normal reaction.
He is my only constant in all this chaos. My only fixed point since I woke in the snow.
My human.
My blood-giver.
My warmth.
The new, shattering memories rise, sharp, and they overlay this view of him.
My… assignment?
My… target?
The two truths cannot coexist. They tear at the fabric of my being.
I stare at his unaware profile, backlit by the glow of the bounty listing for Trent Lockheart. My hands, resting on my knees, tremble slightly.
What am I? Who am I?
"Excuse me," is the only word I can mutter under my breath, I raise up from the seat in an abrupt motion avoiding looking at him. If I lock eyes with him… no I can't let it get a hold of me. I wince my head hurts. I run down the corridor away from my duty, from my companion, from my vow…
from my enemy…