Aiko🖤

YES, St.N.I is indeed Saint Nerona Imu.

Can you believe this entitiy who also a secret king of the world loves to write gossip and used it to control society just like Lady Whistledown? Well... i can, lol.

I started to write Royalty before Imu got face reveal, and now we knew his appearance I think it made this story more interesting.

Truth does not always arrive bearing good news worthy of celebration. Not every truth is capable of bringing smiles, relief, or the comforting hope people long to hear. More often than not, it comes as something heavy, shocking, even painful. It has the power to shatter hopes carefully built over time, dismantle convictions once held with unwavering certainty, or force into the light the very reality one has desperately tried to avoid.

Yet the truth remains the truth. It does not change simply because it is bitter or difficult to accept. There are moments when reality stands in stark contrast to one's deepest wishes and expectations, and it is in those moments that the truth demands the courage to be accepted for what it is. There is no choice but to face it, even when the heart refuses and the mind searches endlessly for reasons to deny it.

It may leave behind scars that never fully fade or disappointments that cut deeper than words can express. Even so, the truth will always hold far greater worth than a lie that offers nothing more than fleeting comfort. For only by accepting reality as it is can one learn, grow, and continue moving forward with a clearer understanding of both life—and oneself.

Truth may not always be beautiful, but it will always bring people closer to reality.

The World Economic Journal was nothing like the gossip-filled pages of the St. N.I. Gazette, a publication that had long thrived on whispers, rumors, and speculation with little regard for whether any of it was true. While the gossip paper delighted its readers with sensationalized stories crafted to capture attention, The World Economic Journal sought to document real events unfolding across the globe, from shifts in the global economy and the ever-changing landscape of international trade to industrial developments and government policies that shaped the lives of millions.

Yet like many other publications The World Economic Journal was not entirely free from vested interests. Some of its articles had been carefully polished, arranged, and presented in ways that gradually stripped away their objectivity. Facts that should have stood on their own were framed through carefully chosen perspectives, selectively presented or emphasized in ways that favored particular individuals or organizations. As a result, what was intended to inform the public could just as easily become a tool for shaping public opinion.

In certain editions observant readers could easily notice how some events were dramatized far beyond their actual significance, while others that failed to support the desired narrative were buried in the corner of a page or omitted altogether. Information that should have served as a means of understanding reality was at times  transformed into an instrument of propaganda, carefully designed to influence the way society perceived the world.

It had been about a month since you first read the shocking headline printed across the newspaper a bulletin reporting an incident in a kingdom that was all too familiar to you. Though time had continued to move forward and countless new stories had filled the issues that followed, that particular article remained etched vividly in your mind. Every sentence you had read seemed to have carved itself into your memory refusing to fade no matter how much time had passed.

DONQUIXOTE DOFLAMINGO DEFEATED. THE THRONE OF DRESSROSA RESTORED TO ITS RIGHTFUL KING.

The headline stretched boldly across the front page printed in large heavy letters as if determined to ensure that no reader could possibly overlook it. Even after an entire month you could still recall every word with perfect clarity.

You were not disappointed that the pirate had finally been brought down for what he had done to Dressrosa. The peace he had offered had been nothing more than an illusion maintained through absolute control, silence, and oppression. A level of manipulation so masterful that you had never imagined a single person could wield it. Only now did you truly understand how Donquixote Doflamingo had earned the secret title of the ‘Heavenly Demon’ a name so few had known before the tragedy unfolded.

And the realization left you feeling painfully foolish.

Because you had come dangerously close to falling under his spell.

It was something you hated to admit, but perhaps you should have listened to what Shamrock had told you at the ballroom that night. What had the former Celestial Dragon done after being cast out of Mary Geoise? How had a pirate managed to become the king of a country that had never been his birthplace or home?

Doflamingo's defeat in the kingdom he had stolen forced you to see the world differently. It was no longer as simple as right and wrong, black and white. Reality was far more complicated than you had wanted to believe.

The names of those involved in bringing down the tyrant were printed just as prominently beneath the article.The Straw Hat Pirates, The Heart Pirates, even the Revolutionary Army had reportedly taken part in the incident.

Monkey D. Luffy.

Trafalgar Law.

But among them was one name that struck you harder than all the others. A name you knew better than your own, The name of someone who had once grown up by your side.

Sabo.

Your younger brother.

The boy whom everyone had believed to be dead for so many years.

You had only just learned that Sabo had been alive all this time and that he now stood as the Revolutionary Army's second-in-command. That revelation had come hand in hand with the truth behind Doflamingo's reign in Dressrosa, yet it was Sabo's survival that consumed your thoughts above all else.

His death had long since become an undeniable reality in your heart. A painful truth you had mourned, accepted, and eventually learned to live with. Never, not even once, had you imagined that another truth had been hidden beneath that tragedy, one so impossible to foresee.

He was no longer the gap-toothed little boy who loved to fart and sneak away from home in favor of wandering through Gray Terminal or the mountains. He had grown into a young man with a heart ablaze, dedicating his life to leading a revolution against a corrupt government. Time had reshaped him into someone entirely different, forging a mature man from the reckless child you once knew. You could scarcely find any trace of the innocent boy who had laughed, played, and grown up beside you.

At first you barely recognized him. His features had matured, his blond hair had grown longer, and a scar now crossed one of his eyes, a mark whose story you could only wonder about. Yet despite all those changes some things had remained exactly the same. Your brother was still chasing freedom, only now he was no longer seeking it for himself alone because he was also fighting to reclaim it for those who had been stripped of theirs.

For the past month, you had searched relentlessly for answers to the questions that refused to leave your mind. You couldn't risk making a scrapbook filled with newspaper clippings about the Revolutionary Army, nor could you pin articles across your wall and connect them with strings like a seasoned detective. You were living at the very heart of the World Government's civilization, a place where even the slightest hint of sympathy toward rebellion was enough to invite suspicion. Even so in whatever ways you could you kept searching for the truth.

How had Sabo ended up joining the Revolutionary Army?

Had he really been alive all this time?

Had he deliberately faked his death all those years ago?

Why were you only learning the truth now?

Where was your little brother at this very moment?

"Today's newspaper is awful. Not a single article about the Great King of Goa. The least they could have done was dedicate a special feature to my outstanding outfit at the Reverie."

The complaint shattered the silence that had settled over the sitting room. For the past several minutes, the only sounds had been the rustling of turning newspaper pages and the steady ticking of the clock on the wall. The voice belonged to the young man seated not far from you.

He was reading today's edition of The World Economic Journal, though ‘reading’ was perhaps too generous a word. He seemed far more interested in finding something to complain about than in the news itself. Leaning lazily against the back of his chair he let the newspaper fall onto his lap before clicking his tongue in obvious dissatisfaction.

You did not even have to look up to know what expression he was wearing. A pout, a hint of irritation and above all the unmistakable look of someone convinced he had not received the attention he deserved. Some habits never changed no matter how many titles a person accumulated. It was still hard to believe that the young man sulking over his absence from the front page was none other than the rightful King of the Goa Kingdom.

Sterry, the adopted younger brother who had suddenly entered your life and Sabo's, was never there to brighten your childhood. Instead he left behind nothing but unpleasant memories. You had long since lost count of how many times he had bullied and tormented the two of you. As if that were not enough the shameless brat constantly ran to Outlook and Didit to report every little thing you or Sabo did despite being no better himself. He truly was the most insufferable adopted brother imaginable.

After his father-in-law died under mysterious circumstances, the crown princess ascended the throne and made Sterry her king. Now he had come to Mary Geoise to attend the Reverie, the grand summit held every four years where rulers from every corner of the world gathered. You silently prayed that the people of the Goa Kingdom would be granted patience and resilience, because their fate now rested in the hands of your arrogant, big-headed adopted brother.

"There are far more important things in the news than your clothes. Just accept reality." You remarked casually as you turned another page of the newspaper, discreetly searching for any article that mentioned the Revolutionary Army.

At your words, Sterry placed a hand over the left side of his chest as though your remark had pierced his heart. "Sister, you are so cruel."

You frowned. You had never liked the way he called you sister in that forced tone. The words always sounded awkward coming from him, completely devoid of the warmth and affection that should naturally exist between siblings.

Perhaps it was cruel and unfair but to you there had only ever been one younger brother, and you had no idea where he was now. Sabo was your one and only brother, not merely because you shared the same blood but because the bond between the two of you was one Sterry could never hope to have with you.

The latest report concerning the Revolutionary Army stated that one of the Blackbeard Pirates' senior officers had discovered the location of their headquarters. However, by the time a full-scale assault was launched, every member of the organization had already vanished without a trace. It was as though the entire Revolutionary Army had disappeared from the face of the earth, and that was exactly what they had intended.

Another voice called out to you from the other side of the sitting room. "Sister-in-law, Father said you're taking us horseback riding."

You looked up to find Sarie staring at you with the lifeless expression of a porcelain doll, fluttering her long eyelashes. She was Sterry's wife, the former princess-now-a-queen whose status had made it possible for that boy to become the king of a country. Sarie carried herself with remarkable grace and spoke with gentle refinement, yet beneath that elegant exterior lay an arrogance that rivaled her husband's. She conducted herself as though the world itself existed to grant her special treatment.

The couple had stopped by the residence your parents were renting during the grand gathering of rulers from nations affiliated with the World Government. You were not entirely sure how the Reverie's schedule worked. Perhaps the lengthy meetings were on a short break, or perhaps the two of them had simply decided to skip them like children playing truant from school.

You had never agreed to take them sightseeing but Outlook insisted that you spend time with the married couple. Perhaps he believed that being together would bring all of you closer and somehow turn this fractured relationship into a harmonious family. Unfortunately the idea was nothing but a nuisance. Both of them carried themselves with such overwhelming arrogance that it seemed they had never once set foot on the ground.

"Let me change my clothes first." You folded the newspaper in your hands and set it on the table before rose from your chair.

The three of you had been riding through the city for nearly an hour. In truth, it should have been an enjoyable outing. The cool breeze drifting between rows of magnificent stone buildings and the lively streets filled with people coming and going should have made the journey pleasant enough. Instead, every passing minute seemed to stretch endlessly, as though the ride would never come to an end.

You would have enjoyed it if you had been riding in secret instead... like the very first time you met Doflamingo.

Ah, forget about that man whose mask had finally fallen away.

Sterry had insisted on riding beside you, which only made you want this excursion to end even sooner. As for Sarie, she was not even riding her own horse. She sat gracefully behind her husband, her arms wrapped around him like a newlywed enjoying a honeymoon. Keeping your gaze fixed straight ahead you silently counted down what remained of your patience resisting the urge to tell them to get a room instead of flaunting their affection in front of you.

This time you were not wearing your usual blouse and trousers but a riding habit designed for noblewomen complete with a long flowing skirt. You had never been particularly fond of wearing these kind of dresses while riding. They restricted the freedom of movement you were accustomed to and valued. From a distance, the dark purple skirt billowed with every stride of your horse resembling gentle waves rolling across the ground.

Each step of the horse sent the heavy layers of fabric swaying around your legs, serving as yet another reminder that, for women, appearance was often considered more important than comfort. If a strong gust of wind were to catch the dark purple skirt, it would be all too easy for it to expose more of you than propriety allowed.

Perched elegantly atop your head was a small riding hat in the same shade of purple. Its understated decoration lent it an aristocratic charm without appearing overly extravagant. Your hair had been neatly arranged and carefully pinned in place to keep it tidy throughout the ride. A pair of dark gloves covered your hands, improving your grip on the reins while protecting your skin from the constant friction.

The Reverie had now entered its fourth day. The once-seasonal gathering had transformed the heart of the city into an even livelier place than usual, crowded with kings, queens, and members of royal families from every corner of the world. Although the main proceedings were held within the majestic Pangaea Castle, a fortress that seemed as though it could stand for eternity, many of its distinguished guests often sought a breath of fresh air by taking leisurely walks or riding through the city, just as you were doing now alongside the King and Queen of Goa.

