Kyle swallowed hard, his voice measured and slow, though the beads of sweat now creeping down his temple betrayed the storm beneath.
"And… how much will that be, officer?"
The man didn't even blink. "Three hundred gold coins."
The number landed like a warhammer to the chest.
Kyle's smile faltered mid-expression, his features locking into a twitching grimace that hovered somewhere between disbelief and cardiac arrest.
Next to him, Emil exhaled sharply and closed his eyes. He knew that look. He'd seen it many, many times before.
The Meltdown™ was imminent.
Kyle took a half-step forward, barely catching himself, and released a laugh so brittle it sounded like dry twigs snapping.
"C-come now, officer… isn't it usually—what—one hundred? Maybe two hundred for the other docks?" His voice held a polite edge, but it was clear he was choking on his own rising fury.
The officer didn't flinch.
"Dock E is reserved for official dignitaries, high-volume merchants… and"—his gaze sharpened—"individuals flagged as questionable during patrol. It carries a fixed tax. Clearance or no, the fee does not change."
Kyle blinked. Once. Twice.
A vein throbbed in his temple.
"Then," he said tightly, "can we… dock somewhere else?"
"No," the officer replied, crossing his arms. "You've already been processed through Dock E. Your ship is logged here, your names registered. Maritime regulation prohibits relocation after clearance. Any such attempt will be considered evasion—and handled accordingly."
Kyle stared at him, his face slowly twisting into something between a sneer and a scream.
"Oh come on, officer!" he burst out, his voice rising. "Who came up with that ridiculous law?!"
The officer's expression darkened. When he spoke, his voice thundered with enough weight to silence the seagulls circling overhead.
"I would strongly advise you," he growled, "not to disgrace the sacred laws of the Empire, foreigner."
Kyle's eyes widened with disbelief. His jaw clenched.
"Disgrace the law?" he snapped, his voice tight with barely restrained fury. "You're robbing us in broad daylight! Three hundred gold—for what? A strip of planks and a glorified paper stamp?"
The words echoed louder than they should have.
But before the officer could respond, Kyle suddenly pivoted into what could only be described as a masterclass in manipulative melodrama. He placed a trembling hand over his chest and pitched his voice into something desperate, broken—pitiful.
"We're orphans," he said, his breath hitching with forced emotion. "We've come all this way with nothing but the dream of seeing our adoptive parents again. Do you know how long we've saved? What we've endured? Storms. Hunger. Pirates. And now you'd take the last of our coin before we can even embrace the ones who raised us?"
He shook his head slowly, dramatically.
"What will they think when we come to them empty-handed—stripped of everything?"
The officer sneered, unmoved.
"I understand what you're trying to do," he said coldly, "but I care little—no, let's say it plainly: none—for your personal sob stories."
He leaned forward, his voice like iron.
"If you wanted to save money, you should have docked like every other normal visitor instead of circling the harbor like a pair of smugglers in a bathtub. You caused a disturbance—you were flagged—and now you pay the price. That's the law."
Then, with a deliberate jab of his finger into Kyle's chest, he growled,
"Now stop causing problems and pay what you owe."
Kyle exploded.
"I demand to speak to your supervisor! Your manager! Anyone above you!" he shouted, his arms slicing through the air in a flurry of righteous indignation. "I refuse to be extorted by some petty bureaucrat in broad daylight! I have rights!"
For a fleeting moment, the officer's eyes widened—just a flicker—before narrowing into slits.
"I am the Chief Docking Officer, you fool," he barked, his voice booming like a warhorn across the pier.
Kyle recoiled, just a step. But that one moment of shock only seemed to feed his hysteria. He jabbed a trembling finger at the man's armored chest.
"Lies!" he snapped. "Anyone can say that! Where's your identification, huh? A badge? A seal? You think I'll just believe you because you shout louder and wear a shiny belt?!"
The officer's knuckles creaked against the leather straps of his gauntlets. Behind him, one of the officers still walking away let out the faintest snort. A mistake.
Kyle whirled toward the sound like a bloodhound catching a scent, ready to launch into another tirade—when Emil finally leaned in.
"…What seems to be the matter, brother?" he asked, his voice smooth and measured, calm as still water—but in their native tongue.
Kyle spun to face him, wild-eyed and twitching with pent-up outrage.
"Shut up, Em—James!" he snapped. "Can't you see I'm busy defending us from daylight robbery?!"
Emil blinked. Slowly. A brow arched. A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.
He crossed his arms and leaned back slightly, content to watch the flames.
Kyle spun back toward the officer, lungs full of fire, his mouth halfway open to unleash another tirade of indignant outrage—
And then he saw her.
She was approaching the dock like the calm at the center of a storm, drawn, perhaps, by the rising clash of voices. Officers parted before her, stiff with respect and bows that were completely ignored.
Her ocean-deep eyes swept across the harbor with slow, deliberate interest. Long obsidian curls spilled over her shoulders, framing a face carved in elegance and quiet steel. Her robes shimmered—twilight-dyed silks adorned with arcane embroidery, paired with a dark blue cloak.
And behind her—an armored colossus, silent and unmoving. A walking monolith in a slate-emerald cloak, his sheer size enough to make even the Chief Docking Officer look average. A warhammer rested on his back.
Whether ceremonial or functional, it was still threatening.
Kyle froze.
Every instinct in his body screamed one thing: power. Enough power to tilt the odds.
And Kyle, ever the opportunist, felt his indignation dissolve into something colder, sharper.
This… this was the real door.
He reached into the inner lining of his coat and, without another word, flicked a pouch of coin toward the officer with a practiced motion.
"Here," he said flatly.
The officer caught it, his expression wary. It was too light. His brows pinched as he opened the pouch and began counting, half-expecting another insult—or a trick.
But Kyle only stood there, his jaw tight, his eyes already locked not on the officer—but on her.
"Count it if it'll make you happier," he said, his voice low and clipped.
Because he already knew who he was really aiming for now.