The cargo hatch finished opening with a sound like a jaw unhinging.
Cold light spilled down into the hold—white, clinical, wrong on painted masks and dragon scales and the glittery lie of theater. It hit Zidane in the eyes hard enough to make him squint, and in that half-blind second he thought of spotlights and applause and people pretending not to see what was actually happening.
Boots hit the ladder. Not troupe boots. Not "we're family" chaos.
Measured.
A Public Safety lantern swung into view, the beam cutting across crates, ropes, costumes. It stopped on Zidane like the lantern had recognized him.
"Hands where I can see them," a voice said. Flat. Not cruel. Worse—professional.
Zidane lifted both hands slowly and smiled like he was about to do a cute trick.
"Evening," he said. "Love what you've done with the place."
The lantern didn't move.
The silhouette behind it did.
A man in a long gray coat stepped down into the hold. Alexandria's crest—an angular, crown-like symbol—was stitched on his shoulder. An aethercaster hung at his hip in a holster that looked like it had been designed by someone who hated joy. The weapon's crystal-cell pulsed faintly, the same kind of hum Zidane had felt from the long crates, only sharper. More eager.
The officer's gaze flicked to Quina.
Quina sat beside Zidane like a tiny, polite statue. Hat tilted. Eyes calm. Mouth closed, but somehow still hungry.
"What is that," the officer said.
Quina answered before Zidane could.
"Hungry," Quina said, politely.
The officer stared for a beat too long. "Is it… trained?"
Zidane's grin widened. "Define trained. It doesn't bite me."
Quina nodded once, solemn. "Friend not eaten."
That did not help.
The officer's eyes returned to Zidane. "Name."
Zidane's brain sprinted for a lie and tripped over the truth.
He used the truth anyway, because it was easier to sell.
"Zidane," he said. "Just Zidane. Like… the word."
"Occupation."
"Freelance disappointment."
The officer didn't react.
"Stowaway?" another voice called from above. "We've got a manifest mismatch."
Zidane kept smiling. He could feel his fingers wanting his wrist—wanting a familiar pressure point, wanting to rub the panic into something smaller. He forced his hands to stay visible.
"I'm not a stowaway," Zidane said quickly. "I'm an intern."
The officer finally moved the lantern away, sweeping the beam across the hold. It lingered on the long crates marked FIREWORKS / DO NOT DROP.
Then it slid back to Zidane's face.
"Up," the officer said. "Now."
Zidane's grin twitched. "Can I ask what this is about first? Because if it's about the smell, I—"
The aethercaster hummed.
Zidane shut up.
He climbed the ladder with his hands raised, boots slipping on the metal rungs. Quina waddled after him without being told, tiny hands on the ladder like it had always known how to climb out of a trap.
When Zidane's head broke the deck line, the night air hit him like a slap.
The Prima Vista's upper deck was crowded—crew pressed back, faces turned toward the intruders like they'd been forced into an audience. Public Safety lined the planks in clean rows, lanterns in one hand, aethercasters in the other. The weapons weren't pointed—yet—but every muzzle angled the same way, like their owners were just waiting for the excuse.
Wind snapped the sails. Moonlight bleached everything silver. Below the railing, the Mist roiled—gray-white and faintly luminous, pulsing in slow breaths like a sleeping animal the size of the world.
And ahead, on the horizon—
Alexandria.
Its walls rose like a crown. Towers pierced the sky. The city glowed with warm light, gold and honey and safe from a distance.
It also had banners.
Huge ones.
They hung from dock pylons and patrol skiffs and the sides of the nearest watchtowers, each painted with the same smiling crest and the same slogan in bold, tidy lettering:
PUBLIC SAFETY KEEPS YOU WHOLE
Zidane stared at it.
He couldn't decide if it was a promise or a threat.
Quina inhaled deeply beside him.
"Good smell," Quina said.
Zidane blinked. "Alexandria smells good to you?"
Quina nodded. "Many hungry."
Zidane's laugh came out wrong. "Yeah. Same."
A Public Safety officer grabbed his arm and turned him slightly, as if he were a crate that needed to face the right direction. The grip was firm, not violent—like touching Zidane too hard would stain the gloves.
"Eyes forward," the officer said.
Zidane kept smiling anyway, because smiling was the closest thing he had to armor that didn't cost blood.
On the far side of the deck, Baku appeared.
He moved through the Public Safety line like he belonged there, cigar in hand, shoulders relaxed, face set in that big, warm smile that made you feel safe right up until you realized it was a tool.
"Gentlemen," Baku boomed. "Welcome aboard! We're honored Alexandria takes such an interest in the arts."
