In another part of the capital, far from the scene of their latest crime, the two morons re-emerged from the shadows like cockroaches after a storm.
The illusionary rings they wore shimmered faintly, subtly reshaping their appearances. Their once-distinct blue and green eyes now glinted with a muted green. Their hair had darkened into messy, curling black locks, and their complexions had taken on a warm, sun-kissed tan that matched the local population perfectly.
To the casual observer, they were just another pair of wandering traders—perhaps cousins from one of the outer provinces. Nothing suspicious. Nothing memorable.
Except for one thing.
Emil's towering frame.
Even cloaked in the illusion, he still loomed a head above the crowd, drawing curious glances like a lightning rod in a thunderstorm. Kyle, noticing this, rubbed his temples in exasperation.
"We look like two perfectly ordinary citizens," he muttered. "And then there's you—our walking tree."
Emil raised an eyebrow. "You're welcome."
But Kyle, never one to let a flaw ruin his masterpiece, snapped his fingers as inspiration struck.
"Wait! I've got it."
He ducked into a nearby market stall, bartered furiously with a vendor, and returned moments later with a long, hooded cloak and a wooden cane. He tossed them at Emil with a triumphant grin.
"Congratulations, brother. You are now a frail, hunched-back elder with a tragic past and a bad knee."
Emil stared at the stick, then at Kyle, then back at the stick.
"You're serious."
"As death," Kyle said, already draping the cloak over his brother's broad shoulders. "Now bend a little. Limp a lot. And for the love of the stars, try not to look like you can snap a man in half."
With a long-suffering sigh, Emil hunched forward, adjusting his gait with a limp that was just convincing enough. Bent over and shuffling like a weary traveler, he now walked at the height of most locals—even if the bulk of his shoulders still strained the cloak's seams.
Perfect? No.
Passable?
Kyle grinned. Absolutely.
As they wound their way through the narrow streets, putting distance between themselves and the market, the two disguised fugitives carried themselves with the easy air of carefree tourists.
They snacked, chatted—laughed, even—as if they weren't freshly wanted men who had just embarrassed a royal and vanished into thin air.
Eventually, they reached the heart of the tourist district: a lively plaza teeming with travelers, merchants, and performers from across the continent.
At its center stood a beautifully carved stone fountain. Its tiers were etched with swirling depictions of sea serpents and dancing spirits, water glinting as it spilled from the jaws of a lion-headed spout.
Kyle tapped Emil on the arm and gestured toward it.
"Perfect spot. Let's sit. Time to talk seriously."
They settled onto the wide edge of the fountain. Kyle, adopting the posture of a man far more important than he looked, unrolled a detailed map across his knees.
"This," he said, pointing to a cluster of islands far to the south, "is where we are—the Blue Pearl Empire."
He tapped his temple lightly.
"We're quite a distance from Lecrocia… but that's fine. Not like there's a clock strapped to our heads forcing us to get there."
Emil gave a small nod.
"For now, we take a break from the sea," Kyle continued. "Lie low. Rest here quietly for a fortnight."
Then his tone shifted.
"Now—the problem."
His fingers drummed against the largest island on the map.
"This is where we are—the Seat of Thessa. Every last inch of this place is crawling with those fishheads… or something worse."
Emil frowned slightly.
"If my assumptions are correct," Kyle went on, "it's only a matter of time before patrols start sweeping the area."
He reached into his cloak and pulled out a tightly bound notebook.
"Luckily for us, our dear goblin saw fit to burden us with her personal journal of the South."
He flipped through the pages—titles, histories—before stopping at a section on the Blue Pearl Empire and its central island.
Together, they scanned the notes with quiet focus, like sons poring over a mother's final gift.
Kyle began marking the map—likely patrol routes, notable locations to avoid… and, more importantly, markets.
Places he could work.
A slow, sheepish grin crept across his face.
"Okay. Good enough." He snapped the notebook shut. "We split up."
Emil blinked.
"Split up?"
"Yes, you child," Kyle shot back, casting him a dramatic glare. "Just for the day. Less attention that way."
He pointed toward a narrow alley near a canal junction.
"We regroup here at sunset. Avoid the marked locations and you'll be fine."
Emil tilted his head.
"And where will you be going, oh genius schemer?"
Kyle grinned, insufferably pleased.
"Well, even though it's none of your business, I'll be doing actual work—blessing the markets of this backwater with my amazing presence."
Emil scoffed.
"Oh—and more importantly," Kyle added, "I need to find out who that stunning lady at the port was. Something tells me crossing her may have been a grave mistake."
Emil's expression tightened slightly. He remembered her presence all too well.
"And the cube?" he asked.
Kyle waved him off.
"Don't worry your oversized head about that. I'll sneak in, sneak out—done. Easy."
Emil's brow twitched.
"You're sure…?"
Kyle's face twisted in offense.
"Yes, I'm sure. Now go on—be gone, you brute."
He had already begun rolling up the map and stuffing it into his coat when Emil raised a hand.
"Wait. Can I at least have the map?"
Kyle barked a sharp, incredulous laugh.
"Of course not! Didn't I explicitly tell you to get your own when we left home?"
Emil opened his mouth, but Kyle cut him off.
"But nothing! Now get lost—and don't be late. You do remember how to tell time, don't you?"
With a long, theatrical sigh, Emil turned and hobbled away, leaning on his makeshift cane. What had begun as a clever disguise now seemed to echo his growing irritation.
Kyle watched him go, a sly grin tugging at his lips. He could practically feel the storm of suppressed frustration radiating off Emil's back—and it only fed his ego.
At last, he turned, hands slipping into his pockets, and strode off in the opposite direction.
Another scheme already brewing behind his smirk.