Sterry guided his chestnut Arabian horse with a level of skill that genuinely surprised you. In the middle of the ride, he suddenly exclaimed, "I had the opportunity to take the oath before the Empty Throne yesterday."

"Oh, really?" you replied without even looking at the King of Goa. "What was it like?"

"I could not really tell," he admitted. "But the moment I looked at the Empty Throne... something inside me urged me to sit upon it, to sit at the very center of the world."

Your adopted brother had just confessed to a desire that should never have crossed anyone's mind. His words made you pull sharply on the reins bringing your horse to an abrupt halt as you struggled to process what you had just heard.

"Have you lost your mind?" you demanded. "The throne was left empty for a reason. No one is ever meant to sit on it."

Your sudden stop forced Sterry to rein in his own horse as well. Yet instead of showing the slightest concern, he casually declared that he wanted to become the King of the World and stand at the very top of the world's hierarchy.

The idea of a King of the World was terrifying. It would mean placing the fate of every living soul into the hands of a single absolute authority. That was precisely why no one person was ever meant to rule over all others. No one could truly comprehend how dangerous ambition became once someone started believing they deserved to stand above the entire world.

"Oh, come on," he muttered with an easy shrug. "It is not that big of a deal." He spoke as though he had not confessed his desire to become the ruler of the entire world only moments earlier.

All you could do was let out a weary sigh and silently pray that you would not end up caught in trouble because of your adopted brother's thoughtless remarks. Trying to explain just how dangerous and consequential such an ambition would be if it ever became public knowledge sounded utterly exhausting. In the end, you chose to remain silent refusing to entertain the conversation any further.

The brief exchange was interrupted when Sarie's attention drifted toward the rows of elegant shops lining the street. Her eyes were instantly captivated by the dazzling display of luxury. Fashion boutiques, jewelry stores, accessory shops, and countless other elegant storefronts stretched before her, a paradise for any woman with a taste for fine things. The queen announced that she wanted to go shopping and add a few more pieces to her ever-growing wardrobe, and as expected Sterry could never bring himself to refuse his wife.

Sarie invited you to join them suggesting that the two of you could browse together, exchange opinions on fashion and perhaps even share a few beauty tips. You declined politely explaining that you had no particular need for new dresses or jewelry at the moment.

With that the two of them wandered off together eager to buy everything that caught their eyes. At last you had some time to yourself without having to suppress your nausea at the sight of them openly doting on each other in public.

Raven took the opportunity to stroll toward a nearby fountain. The Friesian stallion seemed just as tempted by the gentle sound of flowing water, unable to ignore his growing thirst. He took a few measured steps closer before lowering his head intending to take a drink.

"Whoa, easy buddy," you said, giving the reins a gentle tug. "I do not think you should be drinking from there."

Ignoring your protest Raven continued drinking without pause. With a quiet sigh, you swung yourself down from the saddle so he could quench his thirst more comfortably. While your horse drank his fill you settled on the edge of the fountain.

Crystal-clear water flowed endlessly from the carved stone centerpiece, its gentle murmur easing a little of the exhaustion left behind by what had felt like an endlessly long ride. Resting both hands on the fountain's edge, you allowed your gaze to wander across the bustling town square. The weather was unusually mild. Thick clouds shielded the city from the harsh sunlight while not even the slightest breeze stirred the air, leaving the atmosphere strangely dry.

The unusual weather for this time of year kept you from noticing the hooded figure seated only a short distance away. Clad in an ivory-white cloak that concealed their face, the stranger quietly took a place on the edge of the fountain beside you. While they observed your every movement in silence, completely unnoticed by you, your attention remained fixed on the lively square before you.

Horse-drawn carriages rumbled across the cobblestone streets, their wheels turning rapidly as though their passengers were racing against time. Servants hurried past carrying wooden crates and rolled-up documents. On the opposite side of the street, nobles wandered at an unhurried pace, dressed in their finest attire. They exchanged soft laughter and lighthearted conversation as if there were not a single concern in the world worthy of disturbing their peace.

Yet another sight unfolded before your eyes, one so cruel that merely witnessing it made your stomach churn. Who else could it be but the Celestial Dragons? They treated their slaves with utter contempt, yanking violently on the chains that bound them, reducing human beings to something that even animals did not deserve to become. One particularly despicable noble mercilessly lashed his servant with a whip in broad daylight, inflicting pain and humiliation under the guise of discipline.

The heart of the city laid bare a striking contrast between luxury and oppression. Your heart could scarcely endure such cruelty, yet you lacked the power to change the very system that allowed it to exist. Unable to bear the sight any longer, you turned your face away, refusing to watch the merciless acts of those who believed themselves to be gods.

"You have become one of them, Sister."

The voice came out of nowhere like a quiet whisper reminding you of your sins and failures.

Your eyes widened at the unfamiliar address. For a split second, you questioned whether you had heard it correctly, your body stiffening as you instinctively rose to your feet. You turned from side to side searching for the source of the voice, but there was no one who seemed even remotely suspicious. Everyone was occupied with their own affairs. No one appeared interested enough to speak to you.

You tried to recall the voice instead, It belonged to a young man.There was a strange calmness in it, as though its owner was neither angry nor mocking you. He had simply... stated a fact. And that single word ‘Sister’ made your chest tighten. There were only two people who had ever called you that. And of the two only one came to mind.

Sabo.

Your little brother who had disappeared years ago and had recently shaken the world by becoming one of the leading figures of the Revolutionary Army.

Was he here?

Was he watching you quietly condemning you for growing too comfortable surrounded by luxury?

But if that were true...What was he doing in Mary Geoise?

And where was your little brother now?

You blinked several times and drew a slow breath, but the unease had already settled in without invitation. It clouded your thoughts, making it difficult to think clearly. Before you realized it, you had frozen in place. Though you remained standing your legs felt weak as if gravity itself refused to keep you grounded refused to acknowledge you, because you now belonged to the celestial far above the earth and forever beyond anyone's reach.

And that was exactly what you feared.

You feared the day you would look into a mirror and no longer be able to tell yourself apart from the very people you had always despised. The kind who believed the ground beneath their feet was too lowly to touch. The kind who called other human beings inferior creatures and treated them as nothing more than property. Who else could they be but the Celestial Dragons, those who fancied themselves gods?

Those words did more than strike you, they sent an icy chill crawling down your spine. They were not merely an accusation. They felt almost like a label that had been placed upon you. Was it true? Had coming here and living among them slowly eroded your humanity?

No.

You rejected the thought almost immediately.

You still possessed the same heart and humanity you always had. If you had truly become one of them, the scene you had witnessed moments ago would not have disturbed you in the slightest. You would not have felt compelled to look away because you could no longer bear to watch. The truth was far more painful because you simply lacked the strength and the courage to do anything about it.

With a quiet sigh you lowered yourself back onto the marble edge of the fountain replaying every decision you had made since arriving here. Coming to Mary Geoise had indeed been a mistake, just as you had declared to Shamrock that day. You should never have allowed yourself to grow comfortable in this place. But even if you were powerless, what could you possibly do?

You couldn't have been lost in your thoughts for very long, yet by the time you looked up, the sun had already begun its slow descent toward the west, marking the end of midday. Its light remained bright and steady, not yet softened into the golden hues of evening, while a thin veil of clouds continued to shield the city from its full intensity.

Beside you Raven remained faithfully at your side. Though left untethered, the Friesian showed no intention of wandering off standing quietly as if he understood you needed the silence.

Your thoughts were abruptly shattered by the sound of panicked screams. People were shouting and running. Chaos had erupted.

The soothing murmur of the fountain that had accompanied your thoughts only moments before was swallowed whole by the deafening uproar spilling in from the main avenue. Everyone fled in blind panic, scattering in every direction like a swarm of disturbed insects. It made no difference whether they were Celestial Dragons, nobles, servants, or slaves.

They all ran, some stumbled to the ground in their desperation only to be trampled beneath the stampede of terrified feet. The earth beneath you suddenly trembled as thousands of people surged through the streets creating what felt like a small earthquake atop the Red Line.

Then came the explosions.

The thunderous blasts echoed from somewhere in the distance, sounding unmistakably like heavy artillery being fired. Thick black smoke rose into the sky from the direction of the detonations, billowing upward in massive columns born from fire and cannon smoke. One explosion followed another until they became far too numerous to count.

You had no idea what had happened to transform the peaceful atmosphere into complete pandemonium. Perhaps the Reverie had fallen into an unforeseen state of anarchy. But you were nowhere near Pangaea Castle where the conference was being held. Even Raven who had remained calm until now sensed that something was terribly wrong. The stallion tossed his head and let out a restless whinny urging you to act.

"What on earth is happening?" you murmured to yourself, knowing full well no answer would come.

There was no time to wonder because every second wasted could mean the difference between life and death. You quickly swung yourself back into the saddle, determined to leave before the chaos spread any farther. Yet your first instinct was not to flee, It was to find Sterry and Sarie. No matter how little affection you had for them, they were still your brother and your sister-in-law and finding them was the right thing to do..

You pulled on the reins turning Raven toward the main avenue where you had last seen them. The stallion skillfully wove through the panicked crowds. You could only hope no one would be hurt by his powerful stride as people scattered in every direction.

You searched every row of shops, calling out Sterry's and Sarie's names again and again, but no answer came. Perhaps your voice was swallowed by the thunder of explosions and the screams echoing through the streets. Or perhaps they had already fled abandoning the area in a desperate attempt to save themselves. The lack of any sign of them only deepened your panic. But panic would accomplish nothing.

Drawing a slow, steady breath, you forced yourself to remain calm as Raven carried you farther down the streets. Your eyes darted from one side to the other, taking in the frantic scene unfolding around you. People were running or riding on horseback in the opposite direction as though you alone were traveling the wrong way heading toward the very danger everyone else was desperately trying to escape.

And they were right.

The farther you rode, the thicker the smoke became, dark clouds billowing upward as the source of the fires drew ever closer. Then came the sharp crack of gunfire. The sound rang through your ears making you flinch. As if that were not enough you noticed that the walls of several buildings had been defaced with hastily painted graffiti. A single word had been scrawled across the stone in bold and unmistakable letters.

REVOLUTION.

Now you understand. This isn't a random riot or an ordinary act of crime. It is a declaration, a direct challenge to the system that rules this place. And one group has chosen to fight back. Reverie has been thrown into unprecedented chaos, and this uprising marks the beginning of a great change.

"Miss."

A woman's voice called out to you. You thought she was addressing you, yet the voice came from the sky, which was anything but ordinary. You gently pulled on your horse's reins, bringing Raven to a halt, then looked up to confirm what you had heard. High above, a female knight was riding what looked like a giant bird made entirely of bandages—an utterly bizarre sight.

The short-haired knight guided her bandage bird into a shallow dive until it hovered at roughly the same altitude as you. As she drew closer, you noticed that her eyes were heterochromatic. Her right eye was a brilliant blue, as radiant as the sea beneath the midday sun, while her left eye burned a deep crimson resembling glowing embers stirred by the wind. The striking contrast between them made her appearance even more captivating.

She studied you from head to toe as she spoke, her gaze even sweeping over Raven. "Why are you heading toward the center of the disturbance instead of evacuating?"

You blinked several times, trying to gather the right words despite the anxiety gnawing at your mind. "I am looking for my brother and his wife." Your voice came out slightly louder than you had intended, as though trying to rise above the surrounding clamor.

"What is really happening?" you asked, voicing the question that had been weighing on your mind.

"The Revolutionary Army has launched an assault on Mary Geoise and declared war on the World Government," she replied, her voice calm and unwavering. "The Admirals are dealing with them as we speak."

So your suspicions had been correct. The Revolutionaries had shaken the Red Line, the colossal continent that stood firm as it encircled the world. In the distance, you could see the white flag bearing the blue emblem of the World Government engulfed in flames atop one of the towering spires. Flocks of birds scattered across the sky while thick columns of smoke billowed upward, fleeing the chaos on instinct, driven by nothing more than the will to survive.

