The noble family presented a unique array of dishes to welcome the pirates after their long journey across the ocean to Cascade Cradle. To the crew's delight, these exquisite meals had been prepared with the assistance of Ralphie in the royal kitchen. Knowing this filled Temoshí with immense respect and excitement, as he eagerly dove into the food, savoring every bite like it was a long-lost treasure. Everything around him seemed to gleam with the taste of their cook's masterfully crafted dishes.
Biting into a perfectly cooked piece of meat on the bone, Temoshí delicately, yet voraciously, tore the tender morsels free, savoring the rich, saucy flavors. "Ralphie's cooking is unbeatable! I've missed the days of truly great meals!" he exclaimed between bites, vacuuming up a steaming bowl of savory soup and noodles with impressive speed.
Meanwhile, Tarot was practically melting from the sheer delight of each bite. His ghost-like form seemed to float with bliss as he indulged in every dish within arm's reach. When he discovered a peach dessert layered with sweet cream, it was as if his spirit ascended to a fairytale dream. "Mmm, so good!" he mumbled, his words muffled as he devoured the treat with unrestrained enthusiasm.
Seated beside Celeste, Temoshí's mischievous streak began to show. As she carefully tasted her elegantly prepared meat bowl, he saw an opportunity and quickly swiped a piece of meat from her plate, shoving it into his mouth before she could react.
Her eyes widened in shock as she immediately noticed the theft. "Hey! Just because he's your crew doesn't mean all the food is yours!" she snapped, her tone sharp but her expression betraying mild disbelief.
Temoshí chuckled, unbothered by her scolding. "I knew you weren't as tough as you're pretending to be. Deep down, you're really sweet!" he teased, pointing at her with a grin.
Caught off guard, Celeste flushed at his words, her composure slipping as she coughed lightly into her hand to hide her embarrassment. Turning her head away, she tried to reassert her stern demeanor. "Perhaps I overreacted. My apologies," she said, her voice steady but her pink cheeks betraying her flustered state. Even as she resumed eating with the grace of a noble princess, a hint of lingering embarrassment remained.
With a graceful sweep of her spoon, Celeste brought it steadily to her lips, tasting the warm, tender meat cloaked in a slightly spicy sauce. Her face remained frozen like an unyielding glacier, her composure as steady as a statue. But her eyes betrayed her—they quivered slightly, glistening with delight as the rich flavors danced across her tongue. "It's... it's incredible! I haven't had food this good in years!" she exclaimed, her voice tinged with genuine awe.
Hearing this, Ralphie practically launched into orbit, spinning with unrestrained glee like a windblown banner. "The dazzling Celeste adores my cooking! My soul sings like a thousand serenading violins under a starlit sky! A culinary masterpiece has bridged the gap between a dashing knight and his radiant princess! Oh, Celeste, shall we carve our love story into the annals of history, sealed with spices and sauces?!"
He clutched his chest dramatically, swaying as though about to faint, while the rest of the room erupted in laughter at his theatrical display.
Celeste did her best to ignore Ralphie's overly dramatic antics, though a flicker of uncertainty crossed her face as she tried to make sense of his declarations. Choosing to focus on the meal instead, she sampled more dishes and discovered a variety of flavors she had never encountered before, each one surprising and delightful in its own way.
"I'm pleased to see everyone enjoying the meal," Damien said warmly, savoring a forkful of a carefully prepared salad, its vibrant flavors blending harmoniously. Turning his attention to Ralphie, who was still lost in his romantic reverie, Damien chuckled lightly. "Your friend has an exceptional gift as a cook. He put great care and thought into these dishes, and the result is nothing short of extraordinary. Truly, he's a talent worth celebrating."
Chiaki, seated across from Damien, tilted her head with a curious yet concerned expression. "Mr. Damien, is something wrong with Stitch? Shouldn't she be here with us? Don't tell me she's locked away in her room. I'd really enjoy her company at the table."
Damien remained calm and offered a kind smile, his tone warm and reassuring. "Stitch is a bit of an enigma. Even we have trouble understanding what's going on in her mind. But yes, she's likely upstairs in her room. If you'd like, feel free to check on her. Hopefully, she hasn't already gone to bed."
