The sea, where the roar of the demon beast had ceased, was wrapped in a strange stillness. Only the sound of waves lapping against the harbor of Petralca passed between the scorched breakwater and the shattered warehouses. Mingled with the scent of the tide, the smells of burnt timber and blood still lingered. The late autumn sky was high, spreading a cloudless blue. Aira sat among the rubble, gazing up at that blue. Her long, silver-blue hair swayed faintly over the dust-covered cobblestones. Her amber eyes held no focus, merely reflecting the sky. After expelling the Abyssal Core, her body had not a shred of strength left to move even a finger. The old scar running from her left temple down to her cheek stood out white against her bare skin, stripped of its makeup. Beside her, Carlo was down on one knee. His deep green hair, released from the transformation magic, stirred in the sea breeze. His indigo eyes never left the queen’s profile. *(Three days now.)* Carlo murmured in his heart. Three days had passed since that night—the night Aira expelled the Abyssal Core, the night Serafina wrote "Thank you" in the rubble. The citizens of Petralca were busy clearing the debris, and the dockworkers had begun repairing the broken breakwater. The city was slowly, bit by bit, regaining its daily rhythm. But Aira’s body had not yet fully returned. She barely spoke. For meals, she only took a few sips of the seaweed soup Carlo brought her. Carlo had hidden her away in the safehouse he’d used for thirty years in the port town of Fonda—an old stone warehouse on a hill overlooking the harbor. Here, the ebb and flow of the tide could suppress the drying of her scale patterns. "[gentle]...Lady Aira." Carlo spoke quietly. Aira did not answer. Carlo continued. "[serious]Offshore, Bartos’s underwater unit has formed a blockade. They’re positioned to let not a single submarine approach Petralca." His scale patterns sensed the faint shifts in water pressure from the deep. Members of the Tide Fang had deployed in a column formation at a depth of fifty meters off the coast of Petralca. Their numbers, roughly thirty. A blockade—a trap to confine Aira to the seabed before she could move to negotiate with the surface. Aira’s amber eyes slowly turned toward Carlo. "...A column." Her voice was hoarse. It was not the voice of the Sea Witch. But in her eyes, the cold light of the deep sea was beginning to return. "[cold]Bartos knows nothing of naval warfare. A column blockade is vulnerable to sonic interference." Carlo nodded. "[serious]A single high-frequency incantation could temporarily disrupt the auditory systems of the entire force. However—" He stopped himself mid-sentence. *(If you use song magic, with a body that has just expelled the Abyssal Core—)* Her vocal cords might not hold. Aira rose slowly to her feet. The coral ornaments in her hair brushed together with a cool, clear sound. She placed a hand on the rubble, staggering but standing on her own two feet. Something she could not have done three days ago. "[cold]We’re going, Carlo." Carlo drew a deep breath and stood. —It was then. "[serious]Lady Aira." Carlo’s voice trembled slightly. From the inner pocket of his cloak, he drew out a sheet of parchment. It was not the covenant. It was something older—a draft of a report, its edges worn and frayed, written thirty years ago. "[serious]This is the date I first filed a false report about Serafina." Aira did not move. Carlo’s indigo eyes fell upon the parchment. "[serious]My lies began, to be precise, twenty-eight years and four months ago. The first lie was—'Subject shows no signs of song magic.' The second was 'Threat level is low.' The third was—" "[cold]From the third report onward, the pressure of your handwriting changed." Carlo’s hand stopped. Aira was not looking at him. Gazing out at the horizon beyond the harbor, she continued. "[cold]I know your handwriting. Normally, it has a tendency to slant to the left. But from the third report, that vanished. The pen pressure was also about twenty percent lighter." "...You knew." Carlo’s voice was a whisper. Aira slowly turned to face him. Her amber eyes looked directly at Carlo. "[cold]I knew. And—I pretended to believe you." Carlo’s breath stopped. "[cold]Because I wanted to ascertain your hesitation. Whether you would doubt my orders, and still not betray me—I waited thirty years." Her voice held the coldness of the deep sea. But beneath it, there was a faint tremor that only Carlo could hear. Carlo was at a loss for words. The queen who had pulled him from the rubble of the mine thirty years ago. The queen who had told him to "live." She—she had known of his hesitation all along, and still kept him by her side? "[whispers]...As my heart desires—" Carlo bowed his head deeply. The words that had sustained him for thirty years—now, for the first time, he felt they reached Aira with an equal weight. Aira said nothing. She merely made a gesture with her left hand, reaching for her chest—where her grandmother’s pendant had once been. Her fingers grasped the air, and slowly lowered. "[cold]Let’s go." She turned on her heel and began walking toward the harbor. Carlo tucked the covenant into his cloak and followed her back. —This was the moment their thirty-year relationship as master and servant first became equal. The sea was cold. Maintaining their human forms through transformation magic, Aira and Carlo slipped into the water from a gap in Petralca’s breakwater. The late autumn waters of the Tyrrhenian Sea were even colder, reflecting the chill of the land. At a depth of about ten meters, Carlo’s scale patterns reacted. *(Two hundred meters ahead—thirty of them.)