The heterochromatic girl continued, "Head south. It is safer there. Everyone is evacuating, and you should do the same."

You had little choice but to follow her instructions. There was no point in charging into the heart of the battlefield when you couldn't even defend yourself if the worst were to happen. Besides if your brother and his wife had been evacuated successfully they were most likely heading south as well.

You gave a small nod. "I understand."

Without wasting another moment, you turned your Friesian horse around and urged Raven into a gallop in the opposite direction. The rhythmic pounding of Raven's hooves against the ground rang out more clearly now that the explosions and the clamor of battle had faded into the distance.

You glanced back over your shoulder hoping to catch another glimpse of the knight who had approached you, but she was already gone. Perhaps she had taken to the skies once more on her strange winged mount.

This incident would change countless lives, including yours.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───

Your body trembled as the air in the room seeped into your bones. This was not the kind of cold that could be chased away with a roaring fireplace or a cup of hot chocolate. It was damp, suffocating, and deeply unpleasant. The concrete walls surrounding you seemed to have trapped the chill for years, only to reflect it back without mercy.

The interrogation room had been designed to strip away any sense of safety or comfort, replacing it with lingering psychological torment. Anyone confined within these walls would eventually break, confessing to every crime they had committed. Even the innocent would rather admit to accusations they had never committed than endure another moment in this room.

Your wrists were shackled to a steel table as cold as the room itself. The iron handcuffs bit mercilessly into your skin, leaving behind a constant ache that reminded you you were not here of your own free will. You shifted in your seat searching for a more comfortable position, but the soft rattle of the chains immediately crushed that hope.

The wrists that had once been adorned with elegant dance cards and bracelets crafted from gold and silver were now bound by rough iron cuffs that sent icy sensations coursing through your veins. You felt less like a noblewoman and more like a dangerous criminal awaiting judgment. Your single braid had fallen into disarray  and you wore nothing but your nightgown covered by a thin robe having been dragged here in the middle of the night.

You had no idea how long you had been here. Minutes and hours had blurred together, stripped of all meaning inside this windowless room. At the very least, however, more than half a day had passed since your arrest.

You were not the only one taken into custody. Outlook, Didit, Sterry, and Sarie had all been arrested under the same charges. You had no idea where they were now, but you assumed they were being interrogated in separate rooms.

You still did not fully understand why your family had been arrested without warning.

"Once again, I will ask you the same question." His voice was calm, but edged with impatience. "What is your relationship with the second-in-command of the Revolutionary Army?"

Sitting across from you was a tall man with ginger hair whose age was difficult to determine. He leaned back lazily in his chair resting both boots on the steel table where your shackled hands lay helplessly. The gesture was deliberately disrespectful as though reminding you of exactly where you stood. Saint Shepherd Sommers had been interrogating you for what felt like hours. He kept asking the same question over and over, as if repeating it enough times would somehow force a different answer from your lips.

"I already told you," you replied, your voice hoarse from thirst. Not a single drop of water had passed your lips since your arrest. You had long since lost your appetite but the thirst was impossible to ignore. "I did not even know Sabo was still alive until the news of the Dressrosa incident."

"And you expect me to believe that?" His voice dripped with mockery and disdain. "What kind of family does not even know where one of its own is, let alone that he is become a revolutionary?"

His words felt like a jab at your family's fractured relationships. Although you cared little for the opinions of others, there was still something painful about hearing it spoken aloud.

As if that were not enough, Sommers continued. "You infiltrated the Holy Land under the pretense of attending the marriage market, then passed valuable intelligence to the Revolutionary Army."

"That is not true," you answered firmly. It was the truth, and you refused to let him twist it into anything else.

"Then explain this." Sommers leaned forward slightly. "When the Revolutionary Army attacked Mary Geoise, why did Gunko catch you heading straight toward the chaos? Unless....you were one of them."

The accusation struck you like a splash of boiling water to the face. "'Looking for your brother, you said? You mean Sabo-the Revolutionary?." A faint  mocking smile tugged at his lips.

"I was talking about my adoptive younger brother, Sterry," you answered without hesitation. "And I also said I was looking for his wife." Back then, your innocent explanation had seemed harmless. You had never imagined it would come back to haunt you like this.

There was nothing you could do except remain seated in the cold steel chair and endure it. Their accusations were built on little more than speculation. Just because one person had in their eyes committed an unforgivable offense did not mean that everyone connected to them was guilty as well.

You let out a slow breath forcing yourself to stay calm. You had lost count of how many times this conversation had repeated itself. The same questions. The same answers. It was as though they believed exhaustion, thirst, and the relentless passage of time would eventually force you to tell them what they wanted to hear.

The problem was simple.

You were not lying.

Your gaze drifted to the large mirror on the wall to your right, its surface reflecting your exhausted figure. Only then did you realize how disheveled you had become since your imprisonment. Your braid had loosened, your clothes were wrinkled and fatigue was written plainly across your face.

But your appearance was the least of your concerns, all you wanted was to leave this place. You were certain it was a two-way mirror. Someone, or perhaps several people had to be standing behind it watching your every move without ever being seen. They observed every breath you took, every restless twitch of your shackled fingers, every fleeting hint of hesitation that crossed your face. Even your silence was probably being dissected for meaning. You tore your gaze away from the mirror and lowered your head.

As you had suspected Saint Figarland Shamrock was standing behind the two-way mirror, silently watching everything unfold without your knowledge.

He watched your interrogation with a piercing gaze, missing none of the details he deemed worth committing to memory. Standing silently with his arms folded across his chest, he allowed the interrogator to carry out his duty while he remained a quiet observer, evaluating every one of your responses with cold detachment.

Although the God Knight knew the true reason behind your arrest, he made no move to intervene, choosing instead to remain a silent witness.

His expression was as unreadable as ever—calm, composed, and utterly devoid of emotion. No one could discern what lay behind those impassive features, not even his own father. Standing beside him, Garling observed the interrogation just as intently. Neither man could tell whether Shamrock was beginning to believe your words or whether his suspicions had only deepened.

"That noble girl" the middle-aged man with crescent-shaped hair said, turning to his son. "After everything that has happened, what are you going to do with her?"

Shamrock did not answer immediately. His eyes remained fixed on the other side of the two-way mirror, watching your every movement without so much as a blink as though he were counting each breath you drew and every exhale that followed.

"If it turns out she is a member of the Revolutionary Army" Garling continued, casting a sidelong glance at his son, "or if she learned of the Great One's existence through her brother, then you already know what the Five Elders will do, don't you?"

"Once Sommers is finished, I will interrogate her myself," the red-haired man said flatly.

It was not an answer to the Supreme Commander's question.

Rather than commenting on your possible fate or the Elders' decision, he simply shifted the conversation to the next step he intended to take, leaving his father's question hanging in the air without acknowledgment.

Garling spoke again. "I am sure you have read that gossip column. And we both know that whatever is written there reflects the will of the Great One."

Not a flicker crossed Shamrock's face. No surprise, no hesitation. He accepted the statement as though it were a truth he had long since come to terms with.

He knew exactly who St. N.I. really was.

Behind that identity concealed beneath layers of mystery, only a select few knew the truth. Shamrock was one of them.

He understood that the gossip column the public dismissed as cheap entertainment was, in reality, something far more terrifying. Every sentence printed within it was not mere rumor. They were manifestations of the Supreme One's will. And more frightening still that will was almost never wrong.

Meanwhile, Sommers continued bombarding you with the same questions you had grown tired of answering. The relentless interrogation felt no less cruel than physical torture used to force confessions from the accused. But no matter how many times he asked, your answer remained the same. You were innocent and you were telling the truth.

"Is it not a rather strange coincidence?" he said. "The Revolutionary Army, which usually operates from the shadows, suddenly launches an open assault against the World Government during the Reverie at the exact time your entire family happens to be gathered in Mary Geoise."

"How would I know the answer to that?"

The man rose from his chair and strode toward you, a smug grin spreading across his face. Without asking for permission or offering so much as a warning, he reached out and hooked a finger beneath your chin forcing your lowered gaze to meet his.

"Listen carefully, woman." His voice dripped with contempt. "Just because Shamrock has shown a little interest in you does not mean you can escape the consequences."

Your jaw tightened. With a look of undisguised disgust, you jerked your head to the side wrenching your chin free from his grasp. The nerve of him to touch you as though you were nothing more than a puppet instead of a human being. He acted with such arrogance because his position gave him the power to do so.

Although your breathing still trembled and the bitter cold continued to seep into your body, you met his gaze with unwavering eyes, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing you truly broken. "This has nothing to do with him."

From the other side of the two-way mirror, the Commander had seen and heard everything with perfect clarity. He had watched Sommers try to wear down your resolve, only to find you standing your ground, meeting the interrogator's gaze with open disdain. After this he would likely have a word with his subordinate. Sommers had gone too far especially the moment he dared to lay a finger on you.

Eventually, it seemed Sommers had run out of questions. Without another word he left the room not even bothering to write down your statement. The entire interrogation suddenly felt meaningless. That  you realized had been his intention all along. To crush your hope until surrender became your only option. Only after he had disappeared from sight did you finally allow yourself to lean back against the interrogation chair's icy backrest.

Unfortunately the brief moment of relief did not last. The door opened once again and Saint Figarland Shamrock stepped into the room. The instant he crossed the threshold, the familiar tension settled over you. It felt as though the temperature had dropped several more degrees making the already frigid room even more suffocating.

Every encounter with him left you with the same unsettling feeling. His gaze always made it seem as though he were dissecting you without a blade. He never needed to raise his voice or make threats. His mere presence was enough to fill the room with invisible pressure. And this time you were certain he intended to use that pressure to extract the answers he wanted.

Shamrock carried several files in his right hand. He placed them neatly on the table separating the two of you before taking the seat opposite yours. His back remained perfectly straight, both hands resting atop the stack of documents he had just set down. Slowly, his eyes lifted until they met yours. 

Your muscles stiffened instinctively. Whether you wanted to or not you found yourself sitting up straighter as well despite having only just managed to rest against the chair moments earlier.

Of all the God Knights why did it have to be him?

A guard clad in armor entered behind him, carrying a sandwich and a glass of water. He set them down on the table before silently leaving the room without a single word. You could not deny it, the glass of water sitting in front of you seemed almost to whisper your name tempting you to take even a single sip.

"Fifteen hours without food is something most people can endure. But without water..." Shamrock's firm voice broke the silence.

He gestured toward the meal, inviting you to eat and drink. You remained silent, instead you deliberately turned your head away until your eyes settled on a spider's web tucked into the corner of the ceiling.

"Or are you afraid we have poisoned it?" he continued. "I would not stoop that low."

There was no trace of mockery in his voice yet neither did it sound like reassurance. To be honest the thought had never crossed your mind. But the moment he mentioned it, the possibility of being poisoned by the World Government suddenly became disturbingly plausible.

You swallowed hard, not only to suppress your thirst but also to ease the raw discomfort in your throat, which felt as though shards of glass were lodged inside it. You hesitated first, should you accept it or refuse?

The crystal-clear water shimmered inside the glass exactly as it should, while the sandwich filled with meat and vegetables looked perfectly ordinary. Nothing about either of them seemed suspicious, and somehow that only made your hesitation worse. Your body pleaded for a single sip of water, while every instinct screamed at you to stay on your guard. Both choices felt equally wrong, even though the decision rested entirely with you. In the end you gave in and listened to your body.

Carefully, you lifted the glass and took a long drink, the cool water washing away the dryness in your throat. It was even more relieving than you had imagined, like discovering an oasis in the middle of a vast desert despite the freezing air that filled the room. The sandwich, however, remained untouched. Your appetite had disappeared the moment you were arrested.

