These Reincarnators Are Sus! Sleuthing in Another World

Even from within the northern tunnels of Amière, Kylian could hear the harsh winds outside. The relative silence within was eerie—punctuated by the occasional whistle through cracks in stone, low droning moans bleeding through in the distance.

"You truly remember these tunnels after all this time?" Kylian asked.

"Yes, I…" Ciel hesitated, raising her lantern as she considered a split in the path. "I used to dream of escaping Amière. I'd find my way through the tunnels, all the way to the bottom of the mountain. Then I'd… stop."

The ground sloped upward as they made their way through.

Though the Blancs had only ever struck significant lodes of orichalcum in the western crags, their efforts had scarred the entire mountain range—and the land north of the palace was no exception.

Whatever thin veins they'd found had evidently amounted to little, if the exploratory shafts left behind were simple enough to be memorized by Ciel.

"To think there were tunnels which led straight to the palace," Kylian murmured. "I have no idea what His Grace Sigurd means to accomplish, but if he'd only known…"

"No." Ciel shook her head. "For Sigurd, I believe this would have been an even more dangerous path." Her gaze lifted to the ceiling. "This tunnel doesn't lead to the palace, exactly. It leads to the forest just north of it."

"And in that forest…?" Kylian's brow furrowed.

"...I don't remember," Ciel said. "Something… friendly only to Blancs. I know that much." She cast him an apologetic glance. "Still, I believe—"

"Then let's hope you can negotiate my safety," Kylian sighed.

He never expected to return to this city—certainly not with a member of the family he thought long destroyed. Kylian's mind was still trying to catch up.

The flood of information he'd received since Ciel broke him out of the dungeons of House ark-Chelon nearly overwhelmed him. To begin with, as far as he'd known, Sigurd should have still been in Varant patrolling the northern wall. Hearing that the level-headed knight commander had ridden willingly into peril was shocking enough—to say nothing of where.

Amière was a shadow in the memories of the Azure Knights. For Kylian, the city had marked a departure point.

He'd marched on the city and battled the Argent Guard. But at the threshold of the palace doors, Kylian chose to turn away. And upon his return to Varant, he followed the path of a peacekeeper. Whatever meaning the divine blessing once held for him had shattered when the Blancs were extinguished.

But Sigurd had not wiped them out entirely. He'd shown mercy to the young heirs. What was Kylian to make of that? The grace Sigurd extended that day had sown the seeds for such strange fruit.

An inscrutable heir. A plot intent on his demise.

A child.

Amidst a legacy of pain and enmity, love—or something like it—had managed to blossom. Yet it drew from the same gnarled roots. And now the grief of two houses, bound together by the divine blessing, threatened to suffocate it.

"It's still here," Ciel murmured. "My entrance."

The groan of the wind was getting louder, and Kylian felt the gusts of fresh air. Ahead, the tunnel began to narrow and shorten, the incline steepening.

"I always entered these tunnels through the hollow of a tree," Ciel said. "When I was younger, the forest was my haven. But one day, I realized it was no better than the palace."

There was a hint of nostalgia in the misery of her voice. "These tunnels terrified me. And yet I always returned to them, finding my way to the edge of freedom." She nodded toward the path behind them. "To this day, I still don't understand why I could never leave."

As the tunnel narrowed, Ciel slouched, the lantern in her hand shaking as she lit the way. She swallowed hard. "I came crawling back… every time."

She dropped to a crouch.

"Hold on." Kylian stopped her. He squinted into the narrowing passage. "...I doubt I'll fit through."

Ciel halted. It seemed she didn't at all consider this possibility.

"The exit is through the hollow of a tree—upwards. All force would do here is collapse the passage…" she said, voice uncertain. "We'll… have to find another path, then."

She didn't seem keen on it, the way her eyes flitted ahead.

"You said the forest turns against any who lack Blanc blood, did you not?" Kylian asked.

"...That's right," Ciel said.

"Then it is likely free of mercenaries. Let your daughter be your first priority, as time presses us," Kylian said.

"You might be able to find your way this close to the palace," Ciel murmured, though her tone held little conviction. "There are surely other exits. But the tunnels can be unstable."

"I'll find another way out—and focus on locating one of my companions," Kylian said, his voice steady. "If I get lost, I'll keep my wits about me and ensure my own safety, at the very least."

