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The Blue Orchid Pavilion, named after the rare patch of blue vanda orchids thriving within its grounds, was among the most prestigious inns in the district of Lamra. Renowned for its opulence, it hosted the nation’s elite—royalty, wealthy merchants, and high-profile dignitaries—during their visits. It was also where Hildara and her group decided to bring Abigail to rest.

As they entered the establishment, a short, plump man with slicked-back black hair and fingers bedecked in an excess of gold and gemstone rings hurried toward them. His smile gleamed, both from politeness and the couple of gold teeth glinting in his mouth.

“Well, well, well! Lady Eriz, Lady Yamato, and Sir Ardwain,” the man greeted with effusive enthusiasm, rubbing his hands together like a merchant sizing up his next deal. “Today must indeed be a blessed day. To what do I owe the honor of your visit this early in the morning?”

“Cyril,” Lancelot said with a polite nod, extending his hand for a handshake. “Sorry for arriving unannounced. We have a bit of an emergency. Is there an empty room available?”

“Why, of course, of course! Always at your service, my good sir,” Cyril replied, grasping his hand with both hands. “Might I suggest breakfast? Perhaps some freshly baked pastries? Or we could uncork a bottle of vintage wine to celebrate your arrival.”

“Oh, no, not for us,” Lancelot said, stepping slightly aside. “We need you to take care of her for a few days.”

As he moved, he revealed Abigail, a disheveled-looking girl clad in a threadbare hospital gown barely hidden under Hildara’s fine coat. Her feet were bare, leaving faint smudges on the pristine marble floor.

For a fraction of a second, Cyril’s eye twitched as he noticed the marks on the immaculate surface, but his well-practiced smile didn’t falter. “Of course,” he said, his voice smooth and accommodating. “Anything for you, Sir Ardwain.”

“Good. She’s a very important guest to us. Treat her as you would royalty. Ensure her every need is met.”
“It will be done.”

He cast a glance at one of his employees, and the uniformed boy quickly stepped forward, approaching Abigail. Without hesitation, the boy gestured politely for her to follow him, escorting her toward the grand staircase, presumably leading to one of the finest rooms in the establishment. High-profile guests like these were rare at the Blue Orchid Pavilion, and even if they tasked him with taking care of their stray pet, he’d find a way to make it profitable, thought Cyril.

Once Abigail disappeared from view, the group standing before Cyril collectively exhaled, the tension visibly leaving their shoulders as though they had been relieved of a heavy weight.

“Right,” Lancelot said, breaking the silence. “While we’re at it, we’ll need to borrow a conference room.”

“Of course,” Cyril said smoothly, motioning to a nearby attendant. “Nona will show you the way.”

A young woman with sleek black hair and strikingly similar features to Cyril, save for her more slender frame and taller stature, stepped forward. With a practiced smile that mirrored her father’s, Nona gestured politely for the group to follow her.

As they moved toward the conference room, Yamato leaned in close to Cyril, her voice low and firm. “Don’t let her out of your sight.”

Cyril’s smile faltered for a mere heartbeat before he nodded, his tone equally quiet. “…Understood.”

Once the group was out of sight, Cyril called for his employees to clean the floor where the girl had walked, his smile fading into a frown of mild annoyance.

Not long after, Nona returned, a slight frown tugging at her lips. She appeared flustered, as if unceremoniously dismissed from the conference room. Cyril sighed inwardly. While he didn’t place much faith in his unmarried daughter’s ability to charm high-profile guests, building connections with such people was essential for the Pavilion’s success. It wasn’t merely the new trade route that transformed the Blue Orchid from a small roadside pub into a prestigious establishment, after all.

Deciding to take matters into his own hands, Cyril loaded a cart with refreshments and personally wheeled it toward the conference room. The two soldiers standing guard outside barely spared him a glance. Years of experience had taught Cyril that the best way past any barrier was to act as though you belonged. Maintaining his practiced smile, he approached confidently.

As he drew near, voices filtered through the heavy door.

“—that’s why I’m taking her to Hinomoto,” Yamato’s voice was firm. “I’ll have the airship ready by tomorrow.”

Lancelot’s voice followed, tinged with concern. “And her duty here? Removing her from this land could have unforeseen consequences—especially since we still don’t understand the extent of her Divinity. She’s been hidden under our noses for a decade, and moving her now might draw attention from other Gods, Deities, or even the Immortal King.”

“We’ll have Adalhard’s Dragon Fleet escort us,” Yamato countered. “Leaving her here is even riskier. We could invoke the wrath of the entire Court of Heavens. In Hinomoto, we can perform the necessary exorcism to release the hundreds of children’s souls she’s carrying. She’ll find peace more easily that way.”

A frustrated grunt from Lancelot followed. “What do you think, Hilda?”