Shamrock watched as you struggled to lift the glass with your wrists still bound together. The iron cuffs encircled them so tightly that the skin beneath had become raw and red. Hidden beneath his cloak he unconsciously brushed his thumb against the key resting in an inner pocket, reassuring himself that it was still there. The key to your freedom, but it was one he had no intention of using. Not yet at least.

His gaze settled on your exhausted face once more. Your lips were cracked from dehydration, your complexion had grown even paler and yet you still clung stubbornly to your dignity despite the miserable state you were in. Something within him recoiled at the sight of you like this. Something he could not explain. The thought surfaced so suddenly that the Commander dismissed it at once. Emotions were distractions nothing more than obstacles that clouded judgment.

"Shall we begin?"

At his words, you steeled yourself once again for the same questions you had answered countless times already. The very thought of repeating them made you sick. "Let us get this over with."

The red-haired man opened the file before him, turning one page after another with neat, measured movements. The soft rustle of paper became the only sound in the room. The documents most likely contained everything about you and your family. How ironic, every detail of your life had been condensed into a stack of papers transformed into evidence to be used against you.

Shamrock began his interrogation "The family of Baron Outlook III, You have a rather... unusual family." 

He flipped to another page. "The King of Goa Kingdom. The second-in-command of the Revolutionary Army. And then you."

You frowned then asked. "What are you implying? That I have not accomplished anything compared to my brothers?"

"I never said that." His ruby-red eyes remained fixed on the rows of words and numbers covering the documents before him. "Becoming a rebel is not an accomplishment."

"Listen," you said, your patience wearing thin. "You can ask me the same question a hundred more times, and my answer won't change. Twelve years ago the ship Sabo sailed on when he left home sank after it was bombarded by a Celestial Dragon. I saw it with my own eyes. I watched his ship burn before it slowly disappeared beneath the sea."

You recounted the memory from your own perspective explaining how vividly your brother's death had been etched into your mind. It was also the reason your hatred for the Celestial Dragons had taken root so deeply. Learning that Sabo had survived had changed nothing. Your hatred remained.

"So that is why you hate us?" he asked.

"That is only a small part of it, My Lord." Your answer came without the slightest trace of hesitation.

Silence settled between the two of you for a moment before Shamrock finally broke it.

"And since learning about what happened in Dressrosa, you have never had any contact with him?" he asked. "Or perhaps tried to find out where he was?"

Your mind immediately drifted back to that brief moment during the Reverie. Someone had called you sister, someone who had condemned you as one of those bastard Celestial Dragons. You were certain it had been Sabo and no one else. But did that count as contact? Should you tell Shamrock about that encounter?

"No."

You chose to deny it. The last thing you wanted was to make this interrogation even longer than it already was. If they learned that you had interacted with one of the Revolutionary Army's highest-ranking members they would never let the matter rest.

The Commander studied your face for the slightest hint of hesitation searching for even the smallest crack in your composure. His expression remained calm yet intensely attentive. He watched how your gaze held steady, how your shoulders rose and fell with each measured breath, and how your shackled fingers tensed ever so slightly before relaxing again.

"If that is the case then perhaps you can explain this." he said while pulling several neatly organized documents from the file

Before you even had the chance to lean forward and read them  he continued. "A copy of a bank statement from Line Bank. The ownership of this account is highly questionable."

He slid the papers across the table. His ruby eyes lifted to meet yours. "The account is registered under Sabo's name. But according to the transaction records the person who has been consistently depositing money into that account is you."

The room fell silent once more. Shamrock slowly slid the file across the table until it rested between the two of you, allowing you to see its contents. Inside was a meticulous record of dates, transaction amounts, and even security camera footage showing you making cash deposits. Every transaction had been carefully documented, backed by evidence you hadn't even known existed.

You fell silent for a moment, struggling to process the evidence laid out before your eyes while searching for the right words to explain just how complicated your situation truly was.

"How—"

"Were you involved in financing the Revolutionary Army?"

Before you could explain yourself  the accusation was hurled at you, striking like a knife. Your eyes widened in shock and disbelief.

"What? No! I was not-"

"The sums being deposited were far from insignificant," he interrupted again. "They are comparable to the average bounty of the Worst Generation. Perhaps it is a trivial amount compared to your father's fortune, but regardless of the total it is enough to establish your involvement with that organization."

"That money-"

"Besides where could you possibly have gotten that kind of money without lifting a finger to work?" The Commander cut you again, His sharp gaze remained fixed on you. 

"So? Are you finally going to tell me where your income came from?"

"How am I supposed to answer if you keep interrupting me?" 

For the first time since the interrogation had begun, your voice rose. It was not born solely from anger, but from the frustration that had been building since the very beginning. Every time you tried to explain yourself, another question cut you off before you could finish.

After interrupting you time and again Shamrock finally fell silent giving you the chance to answer his questions. Who would have thought that your attempt to secure financial independence would one day entangle you in something far more serious?

"Listen. Aristocratic women are not allowed to accumulate wealth under their own names. In the end every asset falls under the family's supervision. Even the money I earned myself was never truly mine."

"I used my late brother’s identity to open a bank account, one that would allow me to achieve financial independence. It has nothing to do with funding any revolutionary organization. Back then I did not even know he was still alive."

After listening carefully he pulled a pen from his pocket and jotted something down in a notebook. Perhaps he was recording your statement as part of verifying your innocence. "Even so that still does not answer my last question." he said without looking up to you.

"The gifts I received from prospective suitors from the time I was seventeen until now" you answered without hesitation. "Most of them were jewelry, gemstones, and precious metals of considerable value. I sold them."

The red-haired man paused in the middle of writing. His hand froze above the notebook page. The ink no longer flowed. The tip of the pen hovered only a few centimeters above the paper, as if its owner had suddenly lost the words he intended to write.

Slowly, he lifted his gaze from the notebook and looked at you with his crimson eyes. His expression remained unchanged, but this time there was an unusual pause before he finally spoke.

"Including the jewelry I gave you when I visited you?"

You did not need much time to understand what he meant.

"Yes."

The answer left your lips without hesitation, because to you, that jewelry had never carried any sentimental value. Just like the other gifts that came from your prospective suitors, it was nothing more than one of the many valuable items you eventually sold. The silence that followed lasted longer than it should have.

Shamrock's gaze remained fixed on you, while the pen in his hand continued to hover above the unfinished page. His face showed no change whatsoever still expressionless and composed and that was precisely what made you uneasy. Unconsciously questions began to form in your mind.

Had you accidentally offended him by selling the gift he gave you?

Did that item hold a far greater value in his eyes?

A family heirloom, perhaps?

Was he angry?

It was difficult to tell.

All you could do was watch as he released a quiet breath. Even though you tried to read his expression or the subtle movement of his jaw that might betray his emotions, you struggled to determine what was truly going through his mind. Either he was exceptionally skilled at suppressing his feelings or it genuinely did not bother him at all. Hopefully  it was the latter and fate was still on your side.

“I see" His response was brief.

Shamrock continued the interrogation with another question. "As Sommers stated, the Revolutionary Army's assault on the Holy Land coincided with the Reverie and the marriage season during which your entire family happened to be in Mary Geoise."

"And that is somehow our fault?" Your voice was flat, though the exhaustion had begun to seep into every word.

"It reinforces our suspicion that your family conspired with the revolutionary Sabo" he replied matter-of-factly.

"Simply because we are related by blood and happened to be in the same place when the attack occurred?" You answered while subtly adjusting your posture in the chair.

Instead of answering he countered with another question, his jaw tightening. "If you were in my position  would you simply ignore that chain of facts?"

"Facts?" You almost laughed, not because anything was amusing, but because you could not believe what you had just heard. A dry chuckle nearly escaped your lips before you swallowed it back. 

“Those are not facts. They are nothing more than utterly absurd accusations." You slowly shook your head and leaned back against the chair. The handcuffs around your wrists clinked softly with the movement, briefly breaking the silence.

Your gaze never wavered. "If that is your logic, then every king, queen, and noble who attended the Reverie should also be under suspicion. They were all in Mary Geoise when the Revolutionary Army attacked."

"Out of all of them your family remains our prime suspect."

Hearing the same accusation repeated over and over again was enough to make you nearly give up trying to reason with him. You were about to open your mouth to deny it once more but Shamrock continued before you had the chance.

"The consequences could be severe. The Elders are considering expelling your entire family from Mary Geoise."

You showed neither panic nor fear. In fact  you did not hesitate for a moment before responding to the prospect of your exile. After all you had never wanted to remain in this place. "Then I will return to the Goa Kingdom."

"But I do not want you to leave." The words slipped from his lips so quietly that they sounded like a whisper never meant to be heard.

As much as it startled you, that words seemed to startle Shamrock even more. Such unguarded honesty was unlike him. A brief awkward silence settled between you filling a void that should never have existed.

"And what is that supposed to mean?" You frowned in confusion unable to make sense of what he had just said.

Shamrock fell silent. His expression remained as calm as ever, yet beneath that composed exterior, his mind had gone completely blank. Those words were not something a commander should ever say to his prisoner nor were they something he had intended to say. All his life he had been accustomed to weighing every word before speaking.

This time  however, his mouth had moved a step ahead of his thoughts. "I should not have said something unrelated to the interrogation."

"So that was a personal statement?" You looked at him searchingly.

"Yes." The answer came without denial, without justification—just a single word. Somehow, that only made the room feel even quieter.

You had not expected him to admit it.

The commander and you remained seated in silence, facing one another from opposite sides of the table. The air inside the interrogation room felt increasingly suffocating despite the damp chill that clung to it. It was as though dozens of people were crowded inside, fighting over the last traces of oxygen, when in reality, only the two of you were there.

Your gaze eventually fell to your lap, your head lowering as though you could no longer bring yourself to meet the eyes burning with restrained longing. You could feel the intensity of that emotion ever since his confession. Perhaps it had been there from the very first time you met, but your hatred had blinded you to it.

"Why do not you want me to leave?" Now it was your turn to ask something personal. Your voice matched the quiet, almost whispered tone his confession had carried moments earlier.

Shamrock swiftly slipped back into the composed demeanor of a commander after allowing his personal feelings to surface in the middle of his duty. The abrupt change caught you slightly off guard. "Have you ever heard of the 'Native Hunting Competition'?"

You had never heard of it, but the name alone sounded cruel and inhuman. "That is monstrous. How could—"

"Once every three years, we select an island for an event exactly as its name suggests. And because the Goa Kingdom has strong ties to the Revolutionary Army it has become one of the leading candidates to host that festival"

Your eyes widened once again. For several long seconds, you could only stare at Shamrock unable to utter a single word. You searched desperately for any sign that he was toying with you yet you found none. His expression was rigid and utterly serious, nothing like the fleeting vulnerability that had accompanied his personal confession.

Horror slowly crept across your face, not because the threat was directed at you, but because it was aimed at everyone living in your homeland. Innocent people who knew nothing about the revolution would become its victims.

"On what grounds?" You struggled to defend your homeland.

"The leader and the second-in-command of the Revolutionary Army both come from there-"

Before Shamrock could finish you cut him off. "Just because of that? Once again, you are using a completely unreasonable justification."

"Rose, listen-" Once again his words were interrupted by you.

"You can not do that to the Goa Kingdom. Dawn Island is under Vice Admiral Garp's protection, and he would not stand by while someone threatens the peace of our homeland."

"The protection he provides only extends to pirate attacks. It would not be enough if the order comes from someone whose authority far surpasses his own." The commander explained patiently, doing his best not to lose his temper despite your stubborn refusal to accept his reasoning.

"So, was it your decision to hold the Native Hunting Competition on Dawn Island?"

At your question, the red-haired man answered without hesitation. "I do not possess that kind of authority."

"Then it was the Elders' decision?"

This time he gave no answer. He could not tell you that there was another existence, someone whose authority stood even above the Elders who had decided the fate of your homeland. Someone he served as a loyal soldier of the Holy Land, bound by an oath he could never break.

Turning his gaze away, Shamrock avoided looking at the confusion and ignorance written across your face. He was certain that if he looked at you for even a moment longer, pity would cloud his judgment until he could no longer remain impartial.