* The Tide Fang’s underwater unit was stretched out in a column, forming a blockade. Aira did not stop swimming. She quietly opened her mouth. Air bubbles escaped from her lips. —The next instant. Aira’s throat trembled faintly. It was not song magic. There was no melody, no light from Lumina crystals. Just a single, high-frequency sound—a super-high pitch inaudible to human ears, like a note that could make glass vibrate—radiating out through the seawater. The movements of the underwater unit halted all at once. The thirty members clutched their heads, covered their ears, their formation breaking apart. Their auditory systems temporarily scrambled, their sense of balance lost, they could do nothing but drift in place. Aira did not hesitate to exploit the opening. Together with Carlo, she dove through the gap in the blockade. *(Fifty more meters—)* Aira’s vision warped slightly. Her vocal cords burned with pain. For a body that had expelled the Abyssal Core, even a single high-frequency incantation was at its limit. But she did not stop. She could not stop. *(For my people—)* Aira clenched her teeth, mustered the last of her strength, and broke the surface. The royal palace of Petralca, Blanche Palace, was dazzling, its white stone walls reflecting the sunlight. Three hundred nobles and citizen representatives had gathered in the grand audience chamber. A fresco depicting a naval battle stretched across the high ceiling, and portraits of successive kings lined the walls on either side. A red carpet ran straight across the stone floor to the throne. In her human form, Aira walked upon that carpet. Her long, silver-blue hair was intricately braided at the back of her head, the coral ornaments removed. The scale-like patterns on her neck were hidden by a high-collared garment. Only her amber eyes, which she could not change, looked straight toward the throne. Carlo, his hair still transformed into short black, walked a step behind her. On the throne sat Orlando III—an aged king with a beard streaked with white. Beside him stood Admiral of the Navy, Gares Fontana. Gares was fifty-two years old. His sun-bronzed face held sharp, hawk-like eyes. He was clad in the uniform of the Coraline Navy, a military saber at his side. The moment Aira entered, he raised his voice to the assembly. "[angry]Mr. Speaker, and Your Majesty! The demon beast that ravaged the harbor district three days ago—that was this woman’s transformed state! Twelve military witnesses have testified to it!" A stir ran through the chamber. Gares held up a bundle of parchment. "[angry]Damage to the harbor warehouses, twenty-seven dead, eight missing! To welcome the perpetrator of this devastation as a negotiating partner is a matter of our kingdom’s honor! We must detain her and bring her to a proper trial—" "[cold]I concur." The one who cut him off was the Minister of Finance, Helder Gailrot. He rose from his seat and surveyed the nobles. A tall, thin man with thin lips and silver-rimmed spectacles. Behind them, his gray eyes gleamed coldly. "[cold]Admiral Gares is quite right. A sea-dweller—no, a demon beast—is not someone we can negotiate with. If the safety of Coraline is our priority, this woman should be isolated." A murmur of agreement spread among the assembly members. —It was then. The doors of the grand audience chamber opened quietly. Supported by a lady-in-waiting, a single girl entered. Pale golden curls, blue eyes like a clear sky. The spots of Lumina crystals at her throat glimmered faintly. Serafina. She had lost her voice. Even if she opened her mouth, only air escaped now; it would never become a melody. The Songstress of Light, once hailed as a once-in-centuries prodigy, was now just a seventeen-year-old girl. But she—straightened her back and walked directly before Orlando III. Her lady-in-waiting held up a white paper in her stead. Words Serafina had written with a trembling hand. The lady-in-waiting read it aloud. "[gentle]—The ones who stopped the maelstrom and the kraken that crushed my throat were also this person’s people." The chamber fell utterly silent. The lady-in-waiting held up the next paper. "[gentle]I lost my voice because I tried to stop her. And the reason she shed tears was—because she realized she was wrong." Serafina’s blue eyes looked straight at Aira. There was no fear in them, and no hatred. The lady-in-waiting read the final paper. "[gentle]I am not angry. So—please, listen to what she has to say." A deep silence fell over the grand audience chamber. Admiral Gares’s hand left the hilt of his saber. Finance Minister Helder’s thin lips twisted slightly. Every noble held their breath. Serafina’s words were neither political defense nor strategic calculation. They were simply—the facts she herself had witnessed, written down exactly as they were. And for that very reason, no one could refute them. After a long silence, Orlando III quietly declared: "[serious]...The motion for detention is rejected." The old king’s voice was heavy and deep. "[serious]Let the ceasefire ceremony proceed." Aira’s expression did not change. But—her amber eyes turned toward Serafina for just a fleeting moment. Something stirred in the depths of those eyes. Only Carlo saw it. The parchment of the ceasefire agreement was made of sea-serpent skin. The ancient Meridian language and the Coraline language were inscribed in two parallel columns. The letters, written in deep-sea squid ink, shone a blue-black under the light of the Lumina crystals. Article One—Inviolability of territorial waters. Article Two—Establishment of a trade window through the joint use of Petralca Harbor. Article Three—Building trust without hostage exchanges. Aira picked up the quill. In that instant—her left hand unconsciously reached for her chest. The shell pendant, the keepsake from her grandmother. But it was no longer there. Lost during the demon-beast transformation in the fifth episode, there was nothing at her neck now. Aira’s fingers stopped, grasping the air. *(—It’s gone.)* The quill hovered in midair. How many seconds passed? The eyes of three hundred people