The Uninvited Guest

"Father…" a girl mutters, feeling an icy pressure in the air, cold and biting, like a winter wind slicing through her resolve.

"Yes?" he replies, his voice as sharp and frigid as the atmosphere around them.

"My guide… he's…" She coughs, the words catching in her throat.

"Oh, I'm sorry," he says slowly, the icy presence dissipating slightly. He continues, his tone as indifferent as ever, "Sin-iddin-apli, you're talking about your guide, right? He died?"

"Yes, I don't know how—I—" She struggles, her voice faltering, the words slipping away as if stolen by the chill in the room.

"Why did you kill him?" he asks abruptly, his gaze piercing through the dimly lit hall. "I just came from the meeting. Kokoro is dead. Funny how no one paid attention to his body; the Takashiro family should take it." He pauses, resting his hands on the throne—a throne as rugged and jagged as the man who sits upon it. Its uneven edges and impractical design contrast sharply with the aura of regality he exudes.

Red carpets stretch from the entrance to the base of the throne, their rich hue a stark contrast to the dark, dimly lit hall. Shadows dance along the walls, flickering with the unsteady light of torches.

Bel-ibni straightens his crown, fixing it with a deliberate touch. His eyes, a cold and piercing dark blue, scan his daughter, contrasting sharply with her warm brown eyes. He speaks again, his voice devoid of warmth or concern.

"I'm sorry, he tried to—" she begins, her voice trembling.

"He didn't try to do anything… why lie?" he interrupts, leaning back into the throne, his gaze shifting upward to the high, shadowed ceiling. "What's your Unwritten Skill?" he asks suddenly, a hint of curiosity breaking through his icy demeanor.

"Past Echo," she mutters, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Veil," he replies simply, almost dismissively.

"Yes," she confirms, her eyes meeting his briefly before falling to the floor.

"Hmm, you definitely have the best skill," he says, his tone laced with a mix of sarcasm and reluctant admiration.

Sin-iddin-apli sits relaxed on a low cushioned seat. Despite the intimidating hall, her posture exudes quiet command. She wears a deep blue robe that flows like water, its wide sleeves revealing a soft, vibrantly lined interior in pink, green, and yellow. Her long, thick black hair falls freely, loosely tied back from her face with a simple cord.

She sits at the intersection of two worlds—one of quiet defiance and the other wanting to kill her father, maybe seeing Ryuji do it gave her a sense of hope.

"Now," her father starts, his tone darkening, "why did you kill your guide?"

"I… You—I…" She stutters, shrinking under the weight of his scrutiny. Her father's distant eyes continue to bore into her, cold and unrelenting.

"Do you want my attention? Is that it?" he presses, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade.

"No," she replies sharply, her voice clear and resolute. It resonates through the hall, unwavering and fierce.

"You're nothing like your mother," he says, almost as an accusation.

"I know," she responds, her voice firm.

"You do not want to be like her?"

"I do not," she agrees, the words heavy with unspoken history.

"Tell me why you killed your guide," he demands again, his voice lowering into a dangerous growl.

A shadow stirs in the center of the room near the large door that divides the room and the hall outside, and a man's figure begins to materialize from the darkness. The air thickens, and for a moment, it feels as though time itself has paused to witness the unfolding confrontation.

"Are you talking about me?" the figure says, stepping forward. His presence sends a ripple through the tension, altering the gravity of the room as all their eyes turn to him.

"You lied again," Bel-ibni mutters as the figure walks closer.