And as a commander he could not allow anything to interfere with his duty.

Especially not the woman who had occupied his thoughts day and night, and who now stood accused of an act of high treason.

"The reason you do not want me to return home is because you do not want me to become one of the victims of the massacre. Is that right?" You asked another questio  as though you were the one interrogating him instead of the other way around.

The man sitting across from you drew a quiet breath before finally giving a small nod. "That is right."

"I thought you despised me after what I did to you. After I unknowingly possesed you day and night." You frowned slightly unable to keep the trace of sarcasm from your voice. "If I left and gone, would not that make things easier for you?"

Shamrock mirrored your expression of confusion almost perfectly. "Who told you that?"

You opened your mouth to answer, but no sound came out, because you had no proper answer to his question. It had only been an assumption you had drawn on your own, not the whole truth. So you forced yourself to close your mouth again.

The truth was, not letting you leave was his way of caring for you- something he could not and was not used to, expressing aloud. From anyone else's perspective it all sounded selfish. Yet behind every action that felt so suffocating, there was always a fear he had never managed to voice. 

As though he already knew the fate written into the story between him and you, while yourself had no clue at all.

The young Figarland was truly never good with words. He never knew how to express concern without sounding commanding, or how to show care without seeming too intrusive. So all that remained were actions and those actions were often misunderstood.

"Listen, many innocent people will become victims. They do not even know anything, nor do they have any connection to the Revolutionary Army. Why should an entire population be punished just because one or two people you’ve labeled as criminals were born in the same land as them?" You went on trying to stand on the side of what was right even if the consequences would only harm you.

Meanwhile Shamrock listened carefully to your attempt at defense  like a judge recording every word spoken by a defense attorney. As though every decision rested in his hands when in reality it did not. 

"In other words, are you willing to do anything to save your kingdom and its people?" he asked you again.

"If there is something I can do, then I will consider it." There was a strong resolve in your voice, the determination to do what was right.

The commander wasted no time acting. Reaching inside his coat, he pulled out a sheet of paper folded neatly into thirds. You recognized it immediately. It was none other than a copy of the St. N.I. gossip newspaper- the publication whose every word seemed capable of swaying the entirety of Mary Geoise.

"Your favorite columnist has shared their thoughts on all of this." He handed the paper to you silently indicating that you should read it yourself. Of course your curiosity got the better of you.

With fingers that trembled ever so slightly, you accepted the newspaper. Your eyes immediately fell upon the column whose byline was so familiar to you, the pen name you searched for every time a new issue was published. The mysterious writer whose articles had an uncanny ability to peel away every layer of a person until nothing but the truth remained.

How had this enigmatic columnist described the scandal that had ensnared you?

How thoroughly had your reputation been ruined in the eyes of the public?

And how mercilessly had they judged you?

You wanted answers to every one of those questions as quickly as possible. There was no reason to waste time reading the other gossip columns. Your eyes raced across the page searching for the first paragraph that mentioned your name and the events of the Reverie.

To be honest, this author is far too stunned to speak (write).

This may very well be the biggest and most devastating scandal of the season.

A scandal involving treason, terrorism, and sweeping change carried out in the name of reform.

Because our very own diamond is suspected of having close ties to one of the Revolution's most prominent figures, a man determined to challenge the World Government.

Someone who had long been admired as the very embodiment of perfection.

A woman whose every step was praised, whose every smile inspired admiration, and whose every public appearance was believed to be beyond reproach.

Yet beneath that blinding brilliance...

There may have always been darkness.

By the time this edition reaches the hands of my dear readers, Miss Y/N will already be undergoing an official investigation to uncover the truth.

Is she a spy who infiltrated Mary Geoise through marriage season under the guise of a prospective bride?

Or merely an ordinary young woman who became entangled in something far beyond her control?

Which side does this lovely young lady truly stand on?

Ally or enemy?

One thing, however is certain.

The Goa Kingdom will never be the same again.

The Elders are currently considering designating it as the next site of the Native Hunting Festival, the three-yearly event held by the Celestial Dragons.

Their reasoning?

It is the birthplace of certain individuals who seek the destruction of the World Government.

Consider it a punishment.

For a land that gave rise to troubles it never should have.

The contents of this edition echoed almost exactly what Shamrock had already told you. So what was the point of reading it when you already knew everything it contained? You were just about to fold the newspaper shut and complain about wasting your time when the very next paragraph left you speechless.

Perhaps this author can offer you a way forward, Miss Rose.

After all my opinion may very well become part of the Elders' deliberations.

That is the weight my pen carries.

So if you are willing, read the following very carefully.

You already know that the bridge has collapsed, and the only path left to you is the stairs, if you understand what I mean.

In other words if you were to marry a man of high standing from an honorable family, the Elders would think twice before bringing ruin upon your homeland.

After all this is still the marriage season, my dear.

And that is the only solution this author can offer you.

Marry Saint Figarland Shamrock...

...and Dawn Island will be spared from becoming a second God Valley.

Now the fate of an entire kingdom rests in your hands.

And we shall all await your answer.

Especially the Commander.

"What in the world is this?" The words nearly came out as a curse.

All color had drained from your face leaving only a ghostly pallor behind. Your fingers trembled as they gripped the newspaper, as though the ink printed across its pages weighed far more than paper ever should. You even found yourself reading the passage twice, just to make sure your eyes were not deceiving you.

Your chest rose and fell as you struggled to steady a breath that had suddenly become painfully shallow. What kind of twisted game was this? How could your fate be turned into a wager and the destiny of an entire kingdom made into the price of that gamble?

You lifted your eyes toward the man sitting across from you searching for any hint of his reaction.Yet you found nothing, only the same composed calm that had become his defining expression that you despised. How could someone remain so calm when another person had just written his fate for him?

Note: Hello there, beautiful people 🖤 my bad habit is after i post the new chapter i will disappear for quite some time (sorry), but here i am. I really want to include Sabo on this story since the prolog but i don't really know the continuation of his role in the future, so i guess we will see how it goes. Thank you so much for your notes and support🖤

"What is it, Commander Figarland? Is your mind troubled because someone has stolen your flower?"

The wind drifted softly, carrying fine grains of sand that glittered like fragments of fire beneath the blazing sun. The Red Desert stretched endlessly, as though the world itself came to an end at the heat-shimmering horizon. There were no markers to guide one's path, no sound but the whisper of sand brushing against itself, like secret murmurs that could never truly be understood.

That merciless land had been turned into a training ground for the Holy Knights. The scorching sun that burned against their skin seemed insignificant compared to the grueling drills they endured. Even so, mirages held no sway over the knights, for their primary focus was not survival or the search for water  but rather every strike hurled at them. Every movement of their sparring opponents, and everything else meant to sharpen their abilities.

The sweat pouring down, soaking both skin and clothing, was the least of their concerns. Strength had to be forged with consistency and precision, like steel heated and shaped into a weapon. Yet even in the middle of that desolate nowhere, beneath such crushing burdens, something was troubling someone.

Saint Figarland Shamrock could not drive you from his thoughts, no matter how deeply he buried himself in missions, training, and instructing others over the past few days. Even after every attempt to cast aside his buried desires, your existence only seeped deeper into him, creeping slowly yet surely until there was no room left for anything else.

No matter how hard he tried to deny it, the more he resisted, the more your image transformed into something beyond his control. A soft whisper lingering in the spaces between silence, an echo that remained long after all noise had faded. As though a siren were luring sailors into the boundless sea of desire.

A man whose discipline was as unyielding as steel, whose life was governed by honor and duty, should not have faltered over the mere shadow of a woman. Least of all someone who had not even tried to captivate him through ordinary means. Yet that was precisely what made you so dangerous in his eyes. You enthralled him effortlessly, even without trying, and that was something he could not comprehend.

Hearing the remark from one of his subordinates only deepened his frustration, for it reminded him how easily you could fall into someone else's hands. "Silence. You would do better to concern yourself with your own bride-to-be, Ward."

The red-haired man poured his strength into his grip, tightly clutching his sword as he blocked his sparring partner’s weapon. With a single stomp into the desert sand, his defense strengthened even further, sending Ward flying backward. The unfortunate man slipped upon a dune, tumbling helplessly until he was blanketed by the sand.

Meanwhile several knights lounged in the shade watching the spectacle unfold. A tall, ginger-haired man, one of Shamrock’s comrades, stroked his beard as he remarked, "Do not be too hard on him. Ward will not be pleased if he looks battered on his wedding day." Saint Shepherd Sommers reclined against his chair, one hand resting behind his head.

Sommers was not the only one sheltering beneath the canopy. Saint Rimoshifu Killingham was conjuring drinks with his power, able to turn dreams into reality. Even the shaded resting place itself was one of his creations. Nearby stood the female knight with striking heterochromatic eyes, the lower half of her face wrapped in bandages as her defining feature. Saint Manmayer Gunko stood there in silence, observing the training session.

The commander sheathed his sword and cast a glance toward his subordinate, who was now struggling to rise in the distance while brushing the sand from his sweat-soaked body. At the very least, he would not have to worry about his appearance on his wedding day, which was only two days away.

With steady strides, Shamrock approached the Holy Knights who were resting nearby, leaving behind nothing but the imprint of his soles and his sparring partner struggling to follow. Upon reaching the shade, he took the drink Killingham had just conjured to quench his thirst, prompting Sommers to protest that it had been meant for him. Figarland ignored him entirely.

Not long after, Ward joined them, dragging over the last remaining chair before collapsing into it. After that final strike, his body felt as though it might shatter. He found himself wondering when he would be granted the instant healing powers bestowed by the Supreme One, like the other knights. To prove himself worthy, a long road of struggle still lay ahead.

The whisper of shifting sand accompanied the knights’ casual conversation as they relaxed after training, discussing whatever came to mind. This time, Sommers steered the discussion elsewhere, unwilling to dwell on his nearly failed mission. "You are getting married in two days. Is it not a little late to choose a best man?" he asked, turning toward Ward at his side.

"I already have. Commander Figarland will be my best man," Ward declared, fully aware that the ginger-haired knight had been hinting to be chosen, though in truth he had not even made the list of groomsmen.

Hearing this made Sommers visibly irritated; complaints and barbed remarks spilled from his mouth as though someone had stolen what was rightfully his. "Why him? I did not think you and Shamrock were that close. I should have been the one worthy of that honor."

Shamrock casually interjected with unmistakable arrogance, "Because I am the best." It could not be denied that there was a certain satisfaction in knowing he had been chosen over anyone else.

"The best?" Sommers repeated after grumbling, his voice rising half an octave, laden with disbelief. "At what, exactly? Arrogance is hardly a qualification."

Ward chuckled softly, trying to ease the tension, though his eyes gleamed with amusement. "Now, now... this is meant to be a celebration, not a battlefield."

"To me, there is little difference between the two," Shamrock muttered without the slightest trace of guilt.

Groans echoed amidst the whispering sands. This barren expanse of crimson dunes had been deliberately chosen as a training ground, isolated from the city center without requiring descent from the Red Line. The endless desert stretching as far as the eye could see offered complete freedom to unleash the full extent of one’s power. Its merciless climate blazing hot beneath the daytime sun and plunging to freezing cold by night was a trial that offered no mercy, as though nature itself demanded endurance of both body and spirit.

It was in a place like this that one should have been able to forget everything, and Shamrock had nearly convinced himself that he could. Yet like a shadow unwilling to fade before dusk had truly fallen, you remained within his thoughts, refusing to leave. He let out a long breath, allowing the dry air to fill his lungs, as though hoping the sting might replace something far more unsettling.

He did not know how long he had been lost in thought, but by the time he noticed, the Abyss had already swallowed him and carried him back to the city center. Together with Killingham and Sommers, the red-haired man stepped out from its trace and continued onward, certain that Gunko had offered Ward a ride upon her bandaged bird. The cool air that greeted him was a stark contrast to the searing heat of the desert that had scorched his skin only moments before.