“I think our priority should be investigating the underground facility,” Hildara said after a pause.
“I recognized that white bear. Reuben, remember? She’s the one who killed the owner of his totem. I’m sure of it.”

“You don’t mean…” Lancelot’s voice trailed off, laced with shock. “The Emperor?”

“She must be connected to him in some way,” Hildara affirmed.

Cyril froze in place, a cold sweat trickling down his back. The weight of what he’d just overheard hit him like a landslide. This wasn’t just politics or petty intrigue—this was a matter leagues above him. Forget the reputation of his pavilion; this was a national crisis. And now, that slum rat—no, that esteemed guest—needed to be treated as though she were Adalhard’s own daughter. Anything less, and he could already imagine his head parting ways with his shoulders.

His spiraling thoughts were interrupted by the sound of frantic footsteps. The boy who had escorted Abigail appeared, running full tilt toward him. Cyril’s stomach twisted into a knot as the boy dashed past and threw open the doors to the conference room without hesitation.

“Emergency! Miss Abigail has disappeared from her room!”

The words echoed through the hallway like a death knell.

And Cyril fainted with a dull thud.

♢♦♢♦♢

“Find her—she couldn’t have gone far!” Lancelot barked, his voice cutting through the morning bustle. At his command, a group of soldiers scattered, disappearing into the busy street.

Amid the sea of people, Abigail drifted aimlessly, clutching a brown coat with absentminded fingers. The crowd carried her along, her small stature allowing her to blend into the moving throng. Two soldiers brushed past, their hurried strides betraying no sign they had noticed her. She slipped beneath a canopy just as an eagle circled overhead, its sharp eyes scanning the streets below. The bird let out a frustrated screech before veering off to search another area.

As the crowd surged forward, Abigail found herself in a sprawling market plaza. Rows of merchant tents crowded the space, their vendors shouting over one another to attract customers.

A man pried open a crate of fish, loudly proclaiming they were fresh from the ports of Yariah that very morning. Nearby, another vendor recited the names of fruits he claimed were plucked from the hills of Havenna, supposedly from the king’s own garden. Abigail flinched as an elderly woman beside her dumped a ladle of batter into a pot of boiling oil, then retrieved the fried pieces with her bare hands.

A sharp mechanical click-clack caught Abigail’s attention. She turned to see a young man with a towering backpack brimming with trinkets. He spun a bamboo copter between his palms, while his feet were surrounded by toys made of wood and metal. Not far away, a preacher stood atop a stool, holding up a newspaper labeled Pariah Press, though she drew only a sparse audience.

Despite the bustling crowd, the foot traffic flowed smoothly, as if the plaza itself directed the movement. Most market-goers appeared to favor the bakeries outlining the plaza over the vendors, exchanging metallic slips instead of coins for loaves of bread.

As Abigail took it all in, a piece of bread was suddenly thrust in front of her face. She traced the hand holding it to a young man with a freckled face and rust-colored hair tucked beneath a beret. His other hand clutched a bag brimming with bread.

“Go on, take it,” he urged, shaking the bread slightly.

Hesitant, Abigail accepted it with both hands. “…Thank you,” she murmured softly.

“The soup kitchen sets up here every day at 5 p.m.,” he added. “Come early—they run out fast.” Without waiting for a reply, he melted back into the crowd, leaving Abigail clutching the unexpected gift.

As she walked, Abigail took a bite of the bread. It was stale, hard, and stuck to the roof of her mouth—worlds apart from the soft, white bread that she, no, the girl, had eaten all those years ago. Still, the memory of hunger pushed her to finish it, despite its unpalatable texture.

She soon noticed a branching path off the main road, its surface dirt instead of the paved stone that marked the bustling market. Without hesitation, Abigail veered onto the quieter path, only to be greeted by the sharp smell of horse dung. The path led to a broader but nearly deserted road behind the market. Apart from a couple of elderly folk pulling a donkey, the area was eerily still.

“Bah! Two silver fer one rake? That’s thievery, plain ’n’ simple!” the old man bellowed, his voice rough with indignation. “Ain’t nothin’ been right since that Adalhard fella got his rear planted on the throne!”

“Johannes! You hush now! What if the guards hear ya?” his wife snapped, throwing a nervous glance over her shoulder.

“What’re they gonna do, eh? Lock me up fer speakin’ the truth? I’ll show ’em these guns, and they’ll scamper like scared rabbits!” He rolled up his sleeve, revealing a wiry arm that looked more bone than muscle. “And lemme tell ya, them coins is evil, mark my words. They’re the root of all this here greed. That’s why things cost an arm and a leg nowadays. Back in the Old Empire, they had it right—one brass plate fer one loaf. Nice and simple.”

The couple shuffled past Abigail without noticing her, the old man still grumbling while his wife gave exasperated, half-hearted replies. Abigail’s gaze followed them, something faint tugging at the back of her mind. Without a word, she stepped forward and began trailing them.

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