"The Fool that doesn't belong to this era.
The mysterious ruler above the gray fog.
The King of Yellow and Black who wields good luck."
Klara recited lazily, fake glasses sliding down her nose as she leaned back against the sofa. Her voice had that sing-song sarcasm, the one she used whenever she was pretending to be a stern teacher.
Across from her, Jonas sat stiffly, face flat with the kind of expression only a teenager could manage—the silent "why am I here?" glare. His lips moved around the words, repeating them without much effort, but when he reached the second line he faltered.
"…The mysterious ruler above the—gray fog." He paused. "Why the hell do I need to say this out loud anyway?"
His tone carried all the skepticism in the world.
Klara only laughed, reaching over to ruffle his messy hair despite his annoyed attempt to dodge it. "Because, kiddo, sometimes the universe just likes manners. Humor it a little. Can't hurt."
Jonas scowled, fixing his hair like it mattered.
"Relax." She grinned at him before pushing herself up, stretching with a yawn that nearly unhinged her jaw. "I'm taking a nap. You keep at it. Who knows? Maybe lightning strikes, and poof—something happens."
She left him with a lazy wave, disappearing into her room.
The door clicked shut, and the mask slipped the instant she leaned against it, head tipping back until it thudded against the wood. Her breath escaped in a sharp sigh.
"…What the hell am I even going to say at this meeting?" she muttered to herself, dragging a hand through her hair.
Roselle's diary was the obvious card on the table. Always was. That alone was enough to keep the Fool amused, maybe throw her crumbs of knowledge in return. But beyond that? She gnawed at the inside of her cheek.
Could ask for help with the Ambassador problem. The thought came, steady, almost too neat to ignore. Audrey had connections—her family practically wove them like spider silk. If anyone could quietly snip an Intis ambassador's influence without starting a war, it'd be her.
Her chest tightened. "…Actually, yes. That's the smartest choice. She should be able to help Adrian and I."
Then her brain betrayed her with a stray question: when did I start lumping myself together with the infuriating smurf?
She froze. Blinked. Scowled.
"Well, I did almost die because of him," she muttered bitterly. "Too late to question it now."
With a sigh that scraped out of her lungs, she crossed the room, slumping onto her bed. The pocket watch was cold in her palm when she fished it out, its familiar weight pressing into her skin.
She let it rest against her chest for a beat, her thoughts circling.
When the hands clicked into place—
—her room vanished.
The gray fog welcomed her like always. Endless, shifting, heavy. Shapes blurred, silhouettes distant, like dreams seen through frosted glass.
Klara straightened her posture automatically, her fake glasses gone but her smirk perfectly in place.
Audrey was the first light in that fog—bright as ever, blonde hair like gold spun thin in the gloom. She half stood, skirts pinched in hand, and her voice came clear and happy:
"Good afternoon, Mr. Fool~ Good afternoon, Mr. Hanged Man! Good afternoon, Mr. Sun!"
Klara's smirk twitched into something closer to a smile. Watching the girl radiate joy like that—it was almost ridiculous. She really was happy for her.
Justice, Sequence Eight now, huh? Klara mused. Miss Telepathist, all prim and proper, but beaming like a child with a new toy. Good for her. Really… good for her.
She leaned against her hand, elbow braced on the long table that didn't quite exist, eyes half-lidded as she watched.
The Fool's voice floated, calm and distant, "Welcome, our Miss Telepathist."
Audrey ducked her head, polite, humble, radiant. Klara caught herself thinking—lampooning really—that if Audrey were in the Backlund bars instead of Adrian, she'd probably have the whole crowd fawning without even trying.
Alger's silhouette shifted. The Hanged Man. He produced six pages of Roselle's diary, the inked words seeming to shimmer faintly even across the fog. He was quiet, stiff as ever, his gaze darting around with that soldier's sharpness—except this time, it was tinged with something else.
Nervousness.
Klara noticed it like a bloodhound.
She sighed, her voice smooth, lilting with sarcasm. "Something wrong, Hanged Man?"
His shadow stiffened, but he nodded once. "Nothing. I was… simply wondering if the Mirror was going to join us today."
That made her smirk.
So you've peeked at the pathway, have you? Realized just how deep that rabbit hole goes? Her fingers tapped against her cheek as she tilted her head, lampooning in her mind. Don't worry, Hanged Man. You're not the only one who figured out it's more nightmare than dream.
Aloud, she said lightly, "I'm sure he'll come by."
Audrey clapped her hands together, eyes practically sparkling through the mist. The joy on her face was blinding. The Hanged Man, though—he gulped audibly.
"…If I may, Mr. Fool," Alger's voice wavered with forced politeness. "Forgive me if this is rude. But… what sequence is the Mirror currently at?"
Klara's lips pressed into a thin line. Her smirk faltered, thoughts racing. Answer him? Keep it vague? Play coy?
Her tongue itched with sarcasm, but before she could decide—
A voice rolled through the fog like a blade drawn slow.
"Sequence Six, Mr. Hanged Man."
The gray mist parted.
Adrian walked through like he owned the place. No blurring, no distance softening his outline. His figure was painfully clear, too real compared to the rest of them. The coat on his shoulders fluttered slightly in a breeze that didn't exist. His presence sliced through the fog like glass cutting skin.
Both his eyes glowed pale silver.