Shamrock glanced to his left. The Garden of Eden lay only a few steps away where the Celestial Dragons and other nobles gathered to socialize. He had to admit that it was indeed a fitting place for promenades; the word boredom had no place in any description of that garden.

Not long after the commander shifted his gaze forward, focusing on his purpose of returning to the Figarland residence. He tried not to dwell on the one fact he had just realized, yet failed.

You were there.

There was no need for Observation Haki, no need to catch the scent of your roses.

It was as though he recognized the color of your soul even without crossing paths.

Greenery lined the path, made up of many different kinds of plants. Some vines climbed gracefully along wrought-iron arches, forming natural corridors that felt deeply intimate. As though designed for secret conversations and glances never meant to be witnessed.

Amid the lush leaves, flowers bloomed in rich colors deep crimson, pristine white nearly sacred in its purity, and soft violet like the whisper of dusk itself. Their fragrances mingled in the air, never overpowering, yet enough to leave a delicate trace in the memory of anyone who had ever passed through.

And yet, there was nothing more captivating than your presence.

It felt as though this garden had been deliberately crafted as the earthly embodiment of the Garden of Eden described in holy scripture, fashioned as closely as possible to resemble a fragment of heaven fallen to earth. Artificial rivers and lakes were adorned with bridges for crossing and small boats for exploration, an undeniably breathtaking sight.

Outlook and Didit chaperoned you on your leisurely morning-approaching-noon stroll, walking several steps ahead to ensure everything remained dignified. You noticed the displeasure on their faces despite how carefully they tried to conceal it. And the reason was the gentleman at your side.

Donquixote Doflamingo.

Ever since your growing closeness with The King of Dresrossa at that evening dance, people had begun to notice you once more, as though your radiance had suddenly returned. How ironic that a man's opinion of you could so greatly determine your worth in society's eyes. A woman's identity was tethered to men rather than belonging to herself.

And so, you sought to survive within that system by playing the very game it demanded.

Your arms brushed against one another several times as you walked, yet neither of you paid it any mind. Your attention remained fixed on the light conversation filling this promenade. It was a natural part of a stroll too pleasant to be interrupted by excessive self-awareness.

In that relaxed and pleasant atmosphere, several newspaper boys ran throughout the garden, distributing and hawking the latest issue of St. N.I gossip papers, and naturally, nearly every noble and Celestial Dragon purchased a copy. One boy approached from behind you, and you reached for your handbag to retrieve a coin, but your movement was too slow because the pirate had already handed the boy a bill. You tried to protest, but he dismissed your refusal.

"What sort of man allows a lady to spend even a single coin? In fact, give copies to them as well." The blond man paid for your parents too, who had been observing the two of you with discreetly watchful eyes. The boy nodded and continued on with his work.

After your exchanged refusals, your thanks finally left your lips. Doflamingo answered with a grin laced with playful teasing. "If you are thanking me, then read it aloud for me."

Your fingers, gloved in short wrist-length gloves, held the newspaper folded neatly into thirds. The headline was printed in letters far larger than the article beneath it, as though demanding the attention of every gossip-hungry reader. You cleared your throat before beginning to read the very first line.

Dearest Gentle Reader

What is the true meaning of desire?

You deliberately lowered your voice, attempting to imitate the mysterious writer you always imagined whenever you read this gossip column. Word after word flowed from your lips, weaving together into carefully crafted paragraphs as you recited them while walking, all the while keeping careful watch over your steps.

The contents written upon that small sheet of paper spoke of the scandal surrounding a young lady in her second year upon the marriage mart, who had been caught alone with an armored knight of Pangaea Castle without a proper chaperone. Desire, it seemed had rushed too fiercely to be restrained, leaving her fragile reputation in tatters and forcing the two to marry with all haste.

Nor was that the only matter of note. The considerable debt owed by Saint Jalmack to one of the unnamed elders had become another point of concern. It seemed that nearly everyone knew which elder was being referenced—everyone except you. The desire to amass wealth had, as it often does given way to greed and plunged him into the abyss of financial ruin.

Yet there was one particular topic that captured your attention.

You fell silent for a moment, allowing for a dramatic pause that caused Donquixote Doflamingo to glance toward you to ensure that all was well. Then, at last, you continued.

This author cannot help but admire the remarkable time management possessed by certain distinguished individuals.

Despite his obligations of attending countless meetings as king and as a Warlord of the Sea...

And despite the busy duties of a Maid of Honor assisting in the wedding preparations of her dearest friend...

These two still somehow manage to find time to... meet one another. Entirely honorably, of course.

Indeed, as people often say, “when the heart truly desires something, any obstacle may be overcome.”

Who else could that gossip writer possibly have been referring to if not the two of you? The North Blue cultural exhibition, the theatrical opera telling a tale of a love triangle, even the respectable visit to your residence. The paper revived memories of the past few days you had spent together.

"I suppose privacy has become a luxury in this land," you remarked as you folded the paper in your hands once more.

Doflamingo merely let out a soft laugh, both hands clasped behind his back as he continued walking. "It is difficult to do anything beyond the reach of that gossip writer. He has eyes everywhere."

There was one particular choice of words that caught you by surprise, and you turned toward the pirate to make certain you had heard him correctly. "He? You speak of this writer as though the author is a man, when everyone else refers as 'they'?"

Silence lingered for a moment without response. Unable to resist your curiosity any longer, you pressed further. "Do you know something the rest of us do not?"

"Ah, I have said too much already." Doflamingo turned his gaze away from you, suddenly finding the hedges in the distance far more interesting.

Your eyes narrowed as you searched for the slightest detail within his expression, but it was difficult. The eyes were said to be the windows to the soul, and you could hardly discern what lay in his heart when you could not even see them. "So you admit that you know who this St. N.I. is."

"You are rather quick to draw conclusions." He offered a faint smile, one that neither truly denied nor confirmed your suspicion.

"Tell me. Who is he?" Your voice dropped lower, almost to a whisper so that no one else might overhear.

"I cannot." The king shook his head. The answer was simple, yet because of that, it felt all the heavier. It was not that he would not—it was that he could not.

"Doffy." The nickname slipped from your lips before you even realized it, and with playful reproach, you lightly smacked his arm with the gossip paper still clutched in your hand.

One of his brows arched slightly, followed by that distinct laugh of his. Not because it hurt, but because he was amused.  "Some things are better left a mystery," he said softly, his voice lowered until it was almost like a secret meant for you alone.

At that, all you could do was let out a long sigh, conceding defeat in this battle of words.

The king deliberately steered the conversation away, burying the topic of St. N.I.’s identity beneath far safer subjects. The dull weather and your busy involvement in helping with Layla’s wedding preparations became the new focus instead. You knew when to stop pressing. Not because you had surrendered, but because you were wise enough to recognize when someone truly would give no more.

Speaking of Layla’s wedding, there was something you had wanted to discuss, more precisely something you wished to ask Doflamingo. You tried to gather your courage, something strangely unfamiliar to you. Usually, you spoke and questioned without hesitation, yet this time was different.

But just as you parted your lips to finally form the words, the king suddenly remarked, "Unfortunately, I must return to Dressrosa before noon tomorrow."

Your lips parted slightly in disbelief. You had not expected this meeting to end so soon. The carefully arranged words within your mind scattered instantly. A brief silence settled between you, long enough for you to realize that this meeting. Which somehow had begun to feel far too short was truly nearing its end.

After all, you had only just been about to ask whether he would accompany you as your plus one. With that you buried the thought deep within yourself, praying that no one would ever uncover it.

"I thought you would stay until the Reverie," you said, trying to keep your voice as steady as usual. After all, the gathering of the world’s kings would feel strangely incomplete without the King of Dressrosa in attendance.

Doflamingo explained his intentions. "I never planned to remain in Mary Geoise for long. There are many matters awaiting my attention there. Besides, the grand tournament at the Colosseum will soon begin."

Your shoulders fell, not in relaxation but beneath the weight of something far more complicated. The faint curve that had lingered at the corners of your lips and along your cheeks became noticeably more pronounced in its absence, a silent sign that your smile had faded. Though your gaze remained fixed ahead, your thoughts had already drifted elsewhere.

Without realizing it, the fingers of your right hand reached for your left wrist, seeking comfort in the steady pulse beneath your skin.

The man beside you noticed the slight falter in your expression. It lasted only a fraction of a second, nearly imperceptible to an untrained eye. But Doflamingo was not a man who overlooked even the smallest shift, especially when it came from you.

"Is that so?" you murmured softly, striving to keep your tone light, as though the news held no significance at all.

The sound of your footsteps changed as the path beneath you shifted from the firm paving stones embedded in the earth to the wooden planks of a modest bridge crossing the garden’s artificial river. The wood creaked softly beneath your feet, as though it too had sensed the invisible tension carried by the two figures walking across it.

The water of the artificial river flowed peacefully beneath you, a striking contrast to the silence that settled for several seconds after your conversation had once moved so easily. Gentle ripples drifted across the surface like whispers unwilling to be clearly heard, much like the unspoken feelings now suspended between the two of you.

Doflamingo tilted his head slightly, his pace slowing until he came to a complete stop, silently signaling for you to stop beside him. And you did. This time, the pirate-king stood directly before you as the two of you came to a halt in the very middle of the bridge.

"I will return for the Reverie, of course," he said casually, without the slightest trace of hesitation. And before you could respond, the blond man continued.

"And of course, for you."

The words sounded like a promise spoken with no intention of ever being broken—a vow wrapped in reassurance, meant to soothe any longing before it had the chance to consume you.

At his words, part of your unease was swept away, as though every problem had suddenly found its answer. You pressed your lips together, holding back the small smile threatening to appear. Not because you wished to play hard to get, but because you did not want Doflamingo to misread your expression—to mistake it as proof of feelings too soon formed when the two of you had only just begun to know one another. Better to let this stage of acquaintance linger a little longer before validating anything.

His hand reached for your left hand, lifting it until it was level with his face. You assumed he meant to press a gentlemanly kiss to your knuckles, as etiquette demanded.

But your assumption was wrong.

Without pause and without warning, your hand was lifted higher than it should have been, your wrist drawn closer to his lips in a deliberate kiss. Bare skin met warm lips, crossing a boundary that ought to have remained untouched at such an early stage of acquaintance. It stole your breath entirely, leaving you too afraid to inhale or exhale, as though doing so would shatter the moment at once.

Your body tensed without your realizing it, a natural reflex to something you had not anticipated. Your heart began to race, filling the silence that had suddenly grown heavier than before. You were certain the king could feel your pulse against his lips, beating in a new and unfamiliar rhythm—one caused entirely by him.

The kiss lingered far longer than propriety allowed. If anyone witnessed this, it would have become the principal subject of every gossip paper, a scandal enough to send tremors through the entire Red Line encircling the world.

You silently prayed that no one had seen, yet neither did you make any effort to pull away. You simply stood there, frozen, staring at him with eyes full of questions and quiet hope.

After what felt like an eternity compressed into a handful of seconds, Doflamingo released your hand and let it fall gracefully back to your side. Wearing his characteristic smirk, he murmured, "I never say goodbye. The phrase sounds far too much like surrendering to circumstance."

"This parting is only temporary. We will meet again. So... until next time, my lady."

While you were still trying to process everything, he left you with those parting words that lingered in a way all their own. You remained standing in the middle of the bridge, watching him depart, and how absurd it was that a man who was still little more than a stranger had managed to leave such chaos in your thoughts with only a few words and a gaze far too calm to ever forget.

And the bridge suddenly felt far quieter after his departure.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───

The Wedding Day

It was supposed to be the happiest moment in someone’s life.

But not this wedding.

The bride’s chamber felt suffocating, heavy with tears and sorrow despite the countless luxuries surrounding it. Soft sobs filled the room, accompanied by silent prayers that they would not be heard beyond the doors. All you could do was hold the bride close, offering whatever comfort you could, even if you did not fully understand the reason behind it. Your heart ached at the sight of your dearest friend in such a state, regardless of the cause.