The lead officer stepped forward. "Baku."
Baku's smile didn't flinch. "Captain."
Zidane's stomach dipped.
They knew each other.
Of course they knew each other.
The officer's gaze cut briefly toward the long crates. "You're carrying regulated magitek."
Baku laughed, delighted. "Fireworks. For the royal performance."
"Fireworks," the officer repeated, like he was tasting a lie.
"They're labeled," Baku said, cheerful. "We even wrote 'do not drop' because we care about safety. Same as you."
The officer didn't smile.
He raised a hand. Two Public Safety men moved immediately toward the crates.
Cinna appeared behind Baku, jaw clenched so hard it looked like his teeth were trying to escape. He didn't speak. He didn't have to. His entire body said: do not make this worse.
Zidane's jokes started sprinting again, desperate for air.
"Wow," Zidane called, too loud. "Big fan of your work, by the way. Love the uniforms. Very… authoritarian chic."
The officer nearest him tightened his grip.
Zidane softened his smile instantly. "Kidding. Relax. I'm friendly."
The lead officer turned his head slightly.
Not toward Zidane.
Toward Baku.
"Where is the stowaway," the lead officer asked.
Baku's smile widened like a curtain going up. "Ah."
Zidane went cold.
Baku glanced over—just once—and the look he gave Zidane was so gentle it made Zidane's throat want to close.
Family, like a contract.
"He's right there," Baku said warmly. "Caught him snooping near the lower decks. You know how it is—boys see a famous airship and think they can just… climb inside."
Zidane's grin locked in place.
His insides did not.
"You—" Zidane started.
Baku kept talking, smooth as stage patter. "We were going to hand him over when we docked, of course. Procedure. But you saved us the trip."
The lead officer's eyes slid to Zidane. "Step forward."
Zidane took a step because two aethercasters shifted in unison and the ship suddenly felt very small.
"Name," the lead officer said again, like he was filling in a blank.
Zidane opened his mouth and almost said something stupid like I'm not yours.
He swallowed it.
"Zidane," he said. "Just Zidane."
"Affiliation."
Zidane smiled brighter. "Unfortunate."
The officer stared.
Zidane's smile faltered a millimeter. "No affiliation."
The officer turned slightly to the side. "Search him."
Zidane's pulse spiked. "C'mon. I'm basically a child."
"Exactly," the officer said, and it sounded like he meant it.
Gloved hands patted him down, efficient and impersonal. They found the obvious: the cheap knife in his boot, the stolen coil-spring tucked into his belt, the lint and grease that lived on him like a second skin.
Then a hand brushed his pocket.
The coins.
Zidane's grin went stiff.
The gloved fingers closed.
Pulled out silver.
The officer held one coin up to the lantern light and watched it gleam.
"A thief," the officer said, to no one in particular.
Zidane laughed like it was funny. "That's a harsh word. I prefer 'small business owner.'"
The officer's glove returned to Zidane's pocket.
Touched cloth.
Touched the small, hard edge beneath.
Zidane's breath caught.
The crystal-cell.
The gloved fingers tightened and pulled.
Zidane's heart slammed against his ribs so hard it hurt.
The bundle came out into the light—a wrapped crystal with a faint, hungry hum. It looked harmless the way dangerous things always looked right before they ruined your life.
The officer's eyes narrowed.
"That is not stage property," he said.
Zidane's jokes accelerated into panic. "It's—uh—it's a souvenir. For my mother. She loves… rocks."
"You have no affiliation," the officer said flatly. "And you have an unregistered cell."
Baku's laugh boomed. "That boy? Dangerous? Captain, he can barely carry a crate."
Zidane turned his head sharply.
Baku was still smiling.
Still warm.
Still selling.
Zidane's voice dropped before he could stop it. Simple. Honest.
"You said they'd rough me up," Zidane muttered.
Baku didn't look at him. "Don't make this harder, kid."
The lead officer handed the crystal-cell to a subordinate without taking his eyes off Zidane.
"Bind him."
Zidane took one involuntary step back.
Aethercasters lifted a fraction.
Not aimed. Not yet.
But close enough that Zidane could see the way their barrels were ringed with etched runes, each groove packed with powdered crystal. Portable. Scalable. A weapon you could give to anyone with hands and a reason.
A weapon Public Safety hoarded.
A weapon that didn't care if you were charming.
Zidane's fingers went to his wrist at last, rubbing, rubbing, rubbing like friction could turn fear into something manageable.
Quina waddled forward and pressed against Zidane's shin.
"Friend," Quina said, calm. "Run."
