The castle gates shut behind Zidane like a mouth deciding it liked the taste.
Not a slam. Not a threat. Just that smooth, final thunk—stone kissing stone—like Alexandria had rehearsed swallowing people until it got graceful at it.
Zidane kept walking because stopping was how you got corrected.
The corridor beyond the gate wasn't the pretty kind. No vines. No banners. No "PUBLIC SAFETY KEEPS YOU WHOLE" smiling at you like a friendly knife.
This was the inside of the machine.
Stone that never saw sunlight. Lantern light that didn't flicker—steady, controlled, like even fire had to behave here. The air smelled like wax, old water, and powdered crystal the way a bakery smelled like flour: constant, unavoidable, and somehow everywhere.
His cuffs were still on. Not because they needed them.
Because the cuffs were a sentence the city wanted him to read with his wrists.
A Public Safety escort walked beside him, not quite touching, but close enough that Zidane could feel the man's presence like a wall. Helmet. Gray coat. The crest. Aethercaster holstered like a promise.
Quina waddled at Zidane's heel, hat slightly crooked, calm as a priest attending a funeral it had catered.
A second guard tried to kick Quina once.
Not hard. Not even angry. Just… a casual correction, like shooing a rat.
Quina sidestepped without looking like it moved.
The guard's boot struck air.
The guard blinked like his body had done something embarrassing in front of his brain.
Zidane smiled instantly—bright, harmless, preemptive. "Careful," he said. "It's union."
Quina nodded solemnly. "Professional."
The guard stared at Quina. Then at Zidane. Then said, flatly, "If it bites, we put it down."
Zidane's smile stayed where it was. His stomach did not.
"It won't bite," Zidane said, tone easy. "It's very polite. It only eats—"
"Hungry," Quina supplied, cheerful.
Zidane shot Quina a look. Quina blinked back, serene.
They passed a wall plaque engraved with curving script, the kind you put on museums and graves.
SERVICE ACCESS — AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY
Zidane read it like it was a joke told badly on purpose.
"Good news," he murmured. "We're personnel."
The escort didn't react.
They took a left, then a right, then another right, and Zidane realized Alexandria Castle had the same kind of layout as a liar: all beautiful on the surface, and behind it, a labyrinth meant to make you tired before you figured out where the truth was hiding.
The escort led him into a narrow office that smelled like ink and damp paper.
A clerk sat behind a desk. Not a guard. Not a soldier. Just a man with a clean collar and an expression that said: I ruin lives politely for a living.
The clerk didn't look up.
"Transfer received," the escort said.
The clerk's pen scratched. "Name."
"Zidane," Zidane said, because he'd learned lies were expensive here.
The clerk didn't pause. "Full name."
"Just Zidane."
The pen paused this time. The clerk looked up, finally, eyes sharp but bored. "Origin."
Zidane smiled. "Unfortunate."
The clerk stared like Zidane had attempted humor in church.
Zidane softened the smile into something more edible. "Airship. Lower decks. I'm… freelance."
"Occupation," the clerk said.
Zidane considered saying person.
He didn't.
"Useful stray," he said instead, because the city had already decided the label and it cost less to wear it than fight it—right now.
The clerk's pen resumed. "Useful," he repeated, like it was a category in a ledger.
Zidane's throat tightened. He kept his face bright.
The clerk's gaze flicked once to Quina.
Quina lifted a hand and waved, like they were at a parade.
"Hello," Quina said politely. "Hungry?"
The clerk stared at the hat, the round face, the calm eyes. His pen slowed.
"It speaks," he said.
"It does that," Zidane said. "It's a hobby."
The clerk set his pen down carefully, like it might be contaminated by whimsy. "Contraband animals are—"
"Not an animal," Quina corrected.
The clerk's mouth twitched. Not a smile. More like a muscle remembering it had a job. "What is it, then."
Quina thought for a heartbeat, as if consulting a menu.
"Partner," Quina said.
Zidane coughed a laugh that came out sharp with panic. "Quina's—uh—big on commitment."
The escort shifted subtly, hand near the aethercaster, like the word partner had tightened something in the room.
Zidane felt it. That micro-change. That little rise in pressure. The way a room got quieter right before someone got hurt.
So he did what he always did when the air got dangerous.
