Глава 11

These statues...

They're the kings of Victoria.

Phantoms roam here.

Not the spirits of the dead... but a shadow of history and memory.

<color=#8f8f8f><i>'Alexandrina.'</i></color>

Their voices have become clear.

They are familiar and warm, as though they came from a forgotten corner of her memory.

Just like how her name was called with scolding and love when she lingered too long in the garden.

<color=#9b9b9b><i>'Alexandrina.'</i></color>

Just like how her name was called with anxiety and urging when she sneaked out of the palace to see what was outside with curious eyes.

<color=#e3e3e3><i>'Alexandrina.'</i></color>

Just like how her name was called with pride and approval when she swung her little wooden sword, dreaming about becoming a warrior without equal.

<color=#bfbfbf><i>'Alexandrina.'</i></color>

But...

Who is calling her like this?

The statues of the Aslan and Draco kings are displayed here.

Here is your grandfather, Frederick III, Conqueror of Gaul. By his side is his mother, Elizabeth the Glorious.

All in the procession begin treading lightly.

She is searching. She knows it is fruitless, but her eyes cannot help but search.

She stops before one of the statues.

It was never finished, leaving behind only a rough silhouette.

Chisel marks can be clearly seen, and an elaborate robe has yet to be liberated from the stone.

Where the face should be, there is only a blur of rock with the slight hint of eyes.

The crown on the head hints at the statue's position.

By tradition, Originium Arts is not used in the creation of these statues. They are the result of years of hard work by royal sculptors.

His Majesty's passing was... sudden.

...I know.

His Majesty's burden was heavy, politically and tangibly.

The empire was saddled with war debts, and the declining Draco hardly welcomed continued Aslan rule with open arms.

No matter how others might assess His Majesty, Father and I did not feel that he was inferior in any way to the kings who lie here.

Perhaps, Allerdale.

I don't remember.

Maybe that's how he looked in my memories.

'Alexandrina'.

Was it him calling? Or all of them?

The statues do not look the same. Some of them look solemn, others look kind.

She finds no image of them in her memory, but feels some kind of connection with them, deep down.

The only ones who may style themselves Victoria are the monarchs of Victoria, and the heir to the throne.

Therefore, she is Victoria, just like them.

She looks away.

Compared to vast and glorious Victoria, she is more familiar with the tiny taverns of Norport Borough, the scalding bitterness of cheap ale, and licking a sour lollipop after a fight.

She turns away.

In that moment, she spots a shadow behind the statues.

To arms!

They all grab their weapons.

Looks like we found the ones who left the traces.

Sarkaz bodies.

Hundreds, if not more.

Most have decomposed into skeletons, but their clothes tell us they were Sarkaz Royal Court elites, and Confessarius guards.

Frankly, the word 'elite' is an understatement. A fight with any one of them would be a desperate struggle.

Who were they fighting?

She feels Allerdale's breath grow heavy.

Bronze continues to glitter in the shadows of the corpses.

Even history could not rob them of their color.

She keeps moving forward.

The knights of the empire never back down.

One after another.

Swords, fire, corrosive Arts. An entire suit of armor is covered in dried blood.

Arts-imbued pila over five meters in length impaled their torsos.

They kept formation, they fought on.

Nothing could defeat them. Not the Royal Court, not the Confessarii.

Not even death.

Suddenly, she understands.

She understands why the sound of steam has not been heard in Londinium for the past four years.

Steam Knights...

Allerdale stumbles. Siege extends an arm to hold her friend..

Are you alright?

I'm fine. It's just the air.

I think back to the steam armor of Cumberland Manor.

They were always defending, no matter the cost.

They were... Steam Knights.

They carried the glorious banner of Victoria.

...No.

No.

The noises screech, roar.

Is it the sound of steam gushing when the knights charge?

What is this emotion, so potent that it threatens to break through everything?

She closes her eyes. The emotions confuse her, but the conclusion is clear.

They...

They were betrayed.

What...?

It's clear from the layout of the bodies that the Steam Knights were the attackers, and the Sarkaz were the defenders.

Ridiculous, isn't it?

This isn't a story of how the Steam Knights defended the symbol of Victoria to their last breaths, in the face of an overwhelming Sarkaz tide.

It was a trap.

The knights stumbled into an ambush that the Sarkaz prepared for them.

An ambush that the Sarkaz set in the Mausoleum of Kings.

Sacrilege!

How did the Sarkaz get in here? The key to the Mausoleum of Kings is only...

No...

We handed it over to them.

The traitor, Duke Cavendish? Or the clown, Duke Stafford?

No.

No Steam Knight has been seen for four years. They were all here.

One or two dukes blinded by ambition could not recall all the Steam Knights to Londinium.

They were betrayed—

By all of Victoria.

The burning palace, the golden mane.

She could not shake the images ever since she set foot within.

She hears the angry roaring of a man, plots being whispered in the shadows.