Chương 63: Chapter 62 - Trickery at the Dock

[Ayame's POV] I look around. The Sky-Dock is as I remember it. People from all corners of the scattered realms come here, changing itineraries, a constant flow of disparate lives intersecting on this stone island. It is quite large, carved from the ancient, black rock like Obsidian. The stone has a faint, inner luminescence that seems to absorb and then softly bleed the ambient purple light of the surrounding void, making the dock glow with an otherworldly sheen.

A grand, triangular archway stands before us, a ceremonial entrance. Beyond it stretch the endless, glowing pathways of the Celestial Rails. They are incandescent ribbons of solidified fate essence, powered by the raw energy that permeates the void itself. I can see the vast vehicles, short trains, long caravans of linked platforms, moving along the rails. Some travel horizontally, some climb upward at impossible angles, some descend into the depths of the abyss below.

It is a transit system for the Scattered Realms, a marvel of practical technology of fate essence. It is efficient, even reaching the most isolated pockets of land. Though, amongst my kind, we are perhaps the most isolated of all. Yet… this feels normal. For me? A flicker of memory: running, clawing my desperately up to a platform hitching a train, leaving behind a land with smoke and flames. I wince. A lance of pain shoots through my temples, a physical reaction to the mental strain of recall.

I put a hand to my forehead. Lucid approaches. He has to look up at my current tall frame. I see a flash in his posture, concern, perhaps. I cannot help but feel a slight, warm ripple at his worry. An absurd, impulsive thought follows: I want to pick him up. To hold him. Why am I thinking such things? He is… No. Such thoughts are a distraction. They are soft. I must continue. I must focus, or I will lose sight of my own goal, my real goal. I can almost remember it. It has to do with my clan. Something vital.

I need to think. I feel so close to remembering. I just need a tiny spark.

"Let's go," he says. His voice pulls me back to the present. For the first time, his fingers do not just brush mine. They seek them out, turning into a firm, deliberate grip. It is… heartwarming. The word feels alien, but accurate. It is a sweet, anchoring pressure. I look down at his smaller frame. He is not looking at me, but past my shoulder, as if being silently scolded by someone. By whom? He is never truly alone in his head, it would seem.

We make our way toward the central desk, a broad console of polished black stone where attendants direct the flow of passengers. A human woman stands there. The Kingdom of Vex holds a monopoly on this transit system. Humans own and operate it. It is efficient, I must admit, though their greed often overshadows the engineering marvel. The prices reflect ownership, not just utility. Lucid speaks, his voice adopting that polite, formal tone he uses with strangers.

"Hello. I am a traveler heading to Vex. I have a stamp of passage toward Vex from the House of Valerius." The woman's professional demeanor cracks.

"The… the House of Valerius?" she stammers, her eyes widening slightly. I, too, am taken aback. The House of Valerius. A noble family, not among the largest, but infamous for breaking away from the grasping influence of the empire Materna. They rule a territory decently populated by all races alike. It is known as a relatively welcoming place. Had it not been for their secession, Materna would control the most important strategic territory in Vex. It is a name that carries weight, and nobility.

Did Lucid come from such a family? Was he hired by them? He certainly does not carry himself with the arrogant bearing of a noble. But then again, I am an Oni; the intricate customs and posturing of human aristocracy are of the least concern to me. A thought crosses my mind: in the cave, he mentioned solving a problem for a noble, a mission born from their own negligence. Could this be it? The House of Valerius is his patron, or his problem? Well, that is not my immediate concern.

For now, sharing this journey is enough. I will probe no further. His secrets are his own, as mine are mine. Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site. The woman recovers, checks the authenticity of the stamp with a focused intensity, and then hands him a single, engraved ticket. Her movements are respectful now, tinged with caution. Lucid turns away from the desk, holding the ticket.