Alger's face stiffened. A man who had faced storms, cannons, blood-soaked decks and never flinched—yet at the simple number six his breath caught in his throat.
Even Audrey's joy faltered, awe mingling with a ripple of fear she tried—and failed—to hide. Her wide eyes flicked between Klara's mist-veiled seat at the head of the bronze table and the figure who had just walked so brazenly into their midst.
The Sun, that naïve youth, only nodded slowly, as if unsure how to react, head tilting like a child in a classroom trying to follow a lesson that was leagues above him.
And Klara—The Fool—only tracked Adrian's figure with her sharp eyes, sarcasm burning behind her quiet smile.
The man had no business being so vivid in this place. No haze softened his edges, no fog diluted his outline. He moved with that same deliberate weight, his coat cutting through the gray like ink through clear water.
He did not sit at the end, nor near the far sides. No, he pulled a chair near Klara herself, across from Audrey, as if seats in this impossible gathering were his to claim.
"Thank you for allowing me to come late, Mr. Fool. As you know, certain issues have arisen." His voice carried, low and even, as if the fog itself bent to spread it.
Klara's lips curved. For a second, she almost felt relief. At least he was trying. He wasn't barging in, wasn't declaring himself sovereign here. He was protecting her stage, letting the Fool's illusion hold.
But then the words caught up to her.
Her stomach knotted, and the smile turned brittle.
Oh, you pain in the ass. That implication… you know Sherlock and the Fool are connected. Hell, you might be thinking Sherlock is the Fool.
Inside, she cursed him six different ways. Outside, she only adjusted her posture, hand propping her chin, smirk faint as if she'd planned all of this herself.
Across the table, Alger's reverence twisted sharper, heavier, his thoughts visible in the stiff line of his shoulders.
One: The Fool not only held Miss World under His mantle, but now—now a Sequence Six of the Mirror Pathway. A pathway that frightened sailors and priests alike.
Two: If Adrian's name carried to the seas, if he now sat here at the Fool's side… then how vast was the Fool's power truly? To have such an apex predator serve directly?
Three: If Adrian was in, what use was Alger anymore? How could he curry favor enough to not be discarded, not be replaced, not vanish into irrelevance?
But then, through his storm of panic, he remembered—
The diary.
He had a tool. A treasure. A reason to exist here.
With careful fingers, his silhouette extended six pages across the long table, sliding toward the Fool's waiting hands. His voice, steady only by practice, said:
"Mr. Fool, I have obtained a piece of information related to the Secret Order."
The fog seemed to still.
"Very good," Klara murmured, her Fool's voice pitched deep, calm, aloof. She let the words ring like approval while her hands ghosted over the diary, not rushing, not hungry. She permitted him to continue.
Alger inclined his head, as if bowing in prayer. "The Secret Order has some connection with the Intis Republic."
The words echoed.
The Intis Republic.
Klara's smirk almost cracked into a scowl. Her thoughts snapped fast: Roselle, Intis-born. Zaratul finding him in Trier. The bloody histories tying that republic to secret cults and whispered conspiracies. And now, her present tangled neatly into that mess—an ambassador, Bakerland Jean Madan, already tugging at her life.
Her pulse quickened. Not too surprising… but very damn inconvenient.
Adrian's eyes, faintly glowing silver even in this place, flickered toward her. She pretended not to notice, fingers tapping the bronze table like a clock ticking.
"Heh…" the Fool's voice chuckled through her lips, low and deliberate. She tapped the table's edge, letting the sound ripple out. "I want to issue a mission."
The gray fog thickened at the word.
Audrey's eyes went wide. A small gasp caught in her throat. This wasn't a casual suggestion, not a passing request draped in politeness. This was issued. The first time the Fool had ever used the word.
Expectation and dread warred on her delicate features.
Even the Hanged Man, always the cool, disciplined one, tightened. His nerves betrayed him in the faintest movements of his shadow. The Sun, oblivious, tilted his head but said nothing.
"You may choose to accept it or not," Klara continued, her Fool-tone lightened with a Clown's practiced ease. "Another Blessed of mine has arrived in Backlund. She wishes to finish a matter, but it is not convenient for her to show herself."
Another Blessed. The word carried weight. Alger nodded, his shadow thoughtful, but his eyes—what little the fog showed—flicked again and again toward Adrian.
All of them did.
The Mirror leaned back in his chair, arms folded, posture a relaxed predator's sprawl. The very picture of a being who could unmake a man with a glance.
The Fool laughed softly, cutting through the thickening thoughts. "It is not the Mirror," Klara intoned, "though he is currently helping her."
Adrian's lips twitched faintly, but he said nothing.
Relief bloomed across Audrey's face, guilt quickly following as she thought back to favors, to debts unpaid. Her mind was a spiral of thirty thousand gold pounds and plantations and allowances, of rewards owed to a God's Blessed. Her girl's heart clenched at the numbers, but steadied itself.
Klara, watching it all, lampooned inwardly. God, she's so earnest she could drown in it. Kid probably thinks paying me pocket money makes up for calling in favors on a deity's stage.
She let the silence stretch, every figure waiting. The fog breathed around them.
Then she spoke.
"The task she wishes to complete," her voice was steady, commanding, echoing against the endless fog, "is the assassination of the Intis Republic ambassador to the Loen Kingdom, Bakerland Jean Madan."