15.1

As they arrived from the west, the rising sun outlined the Empire's capital, and it reflected in Priscilla's inky eyes. Her unnaturally pale face was cropped by a ring of thick brown, and she'd been thickly bundled in a lot of furs. The sea breeze's kiss was as gentle as it was cold on her nose. Priscilla vaguely remembered that she had hated the cold, and loved the warm indoors.

Now, she didn't really feel it. Rather, she felt Layla may have over bundled her in furs.

"You look ridiculous," Cyril's laughter broke the still morning air.

Priscilla turned her head slightly, but could really turn her entire body. She was sitting in a crudely fashioned wooden wheelchair. Because she'd been crippled. Reminded that she'd failed to even protect herself, she felt ashamed. A dark desire to throw herself over the ship's railing had fluttered into her mind.

"Miss Steel had said I needed to keep warm," Priscila said as Cyril appeared beside her and sat on the railing. She was wearing her black dress, but this time, she wore strange black trousers along with it. Still, it made Priscilla feel cold just looking at her.

"Psh, she would," Cyril rolled her lovely golden eyes, then she looked to Priscilla. "How's your back doing?" She pointed down to Priscilla's midriff, and the teen unconsciously brought her hand over to cover it.

"It's... Doing well," Priscilla gave a brittle smile. "I have some feeling returning, but Layla won't let me walk yet. She said that Bishop Luis said I needed three more treatments before I could even bother to try walking."

"When's the next one?" Cyril asked.

"Tomorrow, after dinner," Priscilla replied. "If you don't want too... I could have one of the priests from the Alistarian Captial chapter to help me. Bishop Luis left me a letter of introduction and--"

Priscilla stopped when she saw Cyril's icy glare. It wouldn't have been that disturbing if she'd been normal. The black webs that hung under her left eye, along with that new four-inch horn that broke past her bangs, made her feel more menacing; demonic.

"I will do it," Cyril said slowly, enunciating each word. "I never said I didn't want to do it,"

Priscilla stayed quiet, and simply nodded her understanding. Ever since that night, with the undead, Cyril was prone to anger over simple things. Priscilla had only tried to be nice, and offer her an alternative should she not desire to treat her anymore. Yet, that had only roused another calm flame from her.

The goddess blinked twice before she turned away, she did not understand where this agitation was coming from either. But she couldn't bring herself to apologize for it either.

"Ah, Lady Cyril," Layla's voice broke the tension that had settled between the girls. "It's nice to see you." The woman bowed to Cyril as she held a warm drink, then she handed it over to Priscilla before she took a step back. "The Captain said we'll be docking shortly."

Cyril nodded, displeasure still hung from her eyes as she slid off the railing.

"I'll get Fenrir ready then." She said as she walked away, leaving Layla confused. Priscilla felt bad for even broaching the subject, though she hadn't been the one to even do so.

When they docked, the wharf was teeming with activity that was, much to Cyril's surprise, like a well oiled machined. Several small wagons attached to donkeys were being loaded beside several ships. The dock hands were quick with their work, their burly bodies maneuvering crates, barrels, and sacks into tidy stacks before the wagons were pulled away. Tens of warehouses lined wharf that seemed to gut out from the city over two miles, until the cliff. That was where the ships became much more military in nature.

The frigate was made to dock on the closest open station to the civilian section. From there, the ship had been inspected. The captain had brought several letters out for the naval officers to read, whereupon doing such, the navy began to quietly rally. The whole affair had been done in less than ten minutes, mostly because they held no cargo.

Cyril's horn had been covered by a thick fur hood, and the black webs had been passed off as tattoos. Nothing else had been scrutinized closer. After their inspection had been completed, they'd been brought into the customs office. There, they'd met the Harbor Custom's chief - a plump man in his thirties - and he'd been the one to personally process them. As well as the reports sent with them.

Their treatment had been lukewarm all around but upon the reports being read, the office had gone solemn. Nothing came of it immediately, other than promises to get them to the Palace. From there, the treatment had gone up a hundred-fold. Tea had been brought in, and the Chief paid lip service to the girls as the secretary recorded them in their ledger.

Because Priscilla was of the Hammel House, one of the powerful noble houses within the city, she'd acted as Cyril's guarantor. Much to Priscilla's relief, Cyril hadn't been as cranky as she'd been with the deceased Lord Gulley, and she'd spent most of her time asking about the city. To which, maybe because Cyril was an exotic beauty, or because her backer was the Hammel household or both; he'd been more than accommodating of her.

By the time everything was completed, Cyril and Priscilla had been escorted out of the office with smiles and flattering words.

The sun had risen high over the city by a good margin, to which Priscilla knew it was midday. Layla and Fenrir had waited for them just outside, along with the captain and a lot of uneasy soldiers. And a rather fancy carriage that made Priscilla stiffen in the chair as Cyril pushed her.

"My Lady!" The guards had saluted at once when they saw her before one stepped forward. "Your father has sent us to retrieve you, and your guests."

"That was rather quick..." Priscilla gave a weary wave of her hand before looking up to see Cyril's expression.

Cyril's mood had been rather good after the treatment she'd received in Customs, and she had a curious sparkle in her eye; a sparkle aimed at the carriage.

Much to Priscilla's protests, Cyril had sent her off to her father, who'd summoned her to the Imperial Palace where he was. The guards had also wanted to take her and Layla, as Lord Hammel had summoned all of his daughter's entourage; Fenrir had put them in their place though, and the two girls let the wharf on their own two feet - guarded by the trusty wolf.

Cyril didn't feel like heading to the Imperial Palace, and Layla had to find her daughter. As such, Cyril was much more interested in Layla than to go deal with some annoying nobles. She remembered her father complaining about nobility, especially the antiquated "noble houses" of England and Britain. The irony that Priscilla was nobility wasn't lost upon her, and neither was that the three that had left them at Port Gulley were royalty.

But that was neither here nor there. Much rather, she felt stifled by being around Priscilla. Cramped aboard that frigate, Cyril found herself unable to be around the young girl. She was either fretting, crying, or clinging to Cyril for comfort. But a heavy sense of guilt and anger rose in her when she was. She could not forget how she failed, failed.