This was a tale from long, long ago.
After the Radiant War came to its end, the head of House Stuart died suddenly of a vicious illness. With no direct heir to take the mantle, the great family stood on the brink of fracture, its vast legacy ready to be torn apart by rival branches. And yet, whispers began to spread—there was still Stuart blood in the world. A child, they said, left behind when Inglvig's forces pushed their counteroffensive as far as Gaulnaro.
So a mission was issued: find that lost bloodline.
Many set out for Gaulnaro. Lloyd was merely one figure among the tide.
Power was at stake, which meant no two people were told the same story. Lloyd's task was simple on the surface—find Célieu, and pry from her mind whatever she knew. He was the first to reach her. At the time she was huddled in a frozen alley, surviving on scraps of charity, a life that had left her thin to the point of frailty—a look she still hadn't quite shaken.
The two of them crossed desolate streets, drawing ever closer to the Lower District.
It was bitterly cold. Without thinking, Célieu clutched Lloyd's arm as they stepped over sheets of ice and passed the hollow shells of ruined buildings.
She had always carried a strange feeling toward him. Like a newborn beast imprinting on the first creature it sees, she had fastened onto Lloyd. He had been the one to find her, the one who took her from Gaulnaro back to Old Dunling. Her life had turned upside down overnight—a beggar child from the gutter suddenly raised above tens of thousands.
Yet she had never felt joy about it. Only a constant, ill-fitting fear. Towering castles and armed guards gave her not a shred of safety. Beneath her pillow, there was always a sharp dagger. Inside, she was still that shivering child in the alley. She had never truly changed.
"So how did you get interested in something like that?"
As he spoke, a faint plume of warmth drifted from Lloyd's lips. The weather in Old Dunling had grown colder by the day, and with the constant steam pouring from the Furnace Pillars, the chill crept into one's bones before you knew it.
"They said it's unique. And it came from the Far East."
Célieu's reply was flat. Lloyd was long used to her coolness, his thoughts already racing ahead.
"Machinery from the Far East, huh? That does make one curious."
There was only one place left that people truly meant by the Far East—the mysterious realm of Jiuxia. Aside from a fleet that had arrived long ago, the western world knew them mostly as a word, a rumor. And now, objects from that distant land had appeared. That was far more interesting than any family banquet.
"But if you skip the banquet, won't they have something to say about it?"
Lloyd meant the noble circles clustered around the Stuarts. Honored by wartime titles, they guarded the girl like knights around a princess. Though the Stuart main line had dwindled to Célieu alone, the family's industries flourished under their management—even if their numbers remained pitifully small.
To Lloyd, they were little more than a nanny brigade, bound together by the old butler, Weah—so attentive it bordered on suffocating.
He still remembered a rainy night when Weah had knocked on the door of 121A Cork Street, suitcase full of money in hand, urging Lloyd to leave the young mistress. Why? Because under Lloyd's "kind guidance," the girl's marksmanship had become unnervingly precise—when at her age she was supposed to be learning how to govern.
"In one month, I'll be of age. I'll become Duchess Stuart. That'll be the last time those old men get to push me around."
Adolescence, loud and clear.
Lloyd looked at her with a mix of amusement and resignation, though from his height all he could really see was the bobbing crown of her deerstalker hat.
It was true. Over the century of the Radiant War, House Stuart had risen to ducal rank on the strength of its military glory—especially Michel Stuart's stand during the landing campaign, which secured them command of the Southern Theater.
Though only Célieu remained of that illustrious line, the authority due to the family was still reserved for her. It was a tribute to sacrifice. A hymn to the fallen.
"Still, a soon-to-be duchess wandering into the Lower District… that's not exactly good publicity."
As he spoke, Lloyd tugged her collar up, hiding her small face completely.
"From now on, you're my assistant. If anyone asks questions, I answer. You just look around and enjoy yourself. Got it?"
Célieu might not have understood, but Lloyd did. The Shrike who ruled the Lower District was no ordinary gang boss living off noble coin. Behind him stood the secretive Purge Directorate—and above even them, the Queen of Victoria herself.
Every noble who set foot in the Lower District had their name written in his little book. And when the time came, those records became leverage.
"Do you even know the way?" she asked.
"In the Lower District? I know it better than you."
Before he became a consulting detective, Lloyd had practically been a local fixture down there.
They crossed a stretch of wasteland and a sprawl of shacks thrown together from scrap wood. After a long walk, Lloyd stopped at a downward sloping entrance. A gatekeeper lay nearby, posing as a sleeping vagrant. But his eyes tracked Lloyd carefully, one hand slipped inside his coat—almost certainly gripping a gun.
"Move."
Lloyd flicked a coin toward him. Its scarred surface bore the image of a resting shrike.
The gatekeeper caught it and inspected it closely—yet still blocked their way, pointing at Célieu beside him. The meaning was obvious.
"What, there's a height requirement for children too?"
Lloyd started spouting nonsense, but still followed the rules and tossed a second coin. Ignoring the pinch Célieu gave his waist, the two of them stepped into the dark.
The air grew warmer. A faint firelight flickered in the depths. They followed the descending steps until they reached the very bottom.
Then came a murmur—whispers in another language.
A man stood there, skin painted in reddish-brown, strange white characters scrawled across his body. Eyes shut tight, he chanted prayers Lloyd could not understand, as though mourning a forgotten god.
Célieu instinctively clutched Lloyd tighter. As the flames brightened, more figures came into view—sitting cross-legged on the ground, murmuring their devotions.
It felt like walking into some archaic ritual. They formed a passageway with their bodies, welcoming the pair in an ancient, obscure tongue.
"People from the Far East," Lloyd murmured.
Jiuxia ruled the lands beyond the Caucasus Mountains, commanding most of the eastern world. Not all of it, true—nearly half belonged to smaller nations, but those were vassals of Jiuxia. These strange figures were likely from one of those states.
Célieu couldn't help staring. In the western world, easterners were rare—like exotic beasts from a distant land.
Lloyd led her onward, though even his own thoughts stirred. With the rise of steam technology, the once-impassable oceans were becoming crossable. East and West were drawing closer. He remembered what Arthur had once told him: the world was shrinking, like an arena closing in—sooner or later, the beasts inside would meet and clash.
But that was beyond the concerns of a mere detective.
An attendant waited by a doorway. At their approach, he bowed slightly and offered them masks.
The doors opened.
Beyond lay a completely different world.
Countless intricate devices rested behind glass cases. Metal-and-gear maidens twisted their waists in mechanical dances. People drifted between the displays, murmuring judgments about machines they had never imagined before.
Off to one side, a guarded open space held something massive. A colossal construct stood upright, like a fallen steel giant propped on end, its cold edges sharp as blades.
"So this is machinery from the East…" Célieu whispered, fingertips brushing the glass.
Behind it stood a small bronze woman. Beneath her, tiny gears ticked softly. She raised one hand, and in that hand burned a flame.
But Lloyd wasn't looking at those.
His gaze was fixed on the very front—on the enormous bronze object, hoisted high like a titanic halberd of war.