Layla trembled in your embrace, her tears soaking the fabric over your shoulder, but that was the very last thing that mattered. Not the makeup beginning to smear and fade, but the state of her heart. The burdens she had hidden for so long—truths that should have been spoken before standing at the altar, yet for which she had never found the courage.

"How can I marry Lord Ward when my heart already belongs to another?"

The bride confessed through broken sobs. Far away in her homeland, there was someone she loved. Qays, a man whose name she had never dared to speak aloud, for it was as forbidden as the love story they shared. A noblewoman falling in love with a poet was, of course, unacceptable to many, including society itself and the young woman’s own parents. It was a painfully cruel truth that two hearts had been forced apart by the absence of blessing and approval.

She pulled herself from your embrace to continue speaking. Her sobs lingered in the air, as though unwilling to truly fall upon the cold marble floor. The wedding gown that should have symbolized happiness instead felt like chains wrapped around her every step. Her trembling fingers clutched the delicate fabric pooled in her lap, as though by doing so she could somehow keep her breaking heart from collapsing entirely.

After their forbidden love became known to the public, Layla’s father—a man of considerable power in their homeland—naturally did not remain idle. He tore the two lovers apart by banishing Qays and sending Layla far away to Mary Geoise to enter the marriage mart.

The distance was agonizing. It did not merely separate two bodies, but stole their breath, shattered their hopes, and transformed time itself into something cruel. There were no farewell words and no final meeting, and somehow, that was the most painful part of all.

"People call him ‘mad man’ because his verses make no sense to them. But I am far more mad for having loved him." Layla confessed before collapsing into your embrace once more, and by instinct, you wrapped your arms around her as any true friend would.

You fell silent upon hearing such a tragic love story, unable to find words that could properly describe the sorrow of enduring something so cruel. All you could do was press your lips together into a thin line, too stunned and speechless to say anything at all. Only you, Layla, and her trusted lady’s maid remained within the bridal chamber. Everything spoken within those walls would become dangerously perilous if ever exposed. Especially the words you were about to say.

A cunning thought crossed your mind. "You do not want to get married, do you? I can help you leave this place."

You pulled away from the embrace so Layla could see the sincerity in your eyes. "Do not worry about money or resources. I can arrange everything. Just say the word if you wish to run away! I will escort you to the gondola so you can descend and board a ship at Red Port."

At the glimmer of hope you offered, you saw life return to her eyes for the first time in what felt like forever. Yet in the very next instant, that light dimmed again, extinguished by the cruel wind of reality that shattered fantasies and hope alike.

"I cannot..." The bitter truth had to be swallowed like medicine that could not even heal the pain it was meant to ease.

Running away on one’s wedding day was never that simple. Especially when both families possessed power and authority, the runaway bride would suffer the consequences most severely. "I may be destroyed if I marry now, but if I flee, they will destroy Qays along with me."

Two lovers sacrificing themselves for one another through separation. Not every love story was destined for a happy ending. Once again, you asked if she was truly certain about marrying Lord Ward, but Layla insisted that this was something she had to do. Not for wealth or reputation, but for the sake of love itself. You looked at her for a long moment, searching for even the slightest trace of hesitation or a small opening through which you might persuade her to change her mind, but there was only unwavering resolve in her eyes.

You had no right to force Layla to flee or to stay. All you could do was support the decision she had made. "Very well, then." With that, you gently wiped away her tears and fixed her makeup, doing your best to erase every trace of her crying before she walked toward the altar.

"Please promise me that you will not tell anyone about this," the bride pleaded as she adjusted the veil to conceal her grief-stricken face.

"I swear I will carry this secret with me to my grave," you answered firmly, without the slightest intention of ever breaking that promise.

After taking some time to compose herself, Layla was finally ready to face reality and proceed with the wedding. Because of that, you left the room to summon the other bridesmaids along with the bride’s father. Before departing, you instructed her lady’s maid not to leave Layla alone, as she was in the most fragile state imaginable. Only after receiving that assurance could you finally step away, if only for a moment.

Yet that fragile peace lasted barely a few minutes after you exited the room to carry out your task. The door had not even fully closed, leaving the lingering tension within exposed to the corridor. Then a voice suddenly cut through the air like unexpected thunder.

"I understand the bride requires time to get ready, but this is becoming excessive."

When you turned toward the source of the voice, you found Shamrock leaning casually against the wall with his arms folded across his chest. His military uniform was immaculate perfectly tailored, orderly, and nearly flawless. Gleaming insignias adorned his chest, each one seeming to tell a story of victory, authority, and perhaps the blood that had once been spilled to earn them.

The weapon hanging at his side was not merely an accessory, but a silent reminder that this man was always prepared for war, even amidst a celebration that was meant to be sacred. His posture stood poised equally for defense and offense, ready should anything go terribly wrong. ‘Is he attending a wedding or commanding an army?’ The thought crossed your mind the moment you saw him dressed like that.

"What are you doing here?" The question slipped from your lips before you could stop it. You knew Shamrock was a colleague of the groom, but this area was meant to be reserved for the bride’s side.

Shamrock did not answer immediately. His lips curved faintly—not into a warm smile, but into something closer to a silent acknowledgment that he was enjoying the tension he had created. He pushed himself away from the wall with an easy motion, though every step he took felt deliberate and measured.

"Merely carrying out my duty as Best Man, ensuring that no one kidnaps the bride."

You nearly rolled your eyes at the mocking edge in his tone. "What era do you think this is? The medieval age?" you shot back dryly, one brow arching with thinly veiled sarcasm.

It did not bother him in the slightest. In the same neutral tone, he added, "I am also here to make sure the bride does not run away."

The words landed heavily between you, and your eyes widened in shock. Instinctively, you pushed the door shut a little harder than necessary. "Were you eavesdropping on our conversation?"

"Am I wrong?" he asked, more quietly this time, his voice lowering like a shadow creeping across the floor.

Your heart began to race faster than it should have. Not because the question was unexpected, but because he spoke as though he already knew the answer. As though this entire exchange was merely a game to him. And somehow, without realizing it, you had stepped directly onto the chessboard he had arranged.

The thing you feared most was this great secret being exposed, especially if it fell into the hands of Saint Figarland Shamrock. Unconsciously, you took a step backward as though trying to place distance between yourself and him. If the escape plan become reality, he would not have hesitated to inflict cruel punishment disguised as discipline and correction. And you could not begin to imagine enduring such a hell.

Shamrock tilted his head slightly, studying your face as though trying to read what you had left unsaid. Fear and vulnerability were written plainly there—things he would normally have savored as a small victory. Yet this time, the commander fell silent for a brief moment that somehow stretched endlessly. His gaze, once razor-sharp, shifted ever so slightly. It did not soften but it lost some of its cold edge.

After several seconds of that fleeting terror, you drew a steadying breath and forced yourself to face him. "It does not matter anymore. The bride has chosen to stay, and the wedding will proceed as planned."

"A wise choice," the commander replied in a neutral tone whose meaning you could not decipher.

At that, you gave a slight shake of your head, as though the fulfillment of expectation was merely an obligation in his eyes. "Of course you would never understand the meaning of love or sacrifice."

The words were not thrown at him as an accusation, nor were they meant as mockery. They were simply a conclusion you had drawn for yourself. And with that, you turned and walked away from the corridor, using your duties as Maid of Honor as an excuse, though another reason was your desperate attempt to avoid the red-haired man.

The corridor seemed to stretch longer the farther you moved from him. The soft whisper of your gown brushing against the marble floor became the only sound brave enough to disturb the oppressive silence. You did not look back, not even once, as though by refusing to acknowledge him you could deny his presence but that was impossible.

One second.

Two seconds.

Three seconds.

Four seconds.

And on the fifth, Shamrock stepped forward to follow you.

His pace adjusted to match yours, allowing the commander to walk just behind you. He abandoned his post of guarding the bride simply because something about you had drawn him away without invitation. A commander who should have been capable of controlling everything was now allowing instinct to overrule discipline.

"You always look down on me."

His voice broke the silence at last.

You did not slow your pace.

"And you never do the same?"

Those two sentences left both your lips and Shamrock’s at the same time, chasing and challenging one another. The sharp clicks of your high heels clashed against the heavy thud of his boots, as though they were competing to see which would crack the floor first. And it was not only the marble corridor that seemed on the verge of breaking, but also the tension that always coiled itself tightly around the two of you whenever your paths crossed.

“Have you ever once tried to act civil and tolerate my presence? I highly doubt it,” the commander snapped, finally giving voice to the irritation that had long gnawed at him.

He did not stop there, but continued his declaration. “The hatred in your eyes every time your gaze lands on me is impossible to miss.”

You did not turn back, not even for a fleeting glance. Yet in the silence of your thoughts, you found yourself wondering why he was following behind you like a hound trailing its master. With his strength, he could have easily overtaken your pace and cut you off from the front. Yet this time, Saint Figarland Shamrock did no such thing, as though by remaining behind you, he could somehow see through everything you kept hidden.

Your steps descended onto the spiraling staircase, one that seemed endless as it curved downward, draped in thick carpet that softened each footfall. His own steps followed close behind, measured and deliberate. Each movement seemed carefully aligned with yours, maintaining the same distance and rhythm without intruding. Yet it was precisely that restraint that made his presence all the more glaring.

You lifted the sides of your gown delicately with both hands as you descended, minimizing the risk of tripping over the sweeping fabric. The dress, a brilliant shade of blue reminiscent of a flowing river, was adorned with intricate lace that added an elegant detail to its design. Made especially for the bridesmaids, it was impossible not to be impressed by how the dressmaker had managed to craft something so exquisite in such a short time and not merely one gown, but several for the other.

Short gloves in a matching shade adorned your hands, accompanied by a silver bracelet resting delicately around your wrist. The short sleeves of your gown covered only half of your upper arms, paired with a modest neckline that subtly highlighted the simplicity of your necklace. As you descended the staircase, the pearl earrings hanging from each ear swayed gently in rhythm with the sound of your footsteps.

Saint Figarland Shamrock ascended the staircase with steady precision, as though he had long memorized the rhythm of every step he was meant to take. His long crimson hair swayed softly with each stride, until a few strands fell over his shoulders and drifted forward, concealing the insignia he usually wore with pride.

As though it symbolized something.

That this time, he was neither a knight nor a commander.

He was simply a man who yearn.

The relentless chase between you and Shamrock caused both of you to ignore the breathtaking architecture surrounding you. The building had been crafted from pure marble, carved with astonishingly intricate detail. Even along the staircase, there should have been works of art waiting to be admired at every inch. Yet neither of you paid them any mind, for both you and the commander had been utterly blinded by emotion.

"I do not need to tolerate you because you disturb my peace far too much," you retorted without hesitation. Yet the more you tried to reject his presence, the harder it became to ignore.

Step after step carried you downward. His pace remained steady and rhythmic, moving in harmony with yours without ever truly matching it. The distance between you stayed perfectly measured, as though an invisible line of discipline had been drawn between the two of you. It felt less like descending toward a wedding celebration and more like participating in a meticulously organized military parade.

The shoes you wore were no help at all, in fact they betrayed you precisely when you most needed to escape him. Before you had even reached halfway down the staircase, your feet already felt exhausted from balancing upon the heels. Your pace slowed ever so slightly, and it became clear that Shamrock would soon catch up to you. Perhaps afterward you would need to inspect your feet for swelling or bruises.

At last, you stopped, granting yourself a brief moment of rest before turning to face him. And just as expected, like a shadow you had already anticipated, he stopped only moments after you did. Your gazes met, each pair of eyes carrying entirely different emotions within them. Slowly, you released your grip on the sides of your gown.

"Now the real question is this—why do you always seem to disturb me wherever I go?" you asked, as though genuinely demanding a definitive answer.