Zidane's laugh came out strangled. "That's… not helpful."
A Public Safety man reached down and grabbed Quina by the back of its collar like it was a sack.
Quina didn't struggle.
Quina just stared up at the man, head tilting slightly.
The man flinched like he'd suddenly heard something in his own skull.
"Get it off me," he snapped.
Zidane's body moved before his brain approved it.
He stepped in, fast, and wrapped a hand around Quina's arm—gentle, but possessive in a way he didn't like seeing in himself.
"Hey," Zidane said quickly, voice warm again, smile back on, like he could charm his way out of physics. "Careful. That's my—"
He almost said dog.
He didn't.
He said, "—friend."
The man holding Quina stared at Zidane like friend was a strange word to use about a thing.
"Pets are contraband," the man said.
Quina looked at the man and said, politely, "Not pet. Partner."
Zidane snorted, because of course Quina chose partner.
The Public Safety man's grip tightened. "It talks."
Zidane's grin sharpened. "Yeah. Unfortunate. It has opinions."
Quina added, cheerfully, "Man tastes mean."
Zidane's laugh burst out, too loud. "It means you have… strong seasoning. Look, it's harmless. It just eats."
The man with Quina jerked the aethercaster on his hip slightly, not drawing it, just reminding everyone it was there.
Zidane's smile died.
He didn't argue with humor now. He didn't have enough breath.
"Don't hurt it," Zidane said, voice low.
The lead officer watched him like he'd just found the lever inside Zidane's chest.
"Bind him," the officer repeated.
Cold metal cuffs closed around Zidane's wrists.
The click was small.
The consequences weren't.
Zidane's body reacted like an animal. His shoulders tensed. His pulse hammered. His skin crawled with the need to move—to slip out, to dodge, to steal back control—
And then he felt it.
Just the edge of it. That familiar pressure behind his bones, like a door in his blood that wanted to open the second he took enough damage to justify it.
His hands clenched hard enough that the cuffs bit.
He forced himself to breathe.
Quina stared up at him, still calm.
"Friend hurts soon," Quina said.
Zidane managed a thin smile. "Thanks for the pep talk."
Quina nodded. "Eat later."
Zidane swallowed.
He didn't know if that was comfort or a promise.
The lead officer stepped closer and spoke to Baku like Zidane wasn't there.
"Transfer receipt," the officer said.
One of the subordinates produced a clipboard—actual paper, actual ink, official seals. The kind of boring object that ruined lives for a living.
Baku took it without hesitation.
He signed.
Zidane stared at the pen scratching across the page and felt something in him tilt sideways.
There it was.
The exact moment his value became a line item.
Baku handed the clipboard back, still smiling, cigar smoke curling around his face like stage fog.
"See?" Baku called over to Zidane, voice big and warm. "Told you it'd be fine."
Zidane's laugh came out dead. "Yeah. Great. Love this. Very family."
Baku didn't answer that.
He didn't have to.
The lead officer gestured toward the side rail. A Public Safety skiff hovered beside the ship—sleek, gray, runed with stabilizers. Lanterns along its rim cast the same white light, the same clean hunger.
A rope ladder dropped.
Zidane was pulled forward.
Quina waddled with him until a boot blocked its path.
Quina looked up at the boot like it was considering how many bites it would take to make the obstacle stop existing.
Zidane turned his head slightly, just enough to catch Quina's eyes.
He softened his voice. "Stay close, okay?"
Quina blinked. "Always."
Zidane didn't trust his own throat to say anything else.
He stepped onto the rope ladder.
The skiff bobbed under him, the harbor wind gusting, the Mist below pulsing slow and steady like it enjoyed watching people get dragged into cages.
As Zidane descended, he looked back once.
Baku stood on the deck, arm around Cinna's shoulders like they were sharing a joke.
Marcus leaned against a mast, grinning in the lantern glow, like this was the punchline he'd been waiting for.
The Prima Vista loomed above them—beautiful, theatrical, full of painted lies.
And beyond it all, Alexandria shone.
Gorgeous.
Warm.
Smiling.
Zidane hit the skiff deck with a small jolt.
The cuffs tugged his wrists down, reminding him exactly what he was now.
The lead officer stepped onto the skiff after him and spoke without raising his voice, as if the city itself was listening.
"For the good of Alexandria," he said.
The skiff pulled away.
Alexandria's banners fluttered in the wind like they were waving.
Zidane watched the city get closer and realized, very suddenly, that the smile on those banners wasn't meant to comfort anyone.
It was meant to teach you to say thank you while the teeth sank in.