These Reincarnators Are Sus! Sleuthing in Another World

Horace sat across from Ailn in the ducal office. Though there were plenty of reasons for Viscount Gren to meet Duke eum-Creid, their business was of a different sort.

"Lady Renea?" Horace blinked, then softened. "And little Bea as well?"

"Did you already suspect me of being one?" Ailn asked.

"Not consciously, no," Horace admitted. "Though, now and then, a feeling would tug at the back of my mind…"

His thoughts began to drift inward, and his expression faltered. "Ruby eyes, is it?"

He'd never fooled himself into believing he'd earned anyone's affection. Even he couldn't fail to notice that women seemed to fawn over him. Yet all these years he convinced himself that was simply a consequence of being reborn as Horace Gren—the allure of a noble surname adorned with immense wealth.

But if something supernatural had been driving their desire, then what if Ennieux…

"Don't overthink it, Horace," Ailn said with a faint smile. "If you think ruby eyes had anything to do with last night, they sure weren't helping for most of it. Never mind the last twenty years."

"...Alright, then," Horace said, though he found little comfort in it. He drew a breath and steadied himself. "Whatever the truth is, they're not something I can keep any longer. If only for Ennieux's sake."

"That's the right attitude," Ailn said.

Slowly but surely, his eyes began to manifest emerald. And as if in answer, Horace's ruby eyes—which he'd never shown to anyone else—revealed themselves at last, blazingly bright.

A chill swept through Horace, seizing his entire body and stealing his breath. For a moment, it felt as if he were freezing from the inside out, and it reminded him of the first time he'd woken in this world.

Then it was gone. Only a cold sweat remained, and the sound of his own heavy breathing. "That was more than I'd expected."

"People usually say that," Ailn muttered, hand rising to his temple. "Judging by how bright your eyes were, I'd say your ruby shard was on the larger side."

He leaned forward onto the desk, shutting his eyes for a brief moment as his elbows bore his weight. One hand kept his head propped up at the temple.

"Are you well?" Horace asked.

"It's nothing," Ailn said, expression smoothing over as if nothing had happened. "I get a real headache when I take eyes. That's all."

Horace regarded him with quiet concern, his gaze appraising. His brow creased as he considered his words. "Forgive me if I sound as if I'm lecturing, but… it's important to rely on others, Ailn."

"At the very least, you can depend on me," Horace said, offering his hand in earnest. "You've done this for me, after all. I'm not sure what struggles you'll have in the future, but House Gren's resources are considerable, and its course is already intimately tied to Varant's."

Ailn took Horace's hand. "Sure. I'll shake to that." After a beat, he chuckled. "Nice handshake. Web of the palm and everything."

"Well, that's just how you do it in business, isn't it?" Horace asked. "I remember that much at least."

Something seemed to cross Ailn's mind as he fell into a thoughtful frown. "Tell me something, Horace. You seem to trust Ashton a lot. How'd you two get close?"

Horace leaned back slightly, his posture straightening as he gathered his thoughts. His eyes sidled away in thought and memory before returning. "I suppose some of it is just that I've watched over him since he was a young man. He was just a teenager when his family fell."

He paused. "By that time, I'd already been alone in Calum for a number of years. Mirek was just a few years older than my own children, who… I'd felt distant with," Horace admitted.

"Were you a father figure to him?" Ailn asked bluntly.

"Not quite," Horace said, his brow creasing as he considered it. "He had, after all, his adoptive father then; to say nothing of the death of his true father. I suppose I was a mentor to him. Though Mirek was clever enough he scarcely needed one."

"You never worried that he was plotting revenge against the eum-Creids?" Ailn asked.

"Perhaps it was naive, but… no," Horace said honestly. "He didn't have that sort of look in his eye. Instead, he had an air about him as if every moment he needed to prove his own worth to himself."

"Sharp," Ailn muttered. "Guess he grew out of it."

"He refined himself almost to a fault," Horace admitted.

