These Reincarnators Are Sus! Sleuthing in Another World

Resting in Ailn's empty suite, Ciel watched over Bea as she slept. Though she was morosely tired from the stress and exertion of the last three days, she'd only been given new worries.

Ciel had spent her entire adult life trying to forget Amière. Now Sigurd—the first and only man she ever loved, and the father of her child—was headed there for reasons she couldn't fathom, possibly straight into a trap.

What waited for him there? Had he been tricked? Or was it merely foolish honor—guilt, which made him bare his neck to the sword of her kin?

The Blanc name meant nothing to Ciel. Theirs was a shameful family, long before they were stricken from history. But more than that…

The city terrified her. It wasn't merely her family's contempt, or her mother's cruelty. There was something fundamentally sickening in the air there, a chill which never went away even in the fairest spring and the heat of summer.

There was something in the forests behind the palace. They were… haunted woods. A child's tale, yes, yet one Ciel knew deep down to be true. Something between a dream and a memory tried to rise out of the murk. Something hidden in the thicket had once called to her… Had once comforted her.

But whenever she tried to face it, there was only emptiness.

No. None of that mattered now.

Swords were crueler than ghosts. Death needed no embellishment for its finality. Shivering at old yarns, at childhood fears never overcome, was merely a perverse distraction from her true terror—the thought of Sigurd dying.

It made Ciel miserable.

It was a good thing Calum didn't have walls.

Ailn, Camille, and Alera went galloping through its thoroughfare, much to the irritation of the city's pedestrians.

"You should've convinced her faster!" Ailn shouted at Camille.

"She should have required less convincing!" Camille snapped, passing on the blame.

Alera silently considered turning back.

At first, she hardly entertained Camille's pleas. Her younger rival—often a sore loser—had begged for her assistance in reaching and navigating Amière, else they faced certain death attempting to save the former duke, Sigurd.

Of course, Camille had been honorable enough to breathlessly and incoherently explain that Alera would possibly be seen as aiding and abetting, that Duke eum-Creid and the Azure Knights had somehow become fugitives over the course of the day, and yet they were all certainly innocent…

She should have just refused. Yet seeing Camille, usually so stuck-up with her knightly ideals, rambling as fell to the ground in supplication—something stirred in Alera's heart.

It was not mere pity, nor even a wholehearted belief in the justness of aiding Camille.

It was the pull of her past. She felt still the quiet shame of fleeing that day, certain that the Azure Knights would raze Amière to the ground.

The Argent Guard had been a despicable sham of an order, and her desire to leave it behind was sincere. But she had turned her back not in defiance, but cowardly flight.

She knew, even as her rational mind protested: if she ceded this chance to reclaim her honor, then it would poison the rest of her days, no matter what superficial comforts gilded them.

Thus she found herself galloping along, aiding the hapless cousins out of the goodness of her heart—only to earn their ire for not finding that goodness a few minutes faster.

The ascent to the mountain's shoulder was going smoothly. It would only get harder from here. Sigurd knew that. But for now, he was grateful.

Using the same tactic as before, he took out two other knights—cutting through the switchback at an angle, dragging them to the ground, and suffocating them until they fell unconscious.

The number of guards would increase the closer he got to the plateau. Nonetheless, he needed to increase his pace. The worst scenario would be to get caught lingering on the switchback trail, with men blocking his path and archers firing his way.

About a third of the trail remained.

When Sigurd reached the bend, he carefully peered above the slope to scan the next level. There were three men conferring.

One of the knights he'd felled had likely not returned for a regular rotation—clueing the others to his presence.

That was expected. He'd been prepared for that. No matter how silent his movements, he'd never fooled himself into believing he could reach Amière wholly undetected.

As if to confirm Sigurd's suspicions, once the other two men left, the remaining one took position—leaning against the crook of the next bend, a bow in hand, and an arrow resting lightly against its string.

The archer's gaze set in Sigurd's direction—close enough to make him tense. But the archer didn't seem to actually spot him. He likely intended to notch and shoot the moment he saw someone rounding the corner.

His quiver sat next to his feet. Perhaps if his shot missed, he planned to retreat to the next crook, once again taking aim.

It was a clever ploy, but in truth it left him less effective than the knights who'd simply tried to engage Sigurd with their swords.

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Once again, Sigurd crept down to the halfway point of the lower switchback, taking a moment to silently steady himself before breaking out into a sprint.

The archer shouted, caught off guard. He'd been too focused on the bend. Sigurd, emerging from the cut through, came from a low angle which threw off his aim.

Though the archer loosed his shot, it flew wide of Sigurd's head.

Their fight was already over. With his arrow shot, and his armor light, the man could do nothing as Sigurd drew his sword and cleanly sliced his neck.

Immediately, Sigurd seized his bow, plucking an arrow from the quiver, and aimed up the switchback—where another knight soon emerged around the bend, more lightly armored than those he'd felled so far.

The knight had already drawn his sword. He noticed the bow trained on him precious moments too late.

Sigurd fired. The knight didn't even have time to leap out of its way. Struck squarely in the chest, he fell to the ground.

Suddenly, Sigurd's body tensed before he knew why. A chill ran down his right arm—no, down his neck, and instinctively he flung himself forward into a prone position.

An arrow cut through the air where his head had just been. There was a second archer employing a reversal of Sigurd's tactic—nesting at the top of the cut-through to the next level, to loose arrows from above.

Another arrow flew his way. Rather than trusting his armor, Sigurd rolled aside. He sprinted halfway through the lower switchback, before veering toward the cut-through, straight for the archer.

