[Volume 2 | Chapter 63: The Iron General (III)]

Acacia met Rudyard's gaze without flinching.

"I wasn't home that night," he replied, trying steady despite the phantom pain that lanced through his chest at the mention of lost family, regardless of how real they were. "I was with my friends. We were celebrating the start of Winter Break."

It wasn't entirely fabricated. He had been away from home on the night his real family was slaughtered in Litore, arriving rather late to the massacre. Just not in Eichenstadt, and not during the Annerose Incident. The seed of truth made the lie easier to tell, and easier to believe.

"Convenient," replied Rudyard.

A mirthless chuckle escaped the Irregular's lips at that reply.

"Convenient would have been dying with them. Living with this isn't convenient at all."

They stared at each other for a long moment, and Acacia could see the conflict waging behind those experienced eyes. The Divisional Commander had likely interrogated hundreds of individuals throughout his military career—Irregular cannon fodder, enemy combatants, suspected spies. Acacia wondered where exactly he fell in that spectrum in the Iron General's estimation.

They resumed walking. They ended up turning down a tree-lined lane that led away from the houses toward a small neighborhood park.

The distance from potential witnesses wasn't accidental.

"My son has developed an unfortunate habit of collecting strays. First the Trafalgar girl and her eccentricities. Now you. A refugee with a suspiciously convenient backstory, taken in by High Inquisitor Kircheisen, who herself has connections that raise questions about her priorities, allegiances, and competence."

Well, because she's a woman, or from a former Hausa territory?

"Pandora saved my life," Acacia answered, careful to use her first name as a cousin would. "She's the only family I have left."

Rudyard's pace slowed, then stopped as they reached the empty park.

"Is she? The official record states that High Inquisitor Kircheisen was orphaned during the Thalassian earthquake and adopted by Colonial Knight Jean Kircheisen, who later died of natural causes. There is no mention of Wallachian relatives in her background."

"Distant cousins. Through her adoptive father's bloodline. The Kircheisens and Belmonts share common ancestry that spans generations. She only learned of my existence when the tragedy occurred."

Rudyard's lips thinned, dissatisfied with the explanation but unable to directly refute it.

Acacia mustered all of his strength not to smirk at his microexpression.

"Regardless, she shows remarkable dedication to a distant relative she's only recently discovered. Somehow enough dedication to risk her life by engaging with the Bloodhounds. Also, enough dedication to establish you in Windsor, introduce you to influential families like the Trafalgars, and even facilitate your interactions with my son."

Rudyard Scryer saw no apparent contradiction that he could exploit, so therefore, he had to create his own narrative. Essentially, that Acacia's sudden appearance was a political ploy and calculated insertion into Windsor's, and by extension, Orion's social fabric to benefit the progressive factions.

Not necessarily a wrong tactic, but a flawed one when dealing with an ultimately non-malleable reality.

"Tragedy creates stronger bonds than blood. Pandora understands loss, and so do I," Acacia offered.

"What she understands is manipulation. High Inquisitor Kircheisen has demonstrated a remarkable talent for positioning herself at the center of politically convenient situations."

"Like the telecommunications warehouse incident?" Acacia asked, letting the words hang ambiguously. Let the Iron General interpret that as he would, though he could guess what his answer would be, so he didn't give him that satisfaction. "Pandora isn't manipulating anyone. She's doing what she believes is right, just like you and Elias."

Rudyard had no direct response to that.

Eventually, they reached a bench overlooking a small pond. Rudyard gestured for Acacia to sit, which he did cautiously. The general remained standing, using his height to maintain a psychological advantage. Yet another interrogation.

"Tell me about the Annerose Incident, Mr. Belmont."

"...What?"

"I don't particularly care for repeating myself. Tell me the details of the incident in which your family allegedly perished."

What... kind of man was this?

Why the hell was he trying to mentally torture someone he didn't even know? What benefit would that give to him? What was he getting at? He had done nothing to earn his ire, yet here he was, being forced to relive a past he didn't want to think about. And relive a past that wasn't even his, at that.

Acacia had prepared for questions about dates, locations, names, the factual framework of his fabricated past.

But memories?

Emotions?

That required a different kind of deception, something beyond a memorized list of facts and dates. Something closer to the truth, because lies, no matter how intricately crafted, lacked the nuances that only true pain could produce.

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

"I-I told you, I wasn't there when it happened," he repeated, buying time to gather his thoughts, his emotions, and sort out which to use.

"You lost people. Family. Friends. Tell me about them. Who were the Belmonts of Eichenstadt?"

Unbeknowst to Acacia, this question was personal for Rudyard. He had seen it all. The best, the worst, and everything in between. He had seen the strongest of soldiers crumble like sandcastles under the weight of grief. He had watched young cadets shatter when faced with the cold finality of death.

And also the loss of his oldest son.

The question, however disgusting it was to ask, would serve a purpose.

He would see what kind of person this "Acacia Belmont" was, what his true beliefs were, and if his story could stand up to scrutiny.

"My father was a fisherman," Acacia said softly, pulling fragments of truth from the ashes of Litore and reshaping them to fit this new narrative. "Unlike most nobles, he chose a blue collar life and worked hard every day. He loved his new catches of the day more than people, except my mother. And me, I suppose, though he showed it differently. But, he taught me how to hunt, survive, even how to throw a punch or two. 'Sitting around reading books and playing with toys won't get you any girls!' or something along the lines."