Ailn tapped a finger against the desk, the quiet rhythm filling the space of the ducal office as he seemed to weigh all of Horace's answers. However much his posture showed his fatigue, his gaze kept its edge.

"Was Ashton aware that you were a reincarnator?" he asked finally.

"...I'm almost certain," Horace said, after the faintest hesitation. "Though he never expressed it to me outright. He's intimated to me before that I should watch my words whenever I visit the capital."

Letting out a long sigh, Ailn leaned back into his chair. "I appreciate your patience with me, Horace. I really do. So let me ask you straight. Is Ashton ark-Chelon someone who I should consider an ally—not just to the eum-Creids, but to reincarnators like us?"

"You should," Horace said. Though his speech wasn't forceful, it carried conviction. "He's not so different from us. He's someone who had to refashion himself, after being thrown into… something akin to a new world."

He went on, a faint wistfulness softening his expression. "He's not someone who would cast those displaced to the wolves."

A few tentative knocks came at the door, though the visitor stepped in without waiting for an answer. "Horace?" Ennieux said lightly, taking her place at his side. "I wasn't sure if your discussion was over. I thought we might dine in my parlor."

"I believe we've just about finished," Horace answered, only to falter the moment he met her gaze.

"Is something the matter?" Ennieux asked, her hand brushing lightly against his arm. She lowered her lashes before raising her eyes again shyly, a soft smile blooming on her face as if just for him.

A soft breath escaped Horace, one he hadn't even known he was holding. He closed his eyes for a moment, shaking his head, before relaxing.

Then he took her hand. "I just thought you looked especially lovely today."

The noon sounds of the castle were a subtle harmony, softer than the birds' chorus at dawn. There was the drone of bees hard at work, the chirps of the earliest crickets. Servants went chattering about their day, while the occasional clank of boots gave percussion.

Ashton strolled leisurely through the castle gardens to this gentle accompaniment. He had time to kill, frankly. At the turn of the hour, he was to meet Ailn, and under ordinary circumstances he'd be taking a working lunch with Horace.

Today, though, the viscount was occupied.

"So the two found their way to each other, " Ashton mumbled, studying the pots that hung from hooks along the loggia. "I'd never have believed it."

His eyes fell upon a familiar gazebo. He paused, then, against his own inclination, wandered toward it.

Then, from that vantage, he let his gaze wander over the garden, and the scene of seven years ago came back to him. Everything had certainly looked the same. Yet it had all been so much quieter then. Perhaps the ordinary murmurs of the world had simply been smothered by his thoughts.

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That day, Mirek Blanc had been sitting in the very same gazebo as now, a rather worthless refrain hammering away at his mind.

'A Blanc scorns not providence, however modest. Victory must come, at times, from the most bitter of fruit.'

"And what did that win you, you old fool?" the young Mirek had muttered.

He lifted a single finger, and his holy aura sparked to life, a sphere of light spinning effortlessly at its tip.

It sounded like—

What had it sounded like? In the present, Ashton couldn't even remember. All he could remember was that the sound of his own divine blessing had irritated him.

He'd clenched his fist to snuff out his own light. And in the hush that followed, he heard the approach of footsteps.

"...Do you mind if I sit by you?" a man asked him.

"Does my permission matter, Viscount Gren?" Mirek replied.

"Of course it does," Horace answered, pity softening his gaze. "Though… I suppose it would be rather tone deaf of me to press the point."

Once more, the viscount tentatively gestured to the seat next to Mirek.

"Do as you wish," Mirek mumbled.

Horace sat down next to him, at a respectful distance. He leaned forward, hands folded, elbows resting on his knees. After a few moments of silence, he spoke softly. "I'm sorry for what you've had to endure, Mirek. And for what you'll still have to carry from this day on. No child should ever have to."

"...In the end, it's an opportunity is it not?" Mirek answered honestly. "Bitter providence cutting my neck free of a noose of blood."

"That's a rather painful perspective," Horace said with a troubled expression. "But it isn't my place to dispute it."