He performed.
"Listen," Zidane said brightly, leaning forward as far as the cuffs allowed. "If you're worried about bites, I'm the one with the knife. It's in my boot. You missed it on the pat-down because you were charmed."
The escort's glove tightened on Zidane's upper arm. A warning, not a strike.
The clerk watched Zidane for a long moment, then made a small decision with his eyes.
Not mercy. Not cruelty.
Utility.
"We're short-handed," the clerk said. "And the Queen prefers the castle quiet."
Zidane's smile didn't change. "Love a preference."
The clerk reached beneath the desk and pulled out a ring of keys.
Not one key.
A constellation.
Old iron keys, brass keys, thin keys with intricate teeth, modern magitek-latched keys with tiny crystal studs. The ring itself was heavy enough to swing like a weapon.
The clerk set it on the desk with a clink that felt like a collar dropping into place.
Zidane stared at it. "Those are—"
"Service keys," the clerk said. "You'll run errands. Open doors. Carry messages. Stay out of sight."
"Why me?" Zidane asked before he could stop himself.
The clerk looked at him like the answer was boring. "You're already in trouble. If you run, you get caught. If you steal, you get punished. If you behave, you're useful."
There it was again.
Useful.
Zidane's grin turned a shade sharper. "So I'm… community service."
The clerk nodded once. "You're a stray with hands."
Zidane's chest did that tight thing again. He swallowed it down like paste.
The escort stepped forward and unlocked one cuff—just one—leaving the other still chained, still reminding Zidane he didn't belong to himself yet. The free hand tingled like it didn't trust the concept.
"Take the keys," the escort said.
Zidane reached out.
The moment his fingers touched the ring, he felt the weight of the castle settle into his palm—every locked door, every restricted corridor, every secret someone thought a key could protect.
He lifted the ring and made it jingle lightly, like it was fun.
"Okay," he said. "Sure. I love chores. I'm basically a princess."
Quina peered at the keys with interest. "Eat?"
"No," Zidane said immediately. "No eating keys. The city would—"
Quina blinked. "Why city mad."
"Because keys are how Control feels safe," Zidane muttered without thinking.
The clerk's eyes narrowed. "What did you say."
Zidane snapped the grin back on like a mask. "I said I'm honored. Deeply. Truly. If I cry, it's only because the keys are heavy."
The clerk didn't smile. "First errand. West service hall. Third door. Deliver this."
He slid an envelope across the desk. The wax seal bore the castle crest, pressed hard, as if the stamp had been angry.
Zidane took it with his free hand, careful, the way you held things you could be blamed for.
The escort jerked his head. "Move."
So Zidane moved.
—
The service corridors were a second city stitched inside the first.
No paintings. No marble. No flowers pretending this place was kind.
Just narrow halls, low ceilings, and doors that all looked the same until you noticed the tiny differences: a different kind of hinge, a different kind of latch, a different kind of ward-scratch in the stone above the frame.
Alexandria didn't just lock doors.
It remembered locks.
Zidane walked fast because fast looked like compliance and compliance bought you seconds of not getting hurt. The keys clanked softly at his side like a chain to a different kind of prison.
Quina padded along like it had always belonged in castles. Like the hat was a crown and hunger was a title.
They passed a kitchen entry where heat poured out in a delicious punch. The smell of bread stabbed Zidane right in the ribs.
He slowed half a step without meaning to.
A kitchen worker saw his cuffs and flinched like his poverty was contagious. She yanked a tray closer to her chest as Zidane passed.
Zidane smiled anyway. "Don't worry," he said lightly. "I'm not stealing. I'm just admiring. From a distance. Like art."
The worker didn't answer.
Quina craned its neck, sniffed, and said softly, "Good smell."
Zidane's stomach growled loud enough to embarrass him in front of the stone.
He kept walking.
West service hall. Third door.
He found it by the way the lock looked at him.
A thin crystal stud was set into the handle, pulsing faintly. Not bright. Not dramatic. Just enough to say: I know you're here.
Zidane held up the ring of keys and felt, absurdly, like he was about to pick a pocket that could pick him back.
He tried the first key.
No.
Second.
No.
Third.
The stud flared slightly and made a sound like a tiny throat clearing.