His senses sharpened. He trained his gaze on the archer, caught the tensing of the bowstring—and just a moment before the arrow was released, Sigurd leapt sideways and upwards, landing on the higher switchback.

Now he was above the archer, who was scrambling to notch another arrow. The angle was even worse for them, and they loosed it wildly.

With that, Sigurd was already upon them. One gauntleted blow to the temple knocked the archer out cold.

Sigurd kept his breath nearly steady, even as his lungs burned. Sprinting steep cut-throughs, even at an angle, was winding. But he couldn't afford to tire out this early.

The echo stone chimed.

His breath caught in his throat. Unfastening it from his belt, Sigurd closed his eyes in silent prayer and pressed the dial—steeling himself for the sound of Ciel in terror… or worse.

'Seems you're within reach.'

It was a young man's voice. One that Sigurd didn't immediately recognize.

'You took your time, Sigurd. Maybe Ciel wasn't worth rushing for? Seven years ago, you moved with such swiftness, eager to slaughter. Yet, this moment you drag your feet.'

If they truly were a Blanc, then… it had to be Gerhardt.

'Even now it lingers in memory—that pitch-black sky beyond the broken window… Why not make it fair? You care so much about fairness, after all. I'm certain you know where to find me.'

…The palace. Likely in the same hall where Sigurd had once slain the Blanc family elders. Among them… Gerhardt's father.

The sound of Gerhardt's slow exhale came through—his breath trembling with a fury that sounded almost weary.

'You have until the night's darkest hour to find me. Consider what you have to lose.'

The last sounds Sigurd heard through the echo stone were Ciel's sobs.

She couldn't leave Bea. She simply couldn't.

Ciel wished to go to Amière—despite her fears, or perhaps because of them. It pained her: the thought of waiting by idly while Sigurd rushed toward danger.

But the thought of leaving Bea motherless hurt even more. No. If Amière truly was swarming with the Argent Guard, if one of her cousins truly sought revenge… then a rash decision could orphan her daughter.

Bea was beginning to stir. When she dozed off in Ciel's arms earlier, she'd slipped into a deep sleep—just like her mother, the stress of her journey had likely caught up with her all at once.

Now, as she roused, she seemed troubled.

"Mama…?" Bea murmured, nuzzling her head against Ciel's leg. "Don't cry…"

A few tears slid down Ciel's cheeks, dripping onto her lap.

"Bea, you…" Ciel started. Her lips parted softly, unsure of what she wished to say.

As far as Ciel knew, Sigurd's peril and Bea's slipping away from Venlind had nothing to do with each other. Her fears twisted together in her heart, but she knew she had to pull them gently apart.

"I was scared, Bea," Ciel said, her voice trembling softly. "I thought I lost you forever."

Bea's face slowly scrunched up. Her lip quivered, and she began to sniffle. Tears welled up in her eyes as she realized how she'd hurt her mother.

Her voice came out raspy. "I wanted… to help…" Then, it began to crack. "I wanted to make you happy, mama…"

"...I know you did, Bea," Ciel whispered.

That's what Bea always wanted. Ciel understood that better than anyone else.

From the youngest age, Bea had always weighed the questions of right and wrong with a quiet seriousness. They were woven into her moments of play—whether Bea was a student of a turtle, or the leader of a symposium of stuffed animals, she was always pondering.

Doing the right thing meant everything to Bea.

And that was why Ciel had to be firm.

"I have to take your friends away for a little while, Bea," Ciel said. Her voice cracked. "I want you to think about what you did. Without them."

What hurt Ciel the most wasn't just that Bea looked devastated. It was that she looked confused. Even as her cheeks wrinkled, and it seemed as if she might break into wails, she bit her lip, and blinked back her tears.

"I'm sorry, mama…" Bea said. Then her eyes squeezed shut like she was ashamed, and she quietly whimpered.

It made Ciel's heart ache terribly.

It was such a simple thing. Just a small punishment for her child. But Ciel knew what they meant to Bea—how her stuffed animals helped her understand the world and gave her the courage to try her hardest.

They made her braver than a little girl should be.

They made her believe that she could make everyone happy, all on her own. That the world could be fixed—if she just thought a little harder and did the right thing.

Ciel never wanted to take that from her.

But the world might take away Bea.

The world wouldn't care how hard a four-year-old tried. It was indifferent to the purity of her hope, and even the depth of her thoughts. Humans were fragile—children infinitely moreso.

"What if… papa gets hurt, mama…?" Bea asked.

At that word—papa—Ciel's stomach dropped. It was the first time she'd ever heard her daughter say the word. It was the first time either of them had openly acknowledged Sigurd's existence.

For it to be a moment like this…

Should she lie?

Bea had spent the whole day with Ailn and Camille, who were working tirelessly to prevent Sigurd's death—unraveling the conspiracy, chasing the threads. How much did she know? Ciel could never tell.

"Papa made a lot of decisions in his life, Bea," Ciel said. "He's going to a dangerous place right now. That was another decision he made."

Though Ciel didn't know why.

"Sometimes papa had to choose who got hurt and who didn't," Ciel said softly. "And whether he was being fair or not, some of the people who got hurt wanted to hurt him too."

"But Bea," Ciel began, but her voice was already splintering. She stumbled through the sentence, barely holding back a sob. "You've never wanted to hurt anyone in your life."

Her hand covered her mouth, as her tears freely dripped down her cheeks. And she spoke through a cracking, hitching breath. "Mama has to protect you, Bea."