"Always?" he repeated softly, almost like a murmur meant only for himself. The corner of his lips curved faintly upward, though this time there was no mockery in it. Instead, it resembled a reluctant confession. "I had no idea my presence lingered so deeply in your mind."

Without you realizing it, Shamrock stepped closer than he should have. Close enough for you to feel the faint warmth of his breath. Close enough that the difference in height between you no longer felt like distance, but rather a line on the verge of disappearing entirely.

"On the contrary, It is you who has unsettled my thoughts since the very first moment we met." The admission left the commander’s lips with a weight you had never expected from him.

His gaze remained locked onto yours, but something subtle had changed within it. The tension he usually concealed beneath his confidence had surfaced at last. Not entirely exposed, but enough to make his words feel far heavier than before. Enough to leave you stunned into silence in a way you had never anticipated. And he did not stop there.

The red-haired commander continued as though confessing a sin that should have been revealed long ago.

"There has not been a single second in which you have not invaded every cell of my being."

Every rebuttal that had once come so easily now seemed trapped in your throat. All you could do was stand there in bewilderment, trying to catch every subtle detail hidden within his expression.

His gaze no longer carried its usual piercing sharpness. Instead, there was the faintest trace of softness within it. Even the slight lift of his brows, the lines forming across his forehead, seemed almost like marks of fate themselves. Something a shaman might read as prophecy.

Saint Figarland Shamrock stood directly before you, and without realizing it, he took another step forward to erase what little distance remained between the two of you.

"Not when I rise with the dawn. Not when I attempt to sleep beneath the cover of the night sky." He paused only long enough to draw a breath. "Let the sun and moon bear witness, if proof is what you require."

He paused only long enough to draw a breath before continuing. "Your very existence has become an addiction I cannot resist, and I do not know how to overcome it."

You found his words so difficult to believe that for a fleeting moment, you genuinely considered summoning the deities who ruled over those celestial bodies themselves. To call upon them as witnesses on Saint Figarland Shamrock’s behalf before some grand court of heaven and earth. And if such a trial were held, who then would serve as its judge?

You closed your slightly parted lips, pressing them into a thin line and rendering yourself utterly speechless. Now your faces were closer than ever just as close as when you had shared your first dance, perhaps even closer. The staircase draped in blue carpet had become the stage for this dangerous proximity. Even a commander of the Holy Knights had been rendered helpless by it.

You stood frozen, not because you failed to understand.

But because every single word he had spoken carried a meaning so unmistakably clear.

"I never asked for any of this." The words left your lips almost instinctively after you had spent so long searching for the right response.

"Neither did I," Shamrock replied, close enough for you to feel the warmth of his breath.

His crimson eyes studied every expression that crossed your face. The difference in height between you forced you to tilt your head upward just to meet his gaze. Ruby—if those eyes could be compared to any gemstone, then ruby would have been the only fitting answer. They burned brightly with power and desire alike.

Shamrock remained where he stood, his breathing steady yet carrying the faintest irregular rhythm, as though something inside his chest had fallen out of place. His gaze wandered slowly across your features before lowering slightly to your lips. For heaven’s sake, why had you chosen to wear red lipstick at a moment like this? The color resembled rose petals waiting to be plucked.

With a quiet exhale, he spoke again. "I cannot even begin to describe how difficult it has been to tear my thoughts away from you."

"Through missions that bordered on impossible, through the endless reports piled across my study, even during training sessions..." Without confessing the forbidden visits he had made in his attempts to forget you, he nevertheless admitted how deeply your presence had marked him.

"And somehow, you were always there among all of it."

His voice lowered further, a tone you had never once heard from the commander of the Holy Knights before. Yet even then it still carried the same firmness and careful control that defined him.

If he did not care about your honor and reputation, he would have already surrendered to the instinct urging him to claim you as his own. It took every ounce of his restraint to preserve your dignity, even as your existence had already fully taken hold of him. The commander bit down on his lower lip, redirecting that overwhelming feeling into a flicker of pain.

Meanwhile, after everything, you still remained frozen in place. You made no attempt to step back from him. You did not even seek comfort in the familiarity of your own pulse—the habit you usually fell into whenever you were nervous. You simply stood there on the staircase, your breathing uneven, rising and falling out of control.

You knew you should say something to deny all of it, but what could you even say? You had no right to dictate someone else’s feelings toward you. You had never intended for your existence alone to haunt him the way it clearly did, it had simply happened.

And what Shamrock felt was not your fault… right?

"If you mistaken this for love, then you are wrong. It is nothing more than lust, an obsession with something fleeting and mortal." You responded, matching his earlier tone.

Before you, the commander slowly shook his head in quiet disagreement with your statement. To him, this was not merely obsession wrapped in blind jealousy as it may once have seemed. But love? That was a word far too heavy for this moment. Though even he could not fully understand what this feeling truly was, Shamrock knew one undeniable truth he could not ignore.

"You are mistaken. This is desire, dangerous to voice aloud, yet painful to keep buried." The words were not spoken loudly, yet their impact sank far deeper than you had expected.

The staircase remained silent between you. The argument was no longer simply about language, but about who among you was brave enough to assign meaning to what existed between you, and who still clung to denial. Shamrock continued trying to explain himself with details, only for each attempt to meet your resistance.

Desire

It was almost as though Shamrock had answered the question posed by St. N.I. in the previous edition of the gossip paper.

There was no need for some elaborate explanation to grasp the true meaning of yearning. It was simply the quiet understanding of a powerful desire—an intense longing for something just beyond reach.

A profound ache of longing, an overwhelming desire that could not be restrained, a yearning for something painfully difficult to attain. Every definition seemed to describe precisely what he had felt, both now and before. Such a simple word carried a meaning far too deep to be contained within a mere arrangement of letters.

"You may deny all of this as much as you wish, but it does not change the fact that you have rendered a commander of the God's Knights utterly powerless."

Saint Figarland Shamrock felt the burden and tightness that had weighed upon his chest for so long ease slightly after finally voicing it aloud. Yet in speaking those words, it was as though he had transferred that weight directly into your own heart. It felt deeply unfair that he was trying to make you feel what he had endured when you had never intended to haunt him in the first place.

He moved closer still, his hands clenched tightly at his sides to stop himself from reaching for your waist and pulling you into his embrace. His eyes fell shut, as though savoring the familiar fragrance that clung to you and marked your presence so distinctly.

"Even when you despise me."

After staring upward at the man standing before you for what felt like an eternity, your gaze finally lowered. Everything about this felt unfamiliar, strange and entirely new. Silence enveloped the staircase, broken only by the sound of your breathing and the pounding of your hearts, beating in strangely synchronized rhythm. This time it was not because you felt disturbed. It was because you did not know how to respond.

The red-haired man sank into the silence hanging between the two of you, cutting through the invisible barrier that had separated you. You tried to convince yourself that you hated him, so that you would not surrender to... whatever this was. But was that alone enough to ignore all of this? It would be difficult—just as difficult as Shamrock's efforts to force you out of his mind.

Stand by your principles.

Do not trust him.

You hate him.

He is a cruel, heartless man who can do whatever he pleases.

This must all be nothing more than one of his psychological games.

You should not entertain these complicated feelings.

Amid all that closeness and the monologue raging within your mind, someone called your name not merely the title or nickname people had given you, but your real name. The sound made you instinctively step back, putting distance between yourself and Shamrock before you even knew who had called out to you.

Anyone who happened to catch the two of you alone in the middle of the staircase like this, without a chaperone, would surely assume you had been sharing an intimate moment. The few seconds of proximity between you had done nothing to help the situation; if anything, they had only made it worse.

You let out a quiet breath, trying to steady yourself amidst the confusion. Not long after you lifted your gaze toward the source of the voice, only to find it was Liliana. She was dressed identically to you as she was of course one of the bridesmaids as well. How much had she seen? And just how deeply mistaken was she about whatever she believed existed between you and Saint Figarland Shamrock?

“Were you looking for us?” the brunnete interjected. You were so focused on this new distraction that you failed to notice the commander had also taken a step back, restoring a proper distance between the two of you though it was already a little too late.

“Yes, the bride is ready and has asked for all of us to gather in her room.” You had almost forgotten your duty and purpose here, and it was all because of HIM. “Where is Anneliese?”

“She’s already with Layla. I’m here to fetch you.”

At that confirmation, you nodded at your friend and offered her a faint smile that did not quite reach your eyes, merely to reassure her. Of course, such an attempt would never succeed, considering just how observant she was. You quickly told her that you would follow shortly, unwilling to delay the sacred wedding ceremony any further.

Before moving to join your friend, you allowed your gaze to settle briefly on the red-haired man beside you. He was still standing there calmly, though you had no idea that something deep within him was in turmoil and that you were the cause of it all. Without a farewell without a single word, you simply walked away leaving him behind with a strange, tangled storm of emotions he himself could not understand.

The commander neither reacted nor showed any expression as you made your way up the staircase, trying to leave him behind. Yet even amidst all that tension, your arms still brushed against each other once more albeit by accident. His gaze remained fixed ahead, as if trying not to appear desperate, but the eyes and the body can never truly lie no matter how hard one tries.

His fingers encased in dark leather gloves moved beyond his control as though he were trying to stop you from leaving and make you stay with him instead. Yet his sanity and honor remained stronger than the impulsive urges that relentlessly echoed in his mind whenever you were near.

Shamrock had to admit that after finally voicing everything he had long thought and felt, the tightness in his chest had eased if only slightly. It had not disappeared completely, especially not when he overheard your conversation with your friend.

“The diamond of this season has created quite the scandal, with the most sought-after man in all of Mary Geoise.”

“There is nothing between us.”

Those final words that left your lips became a cruel reminder. A lie you deliberately repeated over and over, as though by doing so, your heart might eventually be convinced enough to believe it. But was it truly the case that there was nothing between the two of you? Even one-sided hatred was still something, let alone the whirlwind of emotions that Shamrock himself had never even realized were real until now.

The commander did not look up to watch you leave, for doing so would only remind him of how easily you could slip from his grasp. And yet, he refused to surrender so readily to the emotions you had stirred within him—not without putting up a worthy fight. It was as though this were some sort of competition, and if he gave in, he would lose. Saint Figarland Shamrock had never tasted defeat, nor did he ever intend to experience even the slightest ounce of it.

Now, there was only Shamrock, standing alone upon the staircase, swallowed by the silence.

The wedding ceremony felt unnervingly swift, almost rushed. It seemed as though only moments ago you had been standing behind the bride, holding a bouquet of peonies, and now the officiant had already pronounced them husband and wife. The wedding vows had sounded hollow, more like a political arrangement than a sacred union. Only a select few knew the painful truth hidden beneath it all.

Several times, your eyes caught the Best Man across the room staring at you with unnerving intensity, as though he were reading straight into the depths of your soul. You found yourself holding his gaze, silently challenging who would be the first to break it? him, or you?

Dear Readers,

Sometimes, one must find themselves confronted with situations that are... utterly unexpected.

And desire is often the mastermind behind every chaos that was never meant to unfold.

Is this author the only one that has noticed the striking stiffness between the Best Man and the Maid of Honor at this season’s very first wedding?

The question now is no longer whether there is something between the two of them.

Rather, it is how much longer they can continue pretending that there is nothing stirring beneath those denial-laden glances.

For, dear readers, history has proven time and time again that desire suppressed for too long will always find a far more dramatic way to reveal itself.

And one more rather absurd question.

Without knowing the context, which would you choose: the bridge or the staircase?

Yours faithfully,

St. N. I.

Note: Saint Figarland Shamrock is finaly here AAAA 😍 the man, the myth, the legend himself (i'm fall for world government propaganda) anyway i saw 'walk them like a dog' edits of bridgerton men so i was like 'oh this is so Shamrock, especially he's the owner of cerberus' that's why i made him to have some hound move 👀. Btw i took some element of very old story of 'Layla Majnun' here, it's literary Romeo and Juliet of the East that i grew up with. I once played as Layla back in theatrical extracurricular on middle school, i've never forget those experiences 🖤