“Show me your teeth, please, ma’am.”

A gravelly voice snaps 11 out of her daydream. She turns to the armored knight before her, letting her reflection, and the memories of Aralyn, fade back into the clear blue waters.

“I’m sorry?” she says, “Show you my what?”

The knight regards her carefully, his entire body tense, like he’s expecting her to run, or fight him. “We’ve been getting reports of citizens being attacked by what may be a Blood Devil,” he says, ending with a, “for sure,” like he needs to confirm his own statements.

Blood Devils. The words ring out in 11’s ears. I think Allastair mentioned that name, when Fennald was talking about God Giers. But I never learned what they were supposed to be.

Still looking at the knight, 11 tilts her head to one side quizzically. “I don’t see how that has anything to do with me.”

The knight sighs, in the way a teacher might with a student who thinks it clever to act stupid. “So, we are taking extra measures to be vigilant for any suspicious individuals or activities,” he says, his rough voice barely hiding his hostility. “And we ask that all civilians cooperate with the Kesrockian Knights in this matter.” He takes a step forward, the rings of his mail clinking. “I ask again, in the name of the great Icheonsoll, our King of Gandolia, show me your teeth.”

“But what if I don’t want to?” 11 asks, craning her head to meet the knight’s unfriendly gaze. Whatever Blood Devils are, they can’t be good, if he's putting me under such belligerent scrutiny just on suspicion of being one.

The knight’s eyes flash from within the slits of his grey half helm. He raises his polearm an inch off the ground. “I am a full-fledged knight of Kesrock, outsider,” he announces in a thick voice, made thicker by his messy beard. “And I will have you know, I earned my title in respectable fashion, from our gracious King himself, for sure! And as such, I am duty-bound to apply force against all those who do not obey the law, as decreed by His Majesty, Icheonsoll!” He clanks his polearm against the cobblestone, marking his point.

Target Identified.

Species: Human.

Age: 47.

Damage Output Level: 16.

Threat to humanity?: No.

Probability of hostility: 65%

“Alright, you’ve made your point, sir,” 11 says, shaking her head, more confused than ever. She doesn’t like the idea of having her teeth inspected by a stranger, but then, realizing that there is likely no other way past him, 11 opens her mouth.

The knight bends down, his armor groaning like a rusty graveyard gate. 11 waits patiently for him to finish his dental examination, staring at her distorted image reflected across his dull chest plate. She silently wonders how such an imposing man can have a Damage Output Potential of only 16, and when she brings the question to the Synapse-Mother-System, the response she gets is an informative, albeit defensive one.

Experience and age do not correlate to a higher DOL.

A God Gier's scanners are designed to take in other factors, such as equipment, and the target’s health, when making DOL judgements.

The knight straightens with difficulty. “Incisors look… normal,” he mumbles, sounding disappointed. He twists his polearm around as he thinks. “You’ve been standing here a long time, for sure,” he says after a while. “Why haven’t you gone into the city? Are you an adventurer?”

“I am,” 11 answers, thinking it the safest answer to give.

“Can I see your license, then?”

This throws 11 off more than she expects. She hesitates, searching for something to say. She’s seen Aralyn’s license precisely once, during the first half-hour they met, and never thought about it since. And now, 11 curses herself for not preparing for these kinds of situations better.

Stupid, stupid, stupid! Did you just think everyone was going to be as accepting as her?

“I asked you a question,” says the knight.

“I don’t have a license,” 11 admits finally, deciding on the truth. “I’m not from around here.” She looks away, feeling the knight’s eyes sticking to her.

“So what I'm hearing is," the knight says slowly, enunciating each word, "You’re carrying those weapons… without a license?”

11 tries not to squirm, and distracts herself by counting the people moving past into the city.

1…12… 38…45…

Though she knows it to be foolish, somewhere in her heart 11 is still holding onto the hope that, against all odds, Aralyn might somehow appear by her side, and work her magic.

But not one person spares her a look as they brush past.

“I see,” the knight says after an excruciatingly long stretch of silence, in which 11 has not said a thing. He reaches into a pouch on his belt and produces a tiny leather notebook. “You don’t look like a Gandolian, for sure. Which nation are you from?”

Thinking this situation cannot get any worse, 11 blurts out the only name she can think of - or rather, the only one she’s heard said.

“Jinyu.”

The knight grows very still, his notebook sitting unopened in his hand. “Are you beast-folk, then?” The way he says it, he might as well be snarling.

11 swallows. “N-Yes? No. Sorry, what’s a beast-folk?”

“Do you have a tail?”

“No.”

“Ears like monsters?”

“No?”

“Wings?”

“Uh.” 11 pauses, thinks. “Yes?”

The knight’s jaw hardens. “What business do you have in Gandolia, beast?” he demands. “Stop playing games and show me your traveling permit.”