He does a little, triumphant stomp on the stone floor, a quick, almost boyish gesture of success. It is certainly a… fun sight. An amusing display of unguarded emotion. I, on the other hand, am stopped as I move to follow him. I expected this. I do not carry a stamp. I am not on any noble's passage. I will have to pay my own fare. But I have no money. The concept is almost foreign to me. My needs have always been met through other means: hunting, foraging, taking from the fallen. Coin is a human abstraction.

Lucid looks back, confused by my absence. He returns to the desk.

"Excuse me, miss, she is my companion," he says, gesturing to me. The attendant's face returns to its practiced, impersonal mask.

"Your travel companions are not exempt from requiring their own valid ticket for passage. 1 ticket per person."

"What? okay then… how much is it?" Lucid asks, his hand already moving toward his coin pouch.

"For a three-day journey on the express line to The Kingdom of Vex's? That will be three gold coins." I watch him. Knowing Lucid, he will not hesitate. He will pay the absurd sum out of a sense of duty, or because he does not want to be separated. But it is an absurd price. Normally, such a journey costs less than a single gold. There must be an event, a festival or a summit, causing a surge in travel and allowing price gouging. I try to recall… my memories are fragments. I know there are customs to these things.

Since this continent is on the farther side of the void, the cost is already inflated. But three gold is predatory. An idea forms. It is shameless. It relies on human prejudice and their love for bureaucratic categories. I do not care. Titles and honorifics are meaningless constructs to me. They are tools, like a knife or a lie. Before Lucid can pull the coins from his pouch, I intercept. My hand closes over his wrist, stopping him. He looks at me, startled.

"Hey, what is it? Will you not come with me? It's alright, let me—" I shake my head. My expression, I hope, is one of calm certainty. I recall something from the fragmented rules scrolling on a wall, heard in a passing conversation long ago. Baggage and personal belongings are of free charge to bring aboard, if declared upon entry. The definition of 'personal belonging' is often left conveniently vague, open to interpretation by attendants wishing to avoid confrontation. I release his wrist.

I step back from the counter. Then, deliberately, I lower myself. My knees touch the cool, smooth stone of the dock floor. I lower my head, looking down. I make my voice change, dropping the usual cold, flat tone for something softer, more subservient. It is an exaggerated performance, utterly unfit for my true, deep voice and impassive mask.

"He… he… he is my master…" I say, the words hesitant, laced with a feigned timidity I have never felt in my life. The woman behind the counter blinks. She looks from my kneeling form to Lucid's stunned face. A slow, understanding dawns in her eyes, mixed with distaste and a hint of relief at a simpler categorization.

"I must have misheard you earlier," she says, her voice clipped.

"Could it be that she is your indentured servant? A slave of yours?" Distant voices carry amongst others standing by"Oh my.. An Oni?"

"Does he have no shame?"

"He mentioned he is from some noble household…"

"How barberic..." Lucid is frozen. A wave of visible embarrassment and shock rolls off him. His mouth opens, but no sound comes out. He looks horrified. I do not object to the title. Not if it is him.

'Master' is just a word. It means nothing of the true dynamic between us. It is a key to unlock a door, nothing more.

"In that case," the woman says, turning to her ledger, "she is classified as a transportable asset. There is no passenger fare for declared chattel. She is of free charge on entry, provided you take full responsibility for her conduct and containment." She stamps a secondary, much plainer chip of metal and slides it across the counter next to Lucid's ticket.

"Whaa… ah, ah…" is all Lucid can manage, his voice a stammering wreck. I rise smoothly to my feet, my face reverting to its usual blank slate. I take the metal chip, my 'tag' and tuck it just over my chest like a label. I meet his unseen eyes. I give a single, slow blink. It is efficient, job's done, the gesture says. This is the way. He is still sputtering, flushed with a mixture of humiliation and confusion. But the path is clear. The obstacle is removed. We can board the train together.

Without a word, I turn and walk toward the great archway that leads to the glowing rails, leaving him to gather his wits and follow. The deception is complete. It was a necessary, practical maneuver. And if a small, secret part of me finds his flustered reaction strangely endearing, that is a feeling I will examine later, in the quiet of the void. For now, we have a train to catch.