The air in Ekkoo Ara Hyakushu's office was thick with the scent of old paper, stale tea, and the ever-present, sulfur-tinged mist that crept in from Kamaten. Grutte Pier Dorian stood like a monument by the window, his massive frame blocking what little grey light filtered through the perpetual haze outside. His arms were crossed over his barrel chest, the worn leather of his cloak draped motionless. He was not just a man in the room; he was a geological feature.
Across the desk, Ekkoo Ara Hyakushu, looked uncharacteristically small. His usual frantic energy was coiled tight, one hand rhythmically tapping a gold pocket watch on the polished stone desk. Tick-tick-tick-tick—a sound almost, but not quite, in sync with the distant, island-wide rhythm of chiku-taku, chiku-taku from the millions of rusted gears spinning in the ash.
Stanislav Robben, a pillar of pale Ogre flesh and dark blue steel-fiber uniform, finished his report in a voice like grinding glacial ice. "The contaminated water reservoir in Sa-To-Shi has been flushed and purified. The instigators of the labor riot at the Capstan have been… disciplined. The kitchen fire is extinguished, and repairs are underway. The system is returning to baseline parameters."
Pier didn't turn from the window. His voice, a deep bass that vibrated in the chest, broke the silence. "And their leader? Noon Scort Reveil. He was secured during these… incidents?"
Stanislav's crimson eyes, shielded behind tinted lenses, didn't waver. "Yes, Sovereign. Monitoring logs show no movement from his spire cell. He never left."
Finally, Pier turned. His violet eyes, sharp as broken amethyst, fixed not on the enforcer, but on Ekkoo. The Ogre overseer stiffened under the gaze. "How do you explain this then?" Pier asked, each word heavy and deliberate. "A coordinated revolt. Water, workers, food. Three points of failure, snapping tight like a tripwire. And the lightning-rod of their rebellion just… sit in a cell?"
Ekkoo's replies with a nervous twitch beneath his embroidered vest. "The logistics are sound, Boss Man! The prisoners, the new Saviors—they're clever rats! They found seams during shift-change, exploited a delay in the mist vents near the quarries—"
"Rats don't coordinate," Pier interrupted, pushing off the windowsill. The floorboards, thick as ship timbers, groaned in protest under his shift in weight. "They scatter. This was a plan. Take me to him."
Ekkoo scrambled up, his chair scraping sharply. "Of course, of course. Right away." Stanislav merely let out a low, rumbling sigh that fogged the cold air for a second, the sound of a glacier calving in the distance, as he watched his superior hurry after the Sovereign.
---
The climb toward the high-security cells was an ascent into the island's frigid pinnacle. The soft, grey ash of the surface soon vanished, replaced by rough-hewn corridors that reeked of damp stone and the caustic, metallic tang of the Sanzu River. Here, the rhythmic chiku-taku of the lower gears faded into a muffled thrum, overtaken by the steady drip of condensation and the sub-auditory drone of the Grand Chrono-Anchor—a vibration felt in the jaw more than heard in the ears.
The guard at the heavy iron-banded door—a young Ogre with horns still in their first sharp curve—snapped to attention as the two imposing figures approached. The flickering torchlight glinted off the sea-stone dust embedded in the door's seams.
"Sovereign. Overseer," the guard rasped, voice tight.
"How is the prisoner?" Pier's gaze was on the door, as if he could see through it.
"Quiet, Sovereign. Hasn't said a word since the last meal."
Pier's brow, already a landscape of stern ridges, furrowed deeper. Skepticism was etched into his very posture. "Open the door."
The guard's eyes darted to Ekkoo, seeking a thread of guidance. Ekkoo gave a tight, rapid nod. With a grunt, the guard hauled back two massive iron bolts and swung the door inward on complaining hinges.
"Wait here," Pier ordered, his command leaving no room for debate. Ekkoo nodded again, shrinking into the shadowy corridor as Pier ducked through the doorway. The door slammed shut behind him, leaving the guard and the Broker in the echoing silence.
---
The cell was a tall, cylindrical space, hewn from the same dark, pumice-like stone as the island's heart. A single, narrow window, barred with black-grade iron, offered a sliver of the monochrome sky. The only furnishings were a low futon and a small shelf. Reclined on the futon, an open book propped on his chest, was Noon Scort Reveil.
At the sound of the door, he didn't startle. A single, sharp eyebrow arched upward. He closed the book with a soft thump and set it aside, the heavy chains connecting his manacled wrists and ankles clinking a dull counter-rhythm to the distant Anchor's hum.
"Well," Noon drawled, his voice layered with a lilting, musical cynicism. "If it isn't the great Sovereign of the Genroshi himself. Grutte Pier Dorian. To what do I owe the pleasure? Checking the foundations? Making sure the prison's still sittin' on the baby's head?"
Pier didn't rise to the bait. He leaned his broad back against the cold wall opposite the futon, crossing his arms again. The violet eyes swept over Noon, taking in his relaxed posture, the defiant set of his jaw, the jagged break in his left horn—a souvenir from their last, decisive clash.
"You appear to be adapting to your accommodations," Pier observed, his tone flat.