“A permit?” 11 asks, “Is that like a passport?” First, he asks for my license, and now a permit. Why does this feel strangely modern?

The knight sucks in a breath through his teeth, as if 11 has just pleaded guilty to a terrible crime. “I am going to report you to my captain, for sure,” he announces, opening the notebook. “Do not move from this spot, and keep your hands in a place where I can always see them.” As he fumbles to undo the book’s clasp with his gloved fingers, a piece of charcoal slips out from between the pages, disappearing into a crevice in the cobblestone by his feet.

“Damn the goddesses,” the knight curses under his breath, and it looks for a second like he’s going to get on his hands and knees to search for the charcoal, but then he seems to think better of it, and shoves the book into his belt again.

“I have a quill inside my bag,” 11 offers, reaching behind her, but the knight gives a startling cry of alarm.

“Halt! What are you doing!” He shouts, pointing his polearm at her nose. “Place! Your hands against the barrier! And keep your legs apart!”

11 blinks up at him. “This seems unnecessary. I was just getting-”

“Do NOT move, beast!”

“I’m not moving!” 11 snaps, annoyed. “And what the hell is your problem against- hey!” She winces as the knight smacks his weapon against the side of her head. It does not hurt, so much as humiliate.

“Do NOT resist!”

“I’m not,” 11 mutters, feeling a red haze of anger encroach upon her vision. Some passersby are starting to look this way, but no one stops to watch, or help, or to stop 11 from splitting this knight in two.

Warning, Gier 11, do not-

“I know, I know.”

With deliberate slowness, 11 places her hands against the side of the bridge. The stone is rough, but warm from being baked under the sun. “Look, I mean no harm,” she says evenly, turning her glare to the river below. “Just get your captain already.”

“She's on her way,” says the knight. “So stay absolutely still, where you are.” He says something else after that, but 11 does not hear him. She’s squinting, focusing on the rippling surface of the river.

Something is wrong with the water. Or rather, with her reflection. Where 11 expects to see the wavy image of herself, a different girl is looking back at her. A girl who is not 11.

11 leans forward, and the girl does the same.

Is… that me?

The realization hits her, but not as hard as the incredulity of being so certain about the connection. This girl, staring back at 11, has brown hair, and brown eyes. She looks similar to the little girl in 11’s visions, the one with the umbrella and chocolate curls, only older, and less friendly. But the lights flashing behind those dark pupils, 11 recognizes all the same, as that man's, the one whose heart 11 held, and let bleed.

11 watches, stunned and intrigued, as the girl opens her mouth, and speaks with 11’s voice,

“You treat all your foreigners like this, or just the ones you want to fuck?”

The knight takes a long time to form a coherent response longer than two words, stuttering between, “What?!” and, “Excuse me?!”

“Are you going to pat me down next? Feel between my legs for contraband?”

11 keeps staring at the water, not having the slightest idea of where the words are coming from. They seem to be tumbling out of the girl who has taken the place of 11’s reflection, and to test this theory, 11 turns away to face the knight.

“A man of your age, being nothing but a doorman?” asks the girl in the river, still using 11’s voice, even though 11 can no longer see her. “What happened? Dishonorable discharge? Demoted for a screw-up? Is that why you’re vindictively sandwiching the charcoal between the pages of the book you should be taking better care of?”

11 - the girl - takes a step forward, poking a finger against the tip of the knight’s polearm and watching the shock spread across his face.

“Or could it be, that despite so many years of training and hard work, you never managed to be anything more than a lowly guard dog?”

Even the knight’s half-helm cannot shield his furious expression from 11. All the skin visible on his face turns into a bruised, red color, and fat veins bulge along the length of his neck, thrumming along with his spiked heartbeat. He sucks in another, almost strangled breath, and raises his weapon at 11 like he’s about to smite her, but a sharp voice snaps from behind him, freezing him in place.

“Sir Jernal.”

The knight immediately straightens and spins around, a hand clasped over his heart. “Captain Stelias,” he says, relief flooding into his voice. “You’re here.”

A woman approaches on horseback. “At ease, Sir Knight,” she says, dismounting smoothly, her cape snapping. Another knight sits behind her, on the same saddle. He follows his captain down, but with remarkably less ease.

"What's going on?" the captain asks.

"See for yourself," the knight, who 11 now finally knows to be called Sir Jernal, answers as he steps aside.

The captain's arrival seems to have broken whatever spell possed 11, and she feels all the strength and bravado seep out of her like she's just woken up. She reaches out to the railing, steadying herself, and can do nothing but watch as the captain swishes her way over, hips swaying, like a cat cornering its prey.

“Greetings, adventure-” the captain starts to say, but the moment she gets a good look at 11, she stops dead, her mouth hangs open, and all traces of her initial grace vanishes in a single, gasped question.

“Princess?”