Zidane glanced at Quina. "It's judging me."
Quina blinked. "Eat judge."
Zidane snorted once, then tried a slimmer key—brass, worn smooth.
It slid in.
The lock clicked with a sound that felt too satisfied.
Zidane pushed the door open and stepped into a short passage that led… nowhere.
Just a servant stairwell and another door at the end.
He frowned. "This is just… door after door."
Quina nodded. "Many doors means many hungry."
"I don't think that's how architecture works."
Quina stared at him patiently like he'd said something cute.
Zidane knocked on the second door, waited, then knocked again. No answer.
His escort behind him shifted, impatient.
Zidane leaned in and whispered to the door, "Hello? I have mail. If you don't take it, I'll have to keep it, and then I'll be responsible, and we both know that's not safe."
A bolt slid back.
The door opened a fraction.
A woman's eye appeared in the crack—sharp, tired, and afraid of being overheard.
Zidane lifted the envelope. "Delivery," he said softly, tone suddenly gentler without him choosing it.
The eye flicked to his cuffs.
The door opened wider.
The woman took the envelope with two fingers like it might be cursed. She didn't thank him. She didn't insult him.
She looked past him down the corridor, as if expecting someone worse.
Then she closed the door.
The bolt slid back into place.
Zidane stood there for a beat, listening to the silence.
Quina peered at the closed door. "Lady smells scared."
Zidane swallowed. "Yeah."
The escort nudged him. "Next."
"Right," Zidane said, bright again. "More errands. More doors. Love it. I'm thriving."
—
The errands stacked.
A note to the laundry steward. A key-fetch for a storage room. A message to a guard post where no one spoke above a whisper.
In the nicer halls—where the ceilings rose and the stone turned pale and polished—Zidane caught glimpses through side archways of the castle everyone else saw.
Banners. Statues. Gardens under glass.
And guards.
Always guards.
Some wore full armor. Some wore the gray coats. Some wore clean uniforms that made them look like servants until you noticed the aethercaster on the hip like an extra hand.
Everything was arranged.
Everything was watched.
Zidane started to recognize the subtle ways the castle told you to behave: ward pylons that hummed when you stepped too close, little rune-scratches at knee height that made your skin crawl if you lingered, crystal studs on doors that pulsed brighter when his grin got too sharp.
He wasn't just in a building.
He was in a system.
And the system liked him best when he acted like a tool.
By the fifth errand, his free wrist ached from carrying the key ring. The cuffed wrist ached from being himself.
He rubbed at the skin above the metal without thinking.
The escort saw it.
"Stop fidgeting," the escort said.
Zidane's smile appeared automatically. "Sorry. Habit. I'm allergic to captivity."
The escort's eyes didn't change. "You're in a castle."
"Yeah," Zidane said softly. "So is everyone else."
The escort's gaze sharpened a fraction, like Zidane had stepped too close to something true.
Zidane brightened again immediately. "Anyway! Where to next? Pantry? Armory? Secret princess closet? I'm flexible."
The escort didn't answer.
He just guided Zidane down another corridor—narrower, older, colder. The stone changed here, rougher, more damp. The air tasted like underground.
Zidane felt his ribs tighten.
Quina's head tilted. That sharp, conceptual-threat tilt.
"Down," Quina said, pleased.
Zidane whispered, "Don't sound excited about that."
Quina blinked. "Many hungry down."
Zidane didn't like the way Quina said it.
Not because it was wrong.
Because it sounded like Quina had been expecting it.
They rounded a corner and Zidane saw a covered cart being rolled across an intersection ahead.
Canvas over a metal frame. The wheels didn't squeak—oiled, maintained, loved.
Two guards pushed it. A third walked beside it with a hand on the canvas like he was soothing something alive underneath.
The cart was… small.
Not small like a food cart.
Small like it was meant to carry something that didn't take up much space.
Zidane slowed before he could stop himself.
The escort behind him tightened his grip.
"Keep moving," he said.
Zidane kept moving, but his eyes didn't.
As they passed, the canvas shifted slightly in the harbor wind that somehow reached even here.
Zidane saw the edge of a leather strap hanging from inside.
Not a harness.
A restraint.
Smaller than his wrist.
Child-sized.
His throat tightened so hard it hurt.
