“So, what do you say, Merope-sama?” Rem asked, her voice patient, her hands folded neatly in front of her as she waited for an answer that would decide the entire shape of what came next.
The room had gone quiet in the wake of her offer—the promise of Puck, of answers, of a past that might finally stop being an empty fog.
Merope stood there for a moment, feeling the weight of everyone’s eyes on her: Rem’s calm patience, Felt’s poorly hidden anxiety, Elsa’s unreadable stillness.
Merope’s fingers found the hem of her white cloth without her quite meaning them to, worrying the fabric between thumb and forefinger—an old habit, one that surfaced only when something mattered enough to make her actually stop and think instead of simply leaping forward the way she usually did.
“Hmm…” she murmured, tilting her head.
“Where would we be meeting?”
“It will be held at Lady Crusch’s residence, tonight,” Rem answered.
“We are still in the process of negotiating with her directly. Lady Anastasia, however, has already agreed to take part in the subjugation of the White Whale.”
Merope drew in a slow breath, turning everything she’d just heard over in her mind—Elsa’s blunt warning about suicidal odds, the fear Felt hadn’t quite managed to hide behind her earlier outburst, and beneath all of it, that small, stubborn thread of hope: a chance, however slim, to finally learn who she actually was.
Four hundred years.
A spirit who might remember.
It felt less like an opportunity and more like a door she hadn’t known existed suddenly standing open in front of her.
She thought of the ruins she’d woken in.
The face in the stream that had felt both foreign and familiar.
The name that had almost come to her and then slipped away again, like water through fingers.
“Alright,” she said at last, and her voice came out steadier than she expected, steadier than she felt.
“I accept.” This story is hosted at g.com.
Felt’s head snapped toward her, her brow furrowing hard with worry.
“Are you sure about this, Merope? Me and Reinhard—we won’t be able to help you with this one. It’s your camp’s business now, not ours.”
The words landed heavier than Felt probably intended, a reminder of just how alone Merope’s decision would leave her, at least in the way that mattered on paper.
No Sword Saint standing behind her.
No claim on Reinhard’s loyalty to fall back on.
But Merope only smiled, small and steady, meeting her friend’s eyes without flinching.
“I know, Felt. I already told you, remember? I’m determined to become king—so everyone can be happy.”
It was such a simple line, said so lightly it almost didn’t sound like it should carry any weight at all.
And yet something about it seemed to ease the tension pulling at the corners of Felt’s expression, even if it didn’t erase it entirely.
Felt let out a long breath, dragging a hand down her own face.
“…Fine,” she muttered, giving up the fight for now, still rubbing at her face as though she could physically wipe the worry off it.
“Just—don’t do anything stupid, okay?”
“I make no promises,” Merope said, cheerful enough that Felt groaned out loud.
Rem, who had been observing the exchange with quiet, practiced patience, finally bowed once more, deep and formal.
“Tell her I said thanks, and that I’m excited to meet her again properly!” Merope added, brightening despite the seriousness of everything that had just been decided.
A faint, almost imperceptible softness touched the corner of Rem’s mouth—not quite a smile, but close to one.
“I will pass along the message.”
With that, she turned and made her way out of the sitting room, her footsteps quiet and precise against the floor, the door closing gently behind her.
The moment it clicked shut, Elsa turned to face Merope fully.
Her expression was as difficult to read as ever—that same practiced calm she wore like a second skin—but there was something sharper behind her eyes now, something more focused than the idle amusement she usually carried.
“In that case,” she said, her voice low and even, “as your knight, I should be the one accompanying you tonight.”
It wasn’t a question.
It wasn’t even really a request.
It was simply a fact being stated, the way Elsa stated most things—plainly, without embellishment, and without any real room left for argument.
Merope looked at her for a moment, something warm settling in her chest at the certainty in those words, at the quiet claim being made without hesitation.
Whatever doubts still lingered about what tonight might bring, she wasn’t walking into it alone.
“Yeah,” she said, smiling.
“Come with me, Elsa.”
…..
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