"I'll not spurn Varant's hand, where my own mother's never reached," Mirek muttered. "Carry that back to Sigurd, if you wish."

For a few moments, Horace considered his words, his clasped hands dipping faintly in his lap.

"I can't restore what's been lost, Mirek," he finally said gently. "But… I can help you fashion a new start. And perhaps with your sister—"

"Therèze would see Varant in ruins," Mirek said, his voice flat. "Do you truly think she'll accept its help?"

"...That's true," Horace conceded. He sighed, before letting his lowered gaze drift over to meet the boy's. "All I mean to say is this. What would you say to coming to Calum?"

Mirek stiffened.

"Back to ark-Chelon…" His eyes clouded, and ever so slightly, his expression began to twist. Yet as fast as it came, it stilled into detachment. "After the duke saw fit to tear us out by the roots? To what end, viscount?

"It would… bring you nearer a place you'd rather forget," Horace admitted with regret. "I just had the sense you would thrive there, despite that."

"Thrive? Where my house made such a spectacle of failure?" Mirek scoffed. Then he spat on the ground. "Very well. I'll come. Make room for an orphan with their surname blotted out."

"I'll see what I can do, then," Horace murmured, as if the sarcasm were lost on him.

He rose then, pausing as though he meant to pat Mirek on the shoulder. In the end, he only clasped his hands behind his back. "Give it some thought, Mirek. Any seed will flourish, if it finds its proper soil."

With that, Horace returned to the keep, leaving Mirek to his silence. The world felt still again, without anyone to interrupt it.

Seven years later, back in the present, Ashton continued his contemplation—sitting in the exact same spot. He lifted a single finger, as he'd done seven years ago and considered mustering his aura.

He let the impulse pass. Why produce a sound that annoyed him? For just a moment, he'd been unsure if he was Mirek or Ashton.

Back in the present, it was not Mirek Blanc who decided to meet Ailn in the ducal office, but Ashton ark-Chelon.

"You're kidding me," Ailn said.

"Yes, Sir Windrider let slip details to me of a certain game you were playing," Ashton said lazily. "I thought to myself, why shouldn't I join in?"

"...Sir Windrider," Ailn repeated flatly, ignoring the throb in his temple. His fingers drummed against his desk. "And how exactly do you intend to start a guild in Varant, all the way from Calum?"

"Guilds spanning cities aren't unusual," Ashton said, shrugging. "They call them chapters, Ailn. Or were you not aware?"

Ailn just stared at him. A barrage of sensible questions were all shouting in his mind at once, and in the end, the only one he managed to grasp was the simplest.

"Uh… why?" Ailn managed.

"Because it struck me as a good idea," Ashton replied, his tone chiding as if it were obvious.

"Creating a kill-list struck you as a good idea?" Ailn asked, incredulously.

"Have you still not grasped the point of mixed membership?" Ashton countered.

Ailn pinched the bridge of his nose. "Are you ignoring that a determined enemy's simplest answer would be to slaughter every member?"

Ashton scoffed. "Who, pray tell, could hope to do that to a guild blessed by both Varant and Calum?" Then he turned his palm over. "And you go on presuming the guild's nature would be obvious to all. Its chief function would be to turn a profit."

Suddenly, a familiar voice came echoing down the hall toward the ducal office.

"Wait—wait, Ashton stop! I mean, Young Lord ark-Chelon!" Safi cried out, breathlessly bursting in and eschewing decorum. "He's lying, Ailn! Whatever he said, it's a lie!"

"A lie, Safi?" Ailn sighed.

She turned toward Ashton in desperation. "D-don't say it! Please! Or—or I swear I'll ship you!" Safi blurted. "I'll ship you with someone really ugly!"

Both of them stared at her for a moment.

"This is who you're going to throw your lot in with?" Ailn asked flatly.

"Huh?" Safi tilted her head.