With a small shrug, he added, "Strangely enough, I've had a wealth of experience navigating caves."

The miasmatic lion stood in the center of the ring, craning its neck back as if to proudly roar. Yet no sound came out—at least none he could hear over the jeering.

"A jester in the end, is it…?" Sigurd muttered, as he narrowed his profile like a fencer's.

He kept his blade at chest height, its tip angled upward—daring the brace to pounce.

…Yet he held it in his weaker hand. He'd let his fear and rage get the better of him. And because of it, he'd taken a critical injury he didn't need to.

His right arm hung at his side.

The lion crouched low and leapt. Its claw flashed, slamming against Sigurd's sword, attempting to crush him with sheer impetus.

The knight commander did not resist the impact. He used it.

The lion's weight drove his blade back, and his feet slid along the stone floor of the amphitheater—his left heel catching as he pivoted.

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His holy aura flared to life for an instant, and his blade arced upward from his hip in a single, radiant stroke.

Swifter than the lion anticipated, Sigurd's sword swept across its shadowed limb. Struck flesh burst into miasma, yet its claw remained intact, crashing to the ground as the lion's other limb drove into in a heavy, hooking swipe.

Sigurd stepped forward, slipping beneath the strike. His footwork was precise, his movement minimal. Once more his holy aura flared and vanished, the tip of his blade thrusting toward the soft flesh beneath the beast's jaw.

The lion reared back, yet Sigurd's sword still scored its shoulder—and from its mane billowed out a smoky plume.

Jeers flew down from the stands.

"What in the saints' piss is it doing?!"

"Sink your teeth in!"

"Shut the hell up!" Emily snapped. "We wanted to see at least this much, didn't we?!"

The lion lashed out again and again. For what felt like an endless minute, Sigurd slipped past each blow, his sword lit with aura.

Its glow grew brighter. Its crystalline hum suddenly pierced the din of the wind, and Sigurd lunged forward—his blade meeting the lion's crushing paw. Broad ribbons of white light burst forth, dispersing the mist and threatening to engulf the lion.

But the ribbons thinned as they tore through. And the lion's hazy form resolidified.

Alarmed, Sigurd fell back, lowering his stance. The lion pressed the attack, and Sigurd seemed to be purely on the defensive, his blade no longer gathering divine light.

"Don't tell me you spilled all your divinity at once!" Emily spat. "No one respects a man who finishes in a minute!"

The mercenaries joined in on her vulgarities, as the lion's attacks started to cut closer and closer.

The lion's jaws snapped at Sigurd, graceless and instinctive. But Sigurd rushed forward, ducking as low as he could, twisting so fiercely it felt as if his shins might snap and his muscles tear clean from his ribs.

The bite came so close, Sigurd could feel its teeth scrape through adamantine—his left pauldron ripped off, crushed within the lion's mouth.

He slashed across the lion's throat, the flash of white clear through the darkness of its form.

It leapt backward. The beast convulsed. Dark mist billowed from its throat with a hiss. For a moment, its entire existence seemed to distort and flicker, and its neck craned back as it writhed.

The lion's jaws fell agape, opening its maw as if to unleash a pained roar. And yet… It was silent.

A tendril came lashing out from its wound.

Sigurd had seen this before, from the tigers at the north wall. The whip-like appendage would attempt to seize his sword… No. This was different.

He barely raised his sword in time.

The lion had attempted to return the favor. The tendril which emerged from its throat was razor-sharp. He felt a thin sting along his throat. The drip of blood.

For a moment, Sigurd thought he was dead.

One tendril. Then a second. Then a third. Three tendrils burst from the wound in the lion's neck, writhing as if they had their own will.

Swift, sharp, and erratic, each tendril came slashing one after the other, a flurry of shadows which threatened to fell Sigurd instantly.

Slowly, but surely, the knight commander was being cornered. The miasmatic lion slowly advanced, its tendrils alone seemingly enough to defeat Sigurd.

Yet the lion's head hung limply. Its jaw was slack. The tendrils which dominated the arena were dominating the beast itself—as if the appendages were the true body, the beast they sprang from nothing more than a vessel.

And to Gerhardt up in the stands, it was the most disgusting thing in the world.

"So this is the true nature of these beasts…" Gerhardt muttered. "It's vile."

