Makino bought us formal clothes with her own money. I tried to refuse. She didn’t let me.
We traveled without incident.
On the road, a girl rushed past us—blonde hair tied back, a suitcase clutched tightly in her hands. She moved like someone fleeing something, eyes fixed ahead, breath shallow. She didn’t even see me. I watched her disappear down the road, and for reasons I couldn’t explain, she stayed in my thoughts far longer than she should have.
At the capital of Goa, we entered under limited invitation—Makino as the representative, Ace, and I listed as security.
The castle was obscene in its luxury.
Manicured gardens stretched outward in perfect symmetry, flowers trimmed within an inch of their lives. Gold traced every edge—rails, pillars, window frames—gleaming even where no one would think to look. Guards stood at every corner, polished and silent.
Too silent.
I found myself surveying everything automatically, old habits rising unbidden. Sightlines. Choke points. Patrol patterns. The instincts of a former Kage didn’t fade just because the world had changed.
A servant passed nearby and flinched when a noble laughed too loudly behind her. A guard noticed—and looked away.
Beautiful, I realized, didn’t mean peaceful.
For a moment, I wondered if Makino had been right after all… and whether this was simply the price of believing people could change.
Then I saw him.
A man stood apart from the gathering, cloaked in black trimmed with gold. A white symbol marked his back—an arrow set within a circle. His mask depicted a horned lizard breathing fire. The guards ignored him completely, as if he didn’t exist.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
He turned his head.
Our eyes met.
He slipped away from the crowd without a word.
I followed.
He stopped before a sealed door, its surface shimmering behind a translucent purple barrier. Without hesitation, he placed his palm against it. Flame bloomed—hot, controlled—and the barrier burned away like paper.
I moved to follow.
“Hey! What do you think you’re doing?” a sharp, childish voice snapped.
I spun.
A golden-haired girl stood behind me, chin lifted, posture rigid with authority she hadn’t yet grown into. She introduced herself loudly and arrogantly as the princess of the Nantokanette family.
I barely kept my temper.
I tried to send her away. She refused.
She warned me about the barrier. “Magic,” she said, as if it were obvious.
Magic.
The word struck harder than the fire had. Not myth. Not a rumor. Real. Present. Hidden in plain sight.
Together, we entered the room.
She spoke of her father—not as a tyrant, but as an adventurer. A treasure hunter. A man who chased the unknown and brought stories home with him. Her admiration was genuine, unpolished.
It reminded me of Sabo.
When I asked why she wanted friends beyond her status, she hesitated. Then she answered honestly.
She didn’t judge my ears.
Didn’t judge my eyes.
Didn’t care where I came from.
Only who I choose to be.
For the first time since entering the capital, I felt seen.
And somewhere deep inside, a quiet part of me hoped—dangerously—that Makino hadn’t been wrong.
I’d told myself they were soldiers. That they knew what they signed up for. That if they stood in my way, they were no different from any other enemy.
I’d never learned their names.
I’d never asked who waited for them at home.
Back then, it was easier not to think about it. Easier to see uniforms instead of people, blades instead of hands that might have held children or lovers or letters they’d never get to finish writing.
Sarie’s voice made it harder to pretend.
These weren’t faceless guards. They were Bob and Jim. Calvin and Jacob. Men who joked with a lonely girl and kept her safe without ever crossing the line. Men who died doing exactly what they believed was right.
I wondered how many people would speak my name like that someday — and whether I’d deserve it.
I remembered the Marines I’d killed — and how easy it had been not to remember them at all.