Ashton simply gestured toward her. "The terms of the game were to catch a reincarnator, were they not? Well, here she is." A tinge of irritation clipped into his smile. "...Quite noticeably otherworldly."

Horace and Ashton remained in Varant for a few more days after that. Since the chief purpose of their visit was to address the fallout from The Dragon's Promise—and its ownership—most of their time went into outlining the imperial council's members and how Isolde might try to sway them once she uncovered Ailn's deceit.

However, a rather startling letter arrived on the eve of their departure—one that overturned all their planning.

"The emperor wants to see The Dragon's Promise himself?" Ailn muttered.

"On its face," Horace said with a grimace, "this cleanly solves every issue. If this missive was sent, then naturally it means Isolde recognized she received a false ring."

"And whatever fiery wrath she had in store for us got overruled by the emperor," Ailn said, eyes narrowing.

He paused. "Guess Kylian was accidentally right. Good thing none of us gave it away."

Ailn plopped the ring into a chalice of water, like he'd done before. Not that the glyphs would reveal anything new. But the fact that the emperor himself wanted to see the ring made him wonder at the ancient word all over again.

Iskvene.

"It continues," Ailn muttered. "What's it mean to you, Emperor Caecilius?"

"Nothing in the capital is after as it pretends to be, Ailn," Ashton warned. "Every face is only a mask. The emperor no less than the rest."

"It's better to handle everything at once in the capital, rather than travel all over the empire and beg, isn't it?" Ailn said dryly.

"...That turns entirely on what ends up being 'handled,'" Ashton said. His smile was nowhere to be found.

The Calum nobles rose wearily. Their time in Varant was done. "See that you remain reachable by echo stone. This matter is not to be taken lightly."

Ashton took a slow breath, lingering at the door to the council room. "If you're as cavalier there as you've been, I expect you'll be hanged."

"Definitely don't want that," Ailn mumbled. "I hear you."

The two departed, leaving Ailn alone with his thoughts. The capital. He couldn't shake the sense that greater forces had been steering him there all along.

He was increasingly convinced of his hypothesis that ruby shards tended to distribute along the higher echelons of society. Then the capital would be a nexus for them.

"They must be pretty good, if they've dodged the reincarnator hunters this long," Ailn said under his breath.

Reincarnated nobles hiding their shards. Hunters following the scent. All this, while someone out there was trying to gather the shards themselves.

The board was starting to look too intricate for Ailn's liking. But his gut told him one thing: everything would turn on finding the masked woman. If she wasn't the shard hunter herself, she was connected. And she was the only lead he had.

If his conjectures held, she was more than likely a noble herself. Central nobility, perhaps.

But how the hell was he going to catch her, if there were hunters trying to catch him? If his usual probing questions were just a 'hang me' sign?

"Trying to catch her…" Ailn muttered. "...In a way that looks natural."

As Ailn pondered the question, Kylian entered the council chamber. "Young Lord ark-Chelon and Viscount Gren's carriage has departed, Ailn."

But Ailn's attention had snagged on the ring, sitting at the bottom of the chalice.

"Ailn?" Kylian prodded.

Two pairs of faces flickered into Ailn's mind.

Ciel and Sigurd.

Ennieux and Horace.

"...Union, huh?" Ailn continued to mumble to himself.

"Is something the matter, Ailn?" Kylian asked, grimacing. "I can't recall the last time I've seen you with such an… intent expression."

Ailn's gaze lingered. His brow knit. He seemed elsewhere entirely, anchored only by the idle motion of his fingers fiddling with his wrist.

Then, almost out of nowhere, his demeanor eased up. He glanced at Kylian as if he'd just noticed him. "Sorry. I was just caught up thinking about something."

"Might I ask what?" Kylian asked cautiously.

"It's not a big deal. I just thought of something that needed taken care of."

"...And that is?" The good knight caught the look in Ailn's eyes and winced before he could stop himself.

"Send out the missives, Kylian. All over the empire," Ailn grinned. "Ailn eum-Creid is looking for a wife."