His hand drifted unconsciously to the crest upon his surcoat—that of a lion twined with a serpent. And as he watched Sigurd struggle below, Gerhardt grit his teeth. If the man's aura was fading, it wasn't showing yet.

And if Sigurd died, while his light still burned bright…

Gerhardt clutched his chest, his fingers curling white-knuckled over the sickening emblem of his house. And that old pain flared again.

Like wind over scourged flesh.

An empty space. Just like the hollow of a tree trunk.

Something had been missing from Ciel since she was a child. It was a void in her head. A hole in her heart which she feared may one day still its beating.

There were nights when Ciel would lay awake with Bea curled against her, and she feared the empty spot in her head would consume her daughter too—steal her away, eat up every memory that Ciel had of her.

She couldn't explain it. But she remembered ever since she was fourteen, she would run through these forests terrified, desperate to reach the tunnels.

Even now, she desperately wished to make haste. But she didn't. One wrong step in the dark—one root—could leave her limping.

The forest was dark. The wind howled through trees, occasionally snapping brittle branches. Shadows loomed large in lantern light, and Ciel wondered how she'd ever found these forests comforting.

Ciel made haste. She was afraid.

She knew her way to the palace. Yet somehow… She knew that wasn't her destination. Not if she wanted to find Bea.

Slowly, the winds began to settle. She passed through a low grove of willows, a sunken hush where the rustle through the leaves started to sound like whispers. Her lantern's glow caught on their thin, swaying branches, casting shadows like slender fingers.

The willows' leaves brushed gently against her body as she walked through, but she winced when a branch grazed her cheek, just beneath her eye.

Suddenly, Ciel heard a voice.

A small voice. A little girl's. She couldn't make out what it was saying. It was hard to see through the willows.

"Bea?" Ciel called out. "Bea! Is that you?!"

She heard soft footsteps scurrying through the thicket and bush. And despite her better judgment, she went rushing after them.

"Bea! It's mama!" Ciel pleaded, her voice breaking. "I'm here, Bea!"

The steps continued, a light patter that always seemed to be just out of sight, scampering in one direction and then the next. At times Ciel thought she caught a figure fluttering in the corner of her eye, barely catching the lantern light.

She heard the steps from behind, so close she almost swore she could feel a brush against her leg.

Her breath caught in her throat. But hope overcame fear.

"Bea!" Ciel spun around. Yet there was no one there. Suddenly, the little girl's voice whispered in her ear.

'Papa says I'm touched by grace.'

Ciel's heart froze. It truly did sound like Bea. But Bea never spoke like that.

'I mended a bird's wings today! It could soar again, because I laid hands blessed by divinity upon it!'

It wasn't Bea. Bea didn't even have the divine blessing.

Then why did it feel so familiar?

The voice started to echo from every which way, as if the little girl were weaving through the bushes, running rings around Ciel in the dark.

'Shall we play apothecary? You can be the ailing one, and I'll be the miracle.'

She shuddered. Was it her own voice—from when she was a child, cast at her as if it came from another's mouth?

'I'm this family's hope!'

No… it couldn't be. There was far too much pride in it.

Ciel had never dared to be proud of her own blessing. It was too weak. Too unworthy. None in her family had ever acknowledged it.

'When I'm grown, I'll be the most blessed in the empire. Then those feckless nobles will have to respect this rotten household!'

Unconsciously, Ciel's breath began to shallow. This wasn't just a fear of the dark—or even of the supernatural.

This was a physical fear. It was learned. A sense of helplessness so deep and familiar, even as it wore the voice of a little girl.

'Everyone in this wretched little family is useless except for me!'

The voice shifted. It was a little older. Sharper. Ciel understood—what this girl would sound like, after she'd been twisted by years of bitterness.

'I said let me mend you!'

"Stop!" Ciel gasped. Her shoulder hitched up and she fell, crumbling to the ground, cowering from a hand that never came.

There was silence. Ciel shook where she lay, flinching at every whistle of the wind, straining to catch where the voice may come from next.

Then, it came back. Soft and almost sweet, once again at its youngest, like a soft breeze brushing Ciel's cheek.

'Are you hurt? Shall I kiss it better?'

And yet… still arrogant. Ciel would never mistake that lilt—that way of speaking with a conceited little curl.

'My name? Marcella. Mind it well.'