He paused, as if gathering his thoughts. Then, "My mother sang—not professionally. She was a language and calligraphy teacher. But... she had a beautiful voice. She used to sing to me and my father on the boat whenever we went out to fish. She was... kind. So very kind, and she taught me how to read, how to write, how to paint, draw, and see the world in a way that others couldn't. Especially reading... she used to read a book to me every night before bed, no matter how exhausted she was from teaching kids all day. She would never let me go to sleep without finishing the chapter. I used to pretend to fall asleep faster to mess with her. My father's side of the family gained Lesser Nobility status through old military service, though no one in my immediate family served. We were academics, mostly. Quiet people. The kind you'd pass on the street without noticing."

A small smile touched his lips at the memory.

"It was just the three of us, but it was enough. Yeah... that was enough."

Rudyard remained silent, expression inscrutable, his eyes searching for something, anything. The slightest hesitation, the faintest tremor in his voice, anything that could hint at an artifice.

"And yet, someone noticed. Someone selected your family, along with nineteen others, for execution."

"...I don't know why. I've asked myself that question every day since it happened."

"You never saw anything suspicious? Anything unusual in the weeks before?"

"No." Acacia shook his head. "It was just... normal. Everything was normal until it wasn't."

Rudyard stared down at him, once again searching his face for falsehood.

"Do you know what the most distinctive feature of the Annerose Incident was, Mr. Belmont? Beyond the simultaneous timing and the theatrical presentation of the bodies?"

Acacia waited, sensing a trap.

"The complete absence of witnesses. Not a single servant, gardener, or passing courier observed anything unusual that night. No security systems were triggered. No alarms raised. Twenty noble houses, all with standard protection measures, all infiltrated without detection. That level of coordination... that requires either abilities that come in once-in-a million Thaumaturges or inside assistance on an unprecedented scale."

"What are you suggesting?" Acacia raised an eyebrow.

"I'm suggesting that the official narrative contains significant gaps." Rudyard's stare hardened. "They are gaps that become particularly interesting when a survivor with convenient connections to a Tachyon High Inquisitor suddenly appears in Windsor just as we experience our own coordinated attack on critical infrastructure."

There it was—the real accusation beneath all the careful probing.

Rudyard suspected him of being connected to both the Annerose Incident and the telecommunications warehouse attack. Perhaps even as an agent of whatever force had orchestrated them.

Just... how far?

How much was he willing to go in order to paint him as a criminal?

"You seriously think I'm involved? I'm fifteen!"

"Age is irrelevant. Loyalties are not."

"Why the hell would I be trying to cause conflict what's housing me and my cousin?! Why would I sabotage the people who have given me shelter?!"

"What matters is capability and motivation. You've demonstrated remarkable capabilities for someone your age, according to my son's accounts."

"Just barely surviving isn't a capability! It's just... luck. Bad luck, mostly."

"And your motivations remain unclear."

"Because I don't have any! I'm just trying to live my life after everything that's happened!"

"Which is precisely why your appearance now, in light of recent events, raises questions that must be addressed."

"I didn't ask for any of this!" Acacia snapped. "I didn't ask to be orphaned! I didn't ask to be targeted by a goddamn hit squad! And I sure as hell didn't ask to be interrogated in a park by a man who doesn't know the first thing about loss or sacrifice!"

Rudyard's eyes narrowed, and Acacia instantly realized he'd overplayed his hand.

And…

The man merely smirked.

It was chilling. It was so... strange. A smirk that held no emotion, yet it felt like he was looking at him with such amusement and satisfaction.

That smirk, it was the smirk of a man who had won a battle of words.

"That anger of yours... out of everything you have said to me tonight, it is the first thing that I wholeheartedly believe, Mr. Belmont."

Acacia realized, and cursed himself for not seeing it sooner, that Rudyard's relentless questioning had been aimed at drawing out just such a reaction. He wanted to see him lose control, to let anger or fear betray the cracks in his facade. He had played right into it, giving Rudyard the very emotional outburst he sought, however briefly.

And he was furious with himself for falling for it.

"I am not your enemy, Mr. Belmont. Nor am I accusing you of complicity in either incident, merely raising questions that demand answers. Answers that I believe you may be uniquely positioned to provide."

"Then what are you accusing me of? Because from where I'm sitting, it sounds an awful lot like you think I'm responsible for everything from the Annerose Incident to the heartbreak of the entire Tachyon Empire."

"I accuse you of nothing. I am merely attempting to ascertain your true nature."

"By grilling me about my dead family and implying I might be a terrorist?"

"By assessing your reactions under duress. Emotional control is a hallmark of effective espionage. You've displayed remarkable self-discipline, which lends credence to your story. But it also raises additional questions."

"Like what?"

"How a boy your age, orphaned by tragedy and hunted by powerful enemies, remains so composed. Most in your situation would have broken down long ago."

"Because I'm not 'most people.' I'm me. I'll keep going until I find the answers I'm looking for."

"What answers are those?"

"Answers to questions that are none of your business."

A small, humorless smile quirked at the corner of Rudyard's mouth.

"Your tongue is sharp, boy."

The general regarded him silently for a long moment, weighing his words. Then, with a slight nod, he gestured toward the path leading back to the Scryer residence.

"Dinner will be ready soon. You will join us."

It was as close to an apology as the Iron General was capable of offering.

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