Under cover of a moonless night, Itsuki Hiroto crept through the quiet corridors of the Imperial Palace, gloved hand pressed against the cool marble walls. His mission: escape, however briefly, the endless stream of ceremonies, councils, and accidental acts of heroism that had become his life. Rumors were swirling like a storm across the Empire—noble families whispered of his power, militaries debated seizing him as a living weapon, and commoners built cardboard barricades in his honor. The situation was about as stable as a teacup in an earthquake.
Hiroto exhaled softly. Clerks shouldn't start wars, he mused. And yet here he was, unwanted catalyst to a thousand potential conflicts.
He slid through a service door into a shadowed service tunnel, boots echoing faintly. The launch point for his escape lay somewhere beyond the kitchens and below the servants' wing—a dumbwaiter shaft that could deposit him in the stables courtyard. From there, he could slip into the city unnoticed.
Halfway across the tunnel, a muffled crash echoed. Hiroto froze. Not another accidental demonstration. He tiptoed forward, rounding a corner—and nearly collided with a serving tray loaded with midnight snacks. The tray teetered, and with the gentlest of nudges, an entire stack of pearl‑glazed pastries slid to the floor in a sugary avalanche of curvature.
"Who's there?" hissed a sleepy voice. Two palace servers in nightcaps appeared, flashing terrified eyes.
"Just… me," Hiroto whispered, stepping back and bowing low. "Midnight clerical duties."
The servers blinked, then scurried off. Hiroto pressed his hand to his chest. Crisis averted. He gathered up two stray pastries for emergency sustenance and continued.
At the dumbwaiter hatch, he found Sera waiting—stooped as though hiding her height beneath a cloak.
"You made it," she whispered, offering him a nod. "The city's… lively tonight. You might want a disguise."
Hiroto munched a pastry. "Disguise how? I only own three robes and a pair of… these."
He flexed his embroidered slippers.
Sera produced a floppy hat and a pair of tinted spectacles. "Street vendor costume. No one sells hero pamphlets better than a baker. Or at least pretends to."
He slipped on the hat—comically oversized—and the spectacles, which magnified his eyes into cartoonish circles.
"There," Sera grinned. "Now you look… startling."
Hiroto tapped the brim. "Thanks. I'll try not to blind anyone."
Sera pressed a finger to his lips. "Let's go."
---
The dumbwaiter's ancient pulley groaned as they descended. When the hatch opened into the stables' basement, the aroma of hay and horseflesh welcomed them—an olfactory reminder that at least horses didn't worship him (yet).
They slipped past two snoozing grooms and found the stables yard, where dozens of horses stirred beneath moonlit lanterns. Beyond the open gate lay the slums of Solencia's East Quarter—a bustling maze of narrow alleys, market stalls, and vine‑ridden walls. Perfect for blending in.
Hiroto stepped out and immediately stumbled over a loose cobblestone, sending him sprawling. He rolled once, then popped up, brushing himself off.
"Glorious entrance," Sera muttered, offering him a hand.
"Subtle as a dragon's roar," he replied.
They melted into the shadows, following the ancient walls until they reached a crowded street where vendors hawked late‑night wares: glowing street lamps, crystal vials, exotic breads. Hiroto paused at a stall where a rotund woman sold "Divine Dormition Donuts—guaranteed to knock you out." Someone had already painted his face on the sign.
He backed away. "I said no more shrines," he whispered.
Sera steered him onward. "Keep moving. Noble spymasters are out tonight. If they see you… well, they'll probably challenge you to a duel."
They turned a corner into a narrow alley and nearly collided with Lord Fendrel, a swaggering noble dressed in black leather and an overabundance of silver chains. Lord Fendrel's cronies flanked him—three sword‑slicked bravos obviously on edge.
Fendrel's eyes widened at Hiroto's spectacles. "Diviner of Gloom! We meet at last!"
Hiroto's stomach dropped. "Lord Fendrel… I'm just—"
Fendrel raised a hand. "No need for pleasantries. The House of Corven invites you to declare your allegiance. By sunrise, choose: serve under our banner or face our blades."
Two bravos stepped forward, swords unsheathed.
Sera grabbed Hiroto's arm. "Run!"
Hiroto did not need telling twice. He hightailed it down the alley, Sera at his heels, Lord Fendrel's threats echoing behind them:
"Choose wisely, or be chopped to bits by dawn!"
They darted around corners, skipping past a refugee camp where nervous families whispered prayers to his wooden shrines. I didn't ask for this, Hiroto thought, weaving through the crowd. I only asked for a nap.
---
They emerged into a broader street lit by torches mounted on wrought‑iron brackets. In the center, a makeshift platform had been erected, and two rival noble heralds—each wearing their patron's colors—bellowed propaganda:
"Join House Corven, protector of the realm! Present your oath to Captain Hiroto's Endorsement!"
"House Ravric offers free land to all who swear fealty under the Silent Savior's signet!"
Hiroto stared. Clerks shouldn't start wars.
He shrank into the crowd while Sera dragged him sideways into the entrance of a smoke‑filled tavern. Inside, the Commoner's Rest was alive with heated debate:
"Did you hear? House Caldor wants to tax every teacup because Hiroto might faint during negotiations!"
"Bah! House Virelya—pardon, House Arkwright—seeks to marry him into their line!"
"Someone in Glintveil is minting coins with his face on them!"
Hiroto sank onto a stool at the bar, pulling the floppy hat low.
Sera slid onto the next stool. "Welcome to your campaign headquarters."
Hiroto rubbed his temples. "How is any of this my fault?"
The barkeep, a burly fellow with a jeweled earring, approached. "What'll it be, sir? We've got Hog's Breath Stew, Hero's Rest Doughnuts…"
"Just water, please," Hiroto said, voice tight. He gazed at the mob through mirrored sunglasses. "And maybe a manual on how to quit being famous."
The barkeep winked. "Best seller this week. Right next to 'Defusing Noble Feuds for Dummies'."
Hiroto buried his face in his hands. Sera patted his back.
"Look," she said softly, "they're fighting over you because they all want to keep the Empire together—your name's a unifying symbol. If you can navigate this mess, maybe you really can hold the seals."
He peeked through his fingers. "And if I fail?"
"Then… well, we'll figure something out." Sera touched his shoulder. "I believe in you, accidental hero or not."
---
By dawn's first gray light, Hiroto and Sera slipped out the tavern's back door, hearts pounding. The city's rooftops glimmered like a field of crowded tiles. Somewhere, flutes were playing "Ode to Silent Resolve" for the seventh time last night.
Hiroto paused, breathing the crisp morning air. "I never thought I'd want to put myself back in the palace."
Sera smiled. "Home is where the legend is, I guess."
He nodded, hefting his satchel. "Then let's go home. Before House Corven builds a gallows in my name."
They crept back toward the stables, past drifting torchlight and the last of the noble heralds, who were busy tearing down rival banners. In the distance, a lone trumpeter sounded a retreat.
When they reached the palace service entrance, Hiroto ventured one last look down the silent alley. The world was gearing up for war over him—the clumsiest clerk alive.
He squared his shoulders. If they want a knight, I'll keep tripping into one.
And with that thought, he slipped through the doorway, closing it gently behind him, ready to face whatever battles the dawn would bring—political, prophetic, or simply personal.