The peaked spires and towers rose like dark talons in the night. They varied greatly in thickness, some wide enough to house stairwells and rooms while others were simply thin rods of steel jutting into the sky. The variety gave the mass a twisted, off-center symmetry— an almost-balance. In the dampness of the purple fog that engulfed the island, it looked like a weathered carcass. Bleak and hateful stone peaks glared at him, and the wind moaned the lonely cry of a caged beast.

Trestan Banksi pulled his expensive cloak closer. It barely snowed in the Asukan Empire, but this island felt like it could freeze the air itself. And yet there was no snow around.

This place does not break the rules. It simply ignores them.

Clan-Lord for the last forty-four years, Trestan Banksi was no stranger to horrors. Even so, he had fervently wished that all the rumors about this place were nothing more than outlandish exaggerations.

They were anything but.

Just looking at the edifice made him feel like less. It was as if being in its mere presence was enough to suck all the hope and emotion out of him.

This was Aerie, and this place didn’t exist.

It was not on any map, and no amount of scrying could find the island. Those who knew about it never spoke of it, and if possible, never even thought about it unless they were already on the island. The Cobalt Army sent murderers, rapists, terrorists, and thieves to the Demonic Catacombs to be tormented.

But anyone even suspected of knowing about Aerie? They were quietly exterminated, their remains burned in Amaterasu’s Sacred Wrath without the public ever learning their names.

Trestan was happy he belonged to neither crowd. Rather, he’d been invited to this place, by orders of Emperor Asuka himself.

Information was a commodity far more valuable than coin in the Asukan Empire. To be willingly let into the Empire’s deepest secret and offered the chance to become a part of the inner Stronghold… It was the most gracious reward any nobleman could ask for.

“Our destination is the tunnel complex at the base of the spires on the far right,” his guide and fellow traveler said, his voice barely carrying over the quiet hush of the wind.

Trestan frowned. “What is inside?”

But the other man merely shook his head. “I don’t know. That is for you to find out. You will find that the Aerie jealously guards its secrets.”

“Well, what can you tell me about it?”

The bald, clean-shaved man opened his mouth, revealing two missing teeth. His left eyebrow was pierced with an iron ring. That, along with the jagged slash on his right cheek, created an oddly memorable image, the kind Trestan would have been all too happy to forget. His lips moved as he tried to speak, but no words came out of his mouth.

Realizing his folly, the guide gave up. “Apparently nothing. For now. What position did the Lord Overseer hire you for?”

“Guardian.”

The man’s eyes widened imperceptibly. “That explains much. I am told you are a Banksi.”

He nodded.

“Have you named a successor in your absence?”

Trestan frowned. “Is it not too early for that?” He was only eighty-three years old, a fairly young age by Asukan standards. In fact, some of the more traditional Lords still considered him an irascible teenager at times.

“It never is. And you did not answer my question.”

“I have heirs in place. But it is far too early to name the next Lord.”

His eldest, Terell, was currently in Karnegrug serving as an arms dealer, playing both sides in the conflict between Karnegrug and Luthar. It was a conflict that would slowly but surely involve the Llaisy Kingdom, where, incidentally, his second-eldest son Zuken was building a name and fortune for himself. His third son was in the country estates, feasting and drinking his wealth away. His youngest daughter had no interest in successorship, while the elder pursued a relationship with the son of Lord Strass. And then there were eight more candidates from other members of the clan.

“Ah,” the guide chuckled. “Another Lord-less clan descending into violence over the throne. Not profitable, but always entertaining. Tell me…” he smiled, “if you were to drop dead right now, who would you choose?”

Trestan was starting to become annoyed. “I will not be dropping dead.”

“Humor me.”

He closed his eyes, mentally counting to five. “If I had to choose, it would— it would have to be Zuken. My second son, fifth in line to the throne. But knowing him, he would immediately reject it.”

The guide paused. “Strange.”

Trestan smiled. Zuken was an enigma. He always had been.

“He is more interested in building his own fortune than inheriting one. It’s why he chose to go to Haviskali, a small town in the Llaisy Kingdom, without any finances or political support. And now look at him.”

“He sounds like someone with ambition. He’d no doubt be a fine Lord.”

Trestan chuckled. “I doubt it. Zuken… cares too much. He does not have what it takes to kill his own kin for the sake of power and getting ahead. Not like the other heirs.”

“A good man, eh?”

“One of the best, yes.”

