The coachman glanced around with an eager spark in his eye, then leaned back on his bench as though settling into a favorite chair.
"Few people know this," he began, his voice dropping conspiratorially, "but the place where the Red King was born is the town of Lobell."
Lionel Lebatan.
The man cursed with that unholy title — the **Red King** — was the most famous figure the East had ever produced. For most easterners, the Emperor was little more than a ghost, a distant name whispered in bureaucratic decrees no one read. But Lionel Lebatan? Everyone knew *him*. Everyone had a story.
"About fifty years ago," the coachman continued, warming to his subject, "the most notorious cutthroats in the empire began flocking east. Nobody could say why — it was as if some invisible tide dragged them there, all at once."
Those who had already settled in the region saw the flood coming and moved quickly. They formed guilds among themselves, absorbing the newly arrived criminals into organized ranks. Within a few short years, the power of those guilds swelled until it became a genuine threat to the stability of the entire country.
"Ehhh…" The coachman shook his head, his expression caught between nostalgia and disgust. "The East back then was an ideal breeding ground for crime. Conflict everywhere — cutthroats masquerading as adventurers, tearing the land apart."
He paused, letting the weight of history settle.
"And the one who set it all right was Lionel Lebatan."
The Red King had earned the love and respect of the people more deeply than any lord, governor, or noble who had ever tried to rule the East. A former mercenary from the slums, he quelled the violence, dismantled the worst of the guilds, and rose — almost effortlessly, it seemed — to become the most influential person controlling one of the empire's four great regions.
"When word of his power reached the imperial family," the coachman said, lowering his voice, "they were *furious*. Eventually, they accused him of treason."
"They put him through the moonstone test during the trial," he added. "Only Lionel himself wasn't present. The whole thing was conducted over an empty chair."
Juliet listened quietly, her curiosity sharpening.
"And the verdict?" she asked.
"Death," the coachman said flatly. "According to the decree, Lionel Lebatan would face execution the moment he left the East and set foot in the capital."
He let out a dry laugh.
"The trial was more spectacle than justice — a performance staged by an imperial family whose pride had been wounded. They had no real power in the East, no way to capture the man who was its *de facto* king. It was a desperate measure. A warning, nothing more."
The coachman fell silent for a moment, rocking gently with the sway of the stagecoach.
"But shortly after they branded him a traitor… the Red King simply *disappeared*."
Opinions about his fate, the coachman explained, had always been divided. Some claimed the imperial family had caught and killed him in secret. Others swore he had sailed away to distant seas on a ship laden with treasure.
"Judging by the rumors," the coachman said, glancing back at Juliet with a knowing look, "no one still knows his whereabouts. But in truth — everyone in the East knows."
"And what truth is that?" Juliet asked, leaning forward slightly.
The coachman grinned. "The Red King isn't dead. He lives peacefully in his home village, under a different name."
"*Pfft.*"
The mocking snort belonged neither to the coachman nor to Juliet.
They both turned their heads simultaneously toward the sound. A red-haired man sat in the corner of the stagecoach, his arms folded loosely across his chest, his eyes shut as if he had been sleeping the entire ride.
But clearly, he hadn't been. He had been listening from the very beginning — and only now chosen to make his disdain known.
*Was he laughing at me?*
The man opened his eyes, slow and deliberate, and let his gaze drift toward Juliet across from him. It was the kind of look one might give a small, repulsive insect crawling across the dinner table.
*…What the hell was that?*
Juliet quickly replayed the conversation in her mind, searching for anything she might have said to provoke such a reaction. There was nothing — just an unremarkable exchange about an old legend. Nothing remotely offensive.
Having satisfied herself that she had done *nothing* wrong, Juliet straightened her back and returned his gaze. Slowly, deliberately, she let her eyes travel from the crown of his red hair to the soles of his boots, mirroring the exact contempt he had shown her.
It was a look that said: *There is no more disgusting creature in this world than you.*
Though she didn't bother to say ***"impudent bastard"*** aloud, her expression conveyed it with devastating clarity.
"Tch."
The red-haired man flinched — barely, but she caught it. He clearly hadn't expected such a response. His tongue clicked against his teeth, and then he turned away, closing his eyes once more.
Though the coachman's story had been cut short, the remainder of the journey passed in relative peace.
---
The stagecoach arrived at its destination roughly an hour after departing Roadell.
"We've arrived," the coachman announced, pulling the reins. "This is Lobell."
The red-haired man rose without a word, stepped out of the stagecoach, and disappeared down the road without so much as a backward glance.
Juliet pressed a tip into the coachman's weathered hand, thanked him warmly, and climbed down into the street.
She had expected little from a small town. What greeted her was something else entirely.
*Oh… how beautiful.*
In the North and in the capital, white marble dominated — elegant, precise, and cold in its perfection. But Lobell was built from **red brick**, and the effect was something altogether warmer, more colorful, more *alive*.
A round market square opened before her, and at its center stood a tall bell tower crowned with a clock, its iron hands glinting in the afternoon light. Small shops clustered around the tower's base like children gathered at a storyteller's feet, their awnings striped in faded reds and golds.