Noon shrugged, the chains rattling as he crossed his ankles. The steel-stone shackles, gleamed dully. "This? This isn't so bad. I've been through worse scrapes."
"When you say 'worse,'" Pier countered, "I assume you mean self-inflicted circumstances."
A smirk tugged at Noon's lips. "I think we both know perfectly well who inflicts the circumstances in this particular stretch of the sea, Sovereign. You and your committee of overseers."
Pier sighed, a sound like wind escaping a deep cavern. "To be so self-righteous. To assume you know a better path, without understanding the stakes that anchor every decision to this stone."
Noon tilted his head, his electric-blue eyes crackling with contained energy. "And why don't you explain those stakes to me, Pier? I'm all ears. I truly need to understand why subjecting our people to a lottery of shortened lives—a Gallows Draw—because of some ancient, bed-time story is the only path."
Pier pushed off the wall. He moved with a deliberate, ground-sure slowness to the barred window, staring out at the colorless world. "Is it a story, Noon? Just because you lack the vision to see the threads that bind this world, just because you refuse to listen to the rhythm beneath your feet, does not make it a lie." He turned, his silhouette blocking the light. "Your doubt does not unravel truth."
"It doesn't knit it into truth either!" Noon snapped back, his composure cracking for a flash. "Faith isn't a foundation. It's quicksand."
"Okay," Pier said, the word surprisingly soft. "What do you suggest then? Speak your piece. You, who would unscrew the world."
Noon surged to his feet, chains snapping taut. "Do away with the Lottery! Burn the scrolls of Le Tirage de la Mort! There has to be another way. Devote your forges! Turn those clever Ogre minds you're so fond of ruling from problem to solution. Mechanize the turning. Find a power source that isn't the heartbeats of our young!"
"If only it were that simple," Pier said, and for the first time, a thread of weariness—old and deep as the ocean floor—wove into his voice. "There is more to turning the screw than the grinding of a thread, Noon. It is a dialogue. A lullaby sung with weight and will. The metal must be steeped in history, the turner's spirit must harmonize with the… the Hitotsume's dream. A machine has no spirit. A battery has no will. It is the sacrifice that gives the anchor its power. The understanding of the cost that keeps the rhythm true."
"You've lived too long, Pier!" Noon shot back, taking a step forward, limited by his chains. "You're stuck in old patterns! Reach out! Send your agents beyond these mists. The world is vast—there are sciences in Vegapunk's labs, ancient energies in the ruins of the Void Century, something, anything other than this slow consumption of our people!"
Pier huffed a breath through his broad nose, a sound of frustration and profound resignation. "That is where you are young. You see the world outside as a market of solutions. I have seen it. It is a storm of appetites. Vegapunk would dissect the Hitotsume to see its gears. The World Government would weaponize its sleep. Pirates would sell its dreams for a barrel of rum. What we guard here is not just a secret, Noon. It is a fragile, sleeping boundary. And boundaries require guardians, not entrepreneurs."
Noon opened his mouth, another sharp retort ready, but Pier raised a hand. The gesture was not threatening, but final, like a gate swinging shut.
"I am not here to have a philosophical debate with a prisoner," Pier stated, the weariness gone, replaced by the immovable bedrock of his authority.
Noon scowled, the energy around him buzzing like a trapped storm. "Then why are you here? To gloat? To measure my chains?"
"There was a revolt," Pier said, watching him closely. "A coordinated effort. Water, workers, kitchen. I am sure you are aware."
Noon forced his face into a mask of bored indifference. He turned and lowered himself back onto the futon, picking up his book. "Haven't the foggiest idea what you're talking about," he murmured, flipping a page with exaggerated care. "Quite peaceful in here. Perfect for reading."
Pier watched him for a long, silent moment. The only sounds were the drip of water, the hum of the Anchor, and the faint rustle of paper. Finally, he gave a single, slow nod.
"I will remind you," Pier said, his voice dropping to a gravelly near-whisper that sucked the warmth from the stone itself. "Actions have consequences. Ripples in a pond reach even the deepest, stillest water."
Noon didn't look up. "How remarkably observant of you."
Pier turned and knocked twice on the iron-banded door—a sound like a funeral drum. It swung open immediately. He paused on the threshold, a giant framed in torchlight, and looked over his shoulder. His violet eyes met Noon's electric blue for a final, charged second.
"I will not apologize," Pier said, each word a stone laid on a cairn, "for being the one who must make the hard decisions. I will stand by them. This world rests on a knife-edge of silence, and anyone who stands in the way of preserving that balance… will be dealt with."
The door slammed shut with a finality that shook dust from the ceiling.
In the sudden, absolute quiet of the cell, Noon Scort Reveil stared at the closed door. The cocky smirk melted away, replaced by a raw, furious snarl. He hurled the book across the room. It struck the wall with a pathetic slap and fluttered to the floor.
"Damn you," he whispered into the cold, acidic air, his fists clenched so tight the sea-stone manacles bit into his skin. "Damn your silence. Damn your balance." He slumped back, the fire in his eyes banked but not extinguished, burning now with a colder, harder resolve. Outside, the eternal, grinding chiku-taku of the gears played on, the lullaby for a slumbering god, and the prison for them all.
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