“A good man,” the man nodded slowly. “I have never known one of those. You must wish to see him on the throne.”

Trestan spared the guide a sharp glance. “You speak as if I won’t be around any longer.”

The man gave him a not-smile. “Lord of Banksi. You are entering the Quarters of the Dishonored Queen. Stand, look around, and breathe your fill. It just may be your last.”

It was a little girl, perhaps seven years old.

She was an adorable sight, with straight dark hair clipped neatly and her shoulders and held back with a hairband. She wore a plain corduroy dress with a white blouse and shiny black shoes, and her coat was a puffy jacket that seemed like it wasn’t enough, considering the alien weather outside.

“Greetings.” The child’s voice was serious and uniquely foreign in her accent. “I am called Mikuzume.” She politely bowed at the waist. “Please take care of me.”

Trestan bowed back. “I am called Trestan, of the Banksi clan. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

The child imperiously nodded, before turning around and walking back into the sheltered spiral. He looked from the girl’s retreating form to his compatriot, whose hands were slightly trembling.

Strange.

“What is a child doing in all of this?” he questioned.

“She is your responsibility, Guardian.”

Trestan looked at the guide, his expression perplexed. “The Emperor would not ask a noble of my standing to leave his business and throne to become a glorified babysitter.”

“Of course he can,” the bald man waved off. “He is the Emperor. He may do whatever he wishes. Besides, she,” he nodded in the girl’s direction, “has babysitters of her own. You, however, are her Guardian.”

“Do not play coy with me,” Trestan rebuked. “I am an accomplished sensor. Do not think I did not notice the presence of wraiths surrounding this island. This place is a living myth, and a well-protected fortress. Are you trying to tell me that she warrants even more security?”

“You are an Earth-Shaper, are you not? Sense the energies around us.”

Scowling, Trestan did as he asked and—

Froze.

“Tell me, what is it that you see?”

“This— this is—”

“Impossible?” The guide’s smile stretched from ear to ear. “Come, now. Don’t be shy. Tell me.”

Trestan looked at the information in his schema once more, fervently wishing it to be some kind of glitch.

GEOMANTIC SENSE [Level 5]

Earth-Golem Count: 76

Earth-spirit Count: 219

Ifrit Count: 137

Juggernaut Count: 71

“This makes no sense! These numbers… Nations have smaller arsenals than this,” Trestan barked, unable to hold himself back. “Are you telling me that the Emperor needs this level of military support to protect one little girl?”

The guide couldn’t help himself as snickers escaped his lips. Snickers evolved into chuckles, and chuckles became laughter as he threw his head back and held both hands on his stomach. Trestan watched with a growing sense of unease as the man laughed and laughed until no air remained in his lungs, so much so that his face distorted from the action. His feet stomped on the steps. His eyes teared up. He nearly tumbled over from the lack of control.

By this point, Trestan was well beyond annoyed.

“You have it backwards, Banksi. Look deeper.”

Frowning, Trestan did as asked.

And the results made his knees go weak.

“They—” he gulped, “they are pointing at us.”

“Tut tut!” the guide wagged his finger. “Wrong again. Not us. They’re pointing at her.”

Trestan felt his heart seize. “Why?”

“The spirits and wraiths around us are not to protect her.” They both looked towards the girl, who was sitting in seiza, her legs neatly folded and her spine straight against the wall. “They are here to protect the world from her. Your job is to ensure that they do not fail.”

An icy fear settled over his chest. With tremors racking his voice, Trestan asked the question that had been plaguing him since the start of the conversation.

“…What is she?”

With an amused smirk, his guide told him.

“Preposterous!” Trestan aggressively replied, a look of horror on his face. “There are no yokai left. The Emperor made sure of that when he ended Namzuhuu. The yokai gods are gone. Their Truths are shattered. That is common knowledge.”

The man continued to smirk. It did little to ease the growing dread within him.

“...Right?”

Closing his eyes, the guide lifted a palm into the air, causing a sphere of flames to erupt on its surface. With effortless ease, he manipulated the fire sphere to levitate high into the air, illuminating the wall on the other side of the room.

A fire-shaper, Trestan noticed. He seemed much more inclined to wield water, given his temperament—

His thought screeched to a halt as he blankly stared at the shadowy shape forming on the walls. It swayed gently in the air, extending gracefully outward from the girl’s posterior like a bulb, twisting into a half-spiral, before ending in a sharp tip.

Like a tail.

And there were nine of them.