Fear is a delicious thing in Mariejois.
It seasons every word. It stains every robe. It hides behind every laugh.
And now, they feared me.
Not because of my power—because I had none.
But because of what I built.
Winter sat at my desk that morning.
She wore the black velvet dress I had made for her.
She didn't move.
Just watched the rain bead against the glass.
"They called a council," she said.
"Of course they did."
"Saint Ugarit is leading it. They want to censure you. Formally."
I sipped my coffee.
"Finally. Recognition."
The council chamber was old, dusted with pride and perfume.
Thirteen nobles, dressed like corpses in celebration.
Saint Ugarit sat at the head. Bald, liver-spotted, thin lips that never quite smiled.
"Figarland," he began, voice thin, "you have been... busy."
I said nothing.
"You've broken tradition. Educated slaves. Trained them. Allowed one to wield a Devil Fruit."
Still I said nothing.
"You walk the streets without a bubble. You greet Marines without slapping them. You've taken tea with a Revolutionary defector."
Now I smiled.
"And yet, I remain seated here. Unchained. Alive."
The chamber fell silent.
I stood.
"You know why. You all do. Because while you wasted centuries playing gods, I remembered how gods are born."
Ugarit's hand twitched.
"You are not untouchable."
"I don't need to be. I just need to be useful."
"To who?"
"To the one who watches all."
They all froze.
I didn't name Imu.
I didn't have to.
The motion to censure failed. Seven votes to six.
Not because they believed in me.
But because they feared breaking the balance.
The world was cracking. They could feel it. And in times of fracture, even devils are useful.
Back at the vault, Winter waited.
She was sharpening her nails with a whisper of static.
"You looked calm," she said.
"I was trembling inside."
"Still planning to die of old age?"
"Preferably in a silk robe, with you massaging my temples."
She smirked.
"Not the temples I plan to touch in your old age."
I raised an eyebrow.
She didn't elaborate.
Selka made her first kill.
A spy posing as a janitor. He'd smuggled a poison dart in his sleeve.
She didn't hesitate.
Just cracked his skull with her bare hands.
"Should I feel bad?" she asked me later.
"No," I said. "You should feel clear."
Winter began training her in combat projection.
"You don't always need to strike to hurt," she explained. "Sometimes you just need to show them what you could do."
Selka was a fast learner.
Too fast.
I took note.
That night, Winter curled beside me.
She smelled of ozone and lavender oil.
"Will we last?" she asked.
"Until the end," I said.
"Whose end?"
I didn't answer.
She didn't press.
A week passed.
Then came the message.
A plain scroll. Marked only with a black star.
I opened it.
"Your usefulness is not eternal."
"Begin preparing an heir."
I read it thrice.
Winter looked over my shoulder.
"Do they mean..."
"Yes."
She said nothing.
Then:
"I'll do it."
I turned to her.
"Are you sure?"
"I told you before. My life belongs to you. So will everything I bear."
She leaned in.
"And I want it. A child. A legacy. Yours."
We kissed.
No thunder.
No games.
Just truth.
Outside, the world trembled.
Inside, we prepared for what came next.
Because even gods must leave behind something more than silence.