Donquixote Estate – The West Wing, Mariejois
The hall was quiet—too quiet.
No music. No bells. Just the occasional soft click of heeled footsteps on marble.
When I pushed open the blackwood doors to the west wing, the air changed. Heavier. Denser. Perfumed with lilies, sweat, and something far older: devotion wrapped in fear.
In the garden courtyard, Raisa knelt beside a blindfolded girl. Noble-born. Barely fourteen. Her family's crest was still fresh on the silk tied around her wrists.
"You're early," Raisa said without turning.
"You're growing bolder," I replied.
She smiled.
"Bolder? Or better?"
The Training
I watched, arms crossed, as Raisa instructed the girl in tone control, gaze maintenance, and emotional suppression. The girl repeated her lines like scripture.
"My voice is not mine.""My will is not mine.""His smile is my sun."
Each phrase was recited with hollow certainty.
Behind them stood seven others, all in various stages of "grooming." Some whispered scripts to each other. Others sat silently with needles piercing their arms, enduring pain without sound.
A garden of snakes—rooted in privilege, reborn in obedience.
They weren't slaves.They were the daughters of nobles.
And they would be mine before their fathers ever noticed.
Mireille Appears
Mireille arrived later, her parasol dripping with rain despite the clear skies.
"There's news," she said. "The Elders are moving."
"Oh?"
"They've appointed a new enforcer. A champion."
"Who?"
"Saint Figarland Garlin."
I raised an eyebrow.
That name hadn't surfaced in years.
A distant cousin of Shanks, if the whispers were true. Unseen in politics, trained by Cipher Pol, and a favorite of one of the Elders.
A perfect puppet.
Or so they thought.
The Snake Pit Philosophy
Later that evening, as I walked the garden, I passed a girl—this one older. Sixteen. Fierce red hair and golden eyes. She'd been difficult at first.
But Raisa had broken her gently.
Now she bowed without being asked.
"Do you love me?" I asked, testing.
She blinked. Hesitated.
Then, quietly: "No."
I smiled.
"Good. Never lie to me."
She didn't flinch.
She passed.
Elsewhere – Imu Watches
Far above in the hidden sanctum, a figure sat draped in black.
Imu-sama.
Silent. Still. Watching Lucien's rise through shimmering visions projected by a shimmering ancient lens.
One of the Five Elders stepped forward.
"He grows dangerous."
Imu's finger moved.
A single word was written across the page of history:
"Let him."
Figarland Garlin – First Moves
Saint Garlin arrived at Mariejois under the guise of tradition. No bubbles. No pageantry. Just silence and authority.
He came to dinner uninvited. Sat at my table. Smiled like a priest.
"You're everything they said you were," he murmured, sipping wine. "And worse."
"Thank you," I replied, raising my glass.
"I've been asked to keep you… entertained."
I tilted my head.
"Then dance, dog."
His eyes sparkled.
He didn't rise to the bait.
Interesting.
The Garden Grows
That night, I passed through the west wing again. This time, Raisa stopped me.
"She wants to be yours," she said.
"Which one?"
"The red-haired one. Valen."
I looked at the girl. Still. Kneeling. Waiting.
I said nothing.
Just extended my hand.
She took it.
The garden grew another root.