Kyle sneered up from where he lay sprawled on the deck, his voice dripping with wounded pride. "So sensitive."
Emil's eyes blazed. He turned sharply, his fists clenched, jaw grinding. "One more word from that little mouth of yours," he growled, "and I swear I'll snap your neck."
Kyle gasped theatrically and sat up. "I dare you! You simple-minded—"
BOOM. The voice rang out again like a thunderclap from the harbor's deep.
"Foreign vessel! Report to Dock E immediately or we will board your ship!"
The words cut through the escalating stupidity like a divine smite. Emil froze, blinking hard, then stepped forward and leaned over the rail. His tone flipped in an instant—cool, almost professional, if only his speech wasn't broken and completely of
"We... go... Dock E... now, yes?" he called out, voice calm and firm.
Kyle, still half-curled on the deck, hissed urgently, half mortified by the accent, half furious at the surrender.
"What the hell are you doing?! We still have a chance—we can escape! We can—"
A bundle of magically-concealed clothes smacked him in the face.
Emil didn't even look at him. "Oh, for the love of the gods, shut up. I don't even have the strength to explain how stupid that is."
He spoke as he pulled on his shirt and cloak with robotic efficiency, already moving toward the ship's helm. Each step radiated seething resignation. With a heavy sigh, he took the wheel and began guiding the vessel—begrudgingly—toward Dock E.
*****
Kyle was seriously not up for this.
By now, he had already rushed between the lower and upper decks four times—hiding, retrieving, reconsidering.
Emil watched him with growing irritation as the dock came into view.
Kyle's gaze widened.
"Wait—!"
Emil's brow twitched.
"The cube—"
Kyle didn't wait. He was already turning, bolting back toward the lower deck—
Only for Emil's hand to snap out and yank him back by the collar.
"Forget it."
"Forget it?" Kyle shot back instantly.
"If they catch us with it now, we're dead. Leave it. We'll come back for it later. I don't care."
Kyle struggled, trying to wrench himself free—but the grip didn't budge.
Bastard.
He glared as Emil calmly steered them toward Dock E.
The vessel eased to a stop, wood creaking, waves lapping softly against its sides.
A soldier—the same amphibious guard from earlier—burst from the water with unsettling grace. He exchanged a few hushed words with the dock officer, then slipped back beneath the surface like a shadow swallowed by the deep.
The dock officer raised a gloved hand.
A signal.
Disembark.
Kyle leaned in, voice dropping to a theatrical hiss.
"Now you've done it, you brute. Prepare to be stripped of everything—from our hard-earned coin to that highblood dignity you parade around like some shiny medallion."
Emil's eye twitched. His jaw tightened.
"I swear," he muttered, voice low and dangerous, "if we come out of this alive, I'm going to kill you myself."
They stepped onto the gangplank.
Each footfall landed heavy—tight with restrained panic.
Kyle couldn't help himself.
"We wouldn't have to get out of it," he muttered, "if you actually listened, you useless brute."
They stopped just short of the dock.
Turned.
Locked eyes.
The kind of look reserved for betrayal—for blood feuds—for enemies, not allies.
To the guards waiting below, it didn't look like two travelers arriving for questioning—
It looked like two men seconds away from killing each other.
And somehow… forced to walk side by side.
*****
The dock officer stood waiting—a hulking figure clad in reinforced sea-leather armor. His silhouette was broad as a barn door, a full head taller than Emil—who already towered over most men at six-foot-four.
Muscles strained beneath the fitted uniform. His amphibian lineage showed in the subtle details: ridged fins lining his jaw, pale blue skin slick with a faint, unnatural sheen.
He crossed his arms.
And waited.
Impassive as a boulder.
Now, common sense would suggest that the larger of the two—Emil—should step forward. Say something. Use that sheer physical presence to command at least a shred of respect… or, at the very least, avoid escalating things further.
But no.
Emil exhaled sharply and stepped back instead, folding his arms with a scowl of pure resignation. His expression flattened into something unreadable.
He already knew how this went.
Like a devil stepping onto center stage, Kyle adjusted his coat, then ran both hands through his salt-stiffened hair, slicking it back with practiced flair.
And then—
That grin.
Wide. Effortless. Infuriating.
The kind Emil knew all too well.
The grin of a silver-tongued lunatic about to gamble against logic, law… and very likely the Empire itself.
Here he goes again, Emil thought grimly.
Another misfortune.
Another mess.
And this idiot was about to try talking their way out of it…
Again.
*****
The officer's voice rumbled low and gruff, like stone grinding against stone.
"Name and origins?"
Kyle's smile spread slow and deliberate—serpentine, predatory. He lived for moments like this. First impressions weren't just important; they were everything. And for Kyle, charm was a weapon. One sharper than any blade. Especially when spoken in the right language.
He stepped forward smoothly, placing a hand over his chest like a grieving poet, and answered in flawless Velisari—the lilting, melodic dialect of the southern Blue Pearl Isles.
"I am Petersone Brook, and this is my half-brother, James Brook,"
he said, his tone heavy with practiced sorrow.
"We are orphans… from the continent of Rhea.
We've traveled far to visit our adoptive parents here, sir."
His voice wavered—just a touch. Enough to tug at heartstrings, but not so much it reeked of theater. Every word was a masterstroke, plucked from the well-worn gospel of Kyle's personal religion: convincing lies told beautifully.
To the uninformed, he sounded like a poor, weather-worn soul, desperate to find family in foreign lands.
To anyone who actually knew him, it was classic Kyle:
A symphony of bullshit.
Played to perfection.
Behind him, Emil stiffened.
He only understood fragments of Velisari—just enough to catch "orphan," "half-brother," and "parents." That was all he needed.
A muscle ticked in his jaw.
He knew. He knew something utterly ridiculous had just been said in his name.
The officer turned to Emil, brow arched, gaze sharp.
A silent question passed between them: Is this true?
And with the solemn dread of a man strapped to a runaway carriage, Emil gave the most butchered response the Isles had ever heard:
"Ind… eed."
There was a beat of silence.
Kyle nearly choked.
Ind—eed?!
By the gods. That accent was a crime. A war crime.
The officer's brow twitched.
Suspicion rippled.
Before things could spiral, Kyle stepped in again with practiced speed, laughing softly and bowing his head in sheepish apology.
"Forgive my brother," he said, patting Emil's shoulder like one might calm a fussy child. "He's… ah… a little slow. Took a blow to the head as a child. Saddest thing."
He topped it off with a tragic little sigh, eyes cast heavenward.
Emil didn't understand the words—but the tone, the pitying glance, the false gentleness in Kyle's voice—
Something very insulting had just happened.
His jaw flexed.
His hands curled into fists.
He didn't need to speak Velisari to understand one universal truth:
Whatever that bastard just said… it was rude as hell.