Quina watched the cart with calm interest, eyes bright in a way that made Zidane want to grab it and hide it under his shirt like a secret.
"Small friends," Quina said softly. "Smell scared."
One of the cart guards hissed at the others, voice low. "Quiet. No talking in the hall. The Princess is near."
Another guard muttered, "Not the Princess. The Queen's steward. She wants the inventory updated."
Inventory.
Zidane's stomach turned.
A fourth person appeared briefly at the end of the hall: a woman in a clean uniform holding a case.
She snapped the case shut with a crisp motion.
The case was filled with cuffs.
Small cuffs.
Collars.
Straps with crystal inlays.
Zidane's fingers curled around the key ring so hard the metal bit into his palm.
He kept his smile on because his body hadn't been given permission to do anything else.
"Cool," he whispered to himself. "Cool. Normal castle stuff. Just… you know. Kid leashes. Everyday."
The escort's voice cut in, flat and warning. "Eyes forward."
Zidane's smile sharpened. "Of course. Love forward. Forward is my favorite direction."
They passed the cart.
The hush voices faded behind them.
But the image stayed, lodged under Zidane's ribs like a splinter you couldn't pull out without bleeding.
Quina waddled close enough that Zidane's boot brushed its hat brim.
A tiny bump. A tiny anchor.
Zidane breathed out slowly.
"Okay," he murmured. "Okay. We're fine."
Quina blinked up at him. "Friend lies."
Zidane huffed a laugh that tasted like fear. "Yeah. I know."
—
They reached a door that looked older than the rest.
No crystal stud. No polished handle. Just thick wood reinforced with iron, the kind of door you built when you didn't want what was behind it to become part of the world above.
A plaque was bolted to it.
LOWER SERVICE — BASEMENT ACCESS
Zidane stared at the word BASEMENT like it was a punchline the castle had been saving.
The escort reached into his pocket and produced a small brass tag stamped with a number.
He hooked it to Zidane's cuff chain.
"Work detail," he said. "If you get lost, someone finds the tag."
Zidane's smile went sweet. "So thoughtful."
The escort held out his hand. "Keys."
Zidane's stomach dropped. "What?"
"Basement keys," the escort said, impatient. "The ring."
Zidane lifted it slowly. "These are—mine."
"They're the castle's," the escort corrected. "You're borrowing."
Zidane's grin flashed, brittle. "Borrowing forever?"
The escort's eyes stayed dead. "Give."
Zidane forced his hand to unclench and placed the ring into the escort's palm.
The escort removed three keys from the ring—thicker, darker, older. He clipped the rest back to his belt like he'd just taken away Zidane's only proof he was allowed to touch the world.
Then he pressed the three keys into Zidane's free hand.
The weight was wrong.
Heavier than they should've been.
Not physically—meaningfully.
"Take these down," the escort said. "Deliver them to the lower steward. Then wait."
Zidane swallowed. "Wait where."
The escort's gaze didn't soften. "In the basement."
Zidane's jokes sprinted into his mouth, desperate to outrun the cold.
They tripped.
He managed, "Okay. Sure. Basement. Love basements. Big fan of… damp."
Quina tilted its head toward the door like it was listening to something on the other side.
"Bones," Quina said, pleased.
Zidane stared at Quina. "Don't say that."
Quina blinked. "Why bones bad."
Zidane didn't have a good answer.
The escort unlocked the door with one of the keys.
The lock responded with a deep clunk like a throat clearing before it spoke.
The door swung inward.
Air rolled out.
Cold, wet, and old.
It smelled like stone that had been soaked in secrets.
Zidane stood at the threshold for half a second too long.
The escort nudged him.
"Move," he said.
Zidane stepped inside.
The stairwell descended immediately—tight, spiraling, lanterns set into wall niches at careful intervals, as if the castle wanted the darkness managed but never fully chased away.
Quina waddled in after him without hesitation.
Zidane took three steps down.
The door began to swing shut behind him.
He turned, reflexive panic snapping his grin into place like a shield.
"Hey," he called up, voice light. "You're not—closing that, right? Because I'm—very responsible and definitely won't get lost and die—"
The escort didn't answer.
The wood met the frame with a soft, final sound.
The lock clicked.
And the basement door shut behind him.