It looked like something out of a storybook.
*I'm glad I decided to come here.*
Juliet inhaled deeply, feeling a surge of fresh energy chase away the stiffness of the hour-long ride. Standing alone in the middle of an unfamiliar street, surrounded by strangers and strange buildings, the truth of what she had done finally settled over her like warm sunlight.
She had *escaped*. Truly escaped from her familiar world.
A small thrill ran through her chest — not anxiety, but something brighter. She had traveled from North to South before, of course, but never like this. Never alone. There had always been an escort, a schedule, a purpose dictated by someone else.
Lost in those pleasant thoughts, Juliet drifted across the square at an unhurried pace.
And then it happened.
***Knock.***
A hooded figure brushed past her, his shoulder clipping hers just hard enough to break her stride.
"A—?"
Juliet stopped. A strange feeling of incongruity prickled at the back of her mind, faint but insistent — as though something had shifted out of place.
The man who had bumped her walked on without pausing, calm as a shadow.
She watched him.
He slipped toward the busiest section of the market square, threading through the crowd with practiced ease. Then, smooth as water, he drifted toward an unsuspecting passerby who had chosen an unfortunate moment to turn around.
***Knock!***
This time the push was harder — deliberate. The passerby stumbled and fell.
Juliet's eyes narrowed to slits.
She saw it clearly: the precise instant the hooded man's fingers darted into the passerby's coat and plucked the wallet from his inside pocket, even as the victim toppled to the cobblestones.
"Stop! *Thief!*"
The fairy-tale image of this charming little town shattered like glass.
*It had been less than five minutes.* Less than five minutes since she'd thought this was a lovely place, and that *damned pickpocket* had ruined the illusion in a single heartbeat.
"What? A thief?"
"Grab him!"
Fortunately, Juliet was not the only witness. People across the square whipped around, and several shopkeepers burst from their doors at the commotion.
"Tch!" The pickpocket shoved aside two more bystanders and bolted into a narrow alley.
A handful of townsfolk gave chase, but the thief moved with the fluid confidence of someone who had done this a hundred times. Juliet doubted any of them would catch him.
So she acted quietly.
She sent the **butterfly** after him — a silent, invisible pursuit slipping into the alley's shadows — then turned and walked calmly toward the fallen passerby.
As she crossed the square, a wry thought drifted through her mind. *If my life were written in a book, it would never be a calm, measured story.*
*Well,* she conceded, *perhaps even a peaceful town has its share of pickpockets.* Lobell sat near the vast city of Carcassonne, and it was the birthplace of the legendary Red King, after all. Where legends once walked, notorious villains were sure to follow.
Juliet forced herself to accept this as she reached the fallen man.
"Are you all right?"
The question was already leaving her lips before she got a proper look at him — and when she did, surprise flickered across her face.
He was an old man, but *not* the frail sort the word usually conjured. His appearance was unusual, even striking, yet carried a warmth that immediately put her at ease. Kind eyes peered up at her from beneath a lined brow.
He blinked at her in mild surprise, then reached up and took the hand she offered.
"Well, now I'm in your debt, young lady," he said as he rose, his voice deep and unhurried. "Thank you for your help."
"You're welcome," Juliet replied with a smile, her gaze flicking briefly toward the alley.
"***KYAAAAAAAH! AAAAAAAH!***"
A bloodcurdling scream erupted from somewhere deep within the alley's throat.
People around the square stiffened. Heads turned. Murmurs rippled outward.
Juliet didn't flinch. She hadn't seen what happened, but she didn't need to. The butterfly had caught up with the pickpocket — and was now feeding contentedly on his terror.
She turned her attention smoothly back to the old man, her expression perfectly innocent, as though the distant shrieking had nothing whatsoever to do with her.
*Now then.*
Looking at him more carefully, she found it difficult to understand how a simple push had sent him to the ground. The old man's frame was **impressive** — broad-shouldered, solidly built, the kind of body that spoke of decades of hard labor or harder combat. Even Juliet, who had seen the formidable knights serving the Duke of Carlisle, could not help but notice the quiet power in his bearing.
*He must have been a renowned mercenary in his youth,* she thought. *But how could a man built like that fail to resist a common pickpocket?*
The answer came a moment later.
The old man still held her hand. He hadn't let go — and now a faint crease of worry appeared between his brows.
"Excuse me, young lady… could you pick up my cane?"
Juliet glanced around and spotted something dark lying on the cobblestones behind her.
*…A cane?*
She picked it up and placed it in his waiting hand. The standard black cane was heavier than she'd expected — *much* heavier — and for a fleeting instant her brow nearly rose. But she kept her expression smooth and steady.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
The moment the cane was in his grip, he released Juliet's hand and shifted his weight onto it. He stepped back — and though the motion was nearly seamless, Juliet's trained eye caught the hitch in his gait, the way his **left leg** dragged just slightly behind the right.
She watched him for a few seconds longer, then looked away, a small, awkward knot tightening in her chest.
Some questions, she decided, were better left unasked.