Encouraged by Damien's words, Chiaki nodded in understanding and stood up from her seat. "I'll go see if she'd like to join us. I'm sure a meal before turning in for the night could do her some good." With that, she made her way toward the staircase and began ascending toward Stitch's room.
Chiaki knocked gently on Stitch's bedroom door—once, then twice. "Hey, Stitch. Are you in there? Asleep, maybe?" she called out, expecting some sort of response. But nothing came—not even the creak of the floorboards. The silence unsettled her; usually, Stitch's room was alive with the sound of music, but now it was eerily quiet.
Growing more concerned, Chiaki slowly pushed the door open and stepped inside. The room was empty, shrouded in a faint glow from nearly burnt-out candles. A sudden gust of wind swept in through the wide-open window, extinguishing the fragile flames in an instant. Stitch was nowhere to be seen. The sight of the open window and the empty room told Chiaki all she needed to know—Stitch hadn't just gone to bed. She'd disappeared, likely through the window.
In the quiet, desolate streets far from the warmth of the household, Stitch moved cautiously through the fog-laden night, her stitched uniform folded neatly in her hands. Beside her, a small red straw doll floated eerily, its left eye stitched into a cross, bobbing in the air like a restless bird. The doll's gentle sway contrasted sharply with Stitch's tense demeanor.
Her eyes darted to every shadowed corner as though they might hold the answer she was searching for. "Where are they now?" she murmured, her voice laced with unease. She glanced toward the doll. "Mendy, see anything? They're usually around here." Mendy's straw head tilted slightly, then shook with a slow, silent refusal before drifting down to rest by her shoulder.
"Of course," Stitch sighed, frustration mixing with worry. She pressed forward into the misty streets, her footsteps echoing faintly against the cobblestones as the cold night pressed in on her. "Pippin! Nia! Are you here?" she called, her voice carrying a hint of desperation. But the silence answered back, heavy and oppressive, crawling under her skin like a living thing.
She froze when her gaze caught something glinting under the flickering light of a lantern. Crouching, she reached out and picked up a small bracelet lying abandoned on the ground. Her breath hitched. "This is Nia's..." she whispered, her fingers trembling as she turned it over in her hands. A chill that had nothing to do with the cold raced down her spine. Why was it here? Why had it been left behind?
Her heart began to pound as unease turned into outright dread. She slipped the bracelet into her pocket, wiping her clammy hands on her top before breaking into a sprint. Her boots clattered loudly against the cobblestones, and her voice grew frantic, echoing into the dark void. "Pippin! Nia! It's me, Stitch! Where are you? I brought the new uniforms I stitched for your family! Answer me! Please!"
The fog swallowed her cries, her breath coming in ragged bursts as she ran, her panic clawing at her chest. Shadows seemed to loom larger, and the night stretched endlessly ahead of her. Her voice cracked with the strain of her shouting. "Can you hear me? It's me!" But the silence remained unbroken, smothering her in its cruel grip. Her mind churned with dark thoughts—visions of something terrible, something irreversible.
Each unanswered call felt like a knife twisting deeper into her anxiety. Sweat dripped down her face, her hands trembling as fear took hold, constricting her chest like iron chains. The quiet streets, once familiar, now felt alien and hostile, and Stitch couldn't shake the feeling that she was racing against an unseen force—one that had already taken what she held dear.
In the oppressive stillness of the night, a shadow darted across the rooftops, its form cloaked in darkness and moving with inhuman speed. The faint swish of a billowing coat trailed behind it, the only sound marking its passage. Beneath, the streets slumbered in silence, the world below unaware of the figure gliding above.
Stitch, now further into the labyrinth of empty streets, felt a growing heaviness in her chest, an inexplicable dread tightening its grip on her mind. She couldn't discern if it was a genuine sense of danger or the relentless churn of her own anxieties. A cold thought struck her—was someone watching her? Was someone following her every move? The questions spun in her mind like an endless spiral, and the answers felt maddeningly out of reach.
"Is... someone there?" she called out hesitantly, her voice barely more than a whisper. Her unease had taken root, urging her to scan her surroundings, her eyes flicking to every corner, every shadowed alley, and every rooftop. The faint glow of lanterns offered little comfort; the darkness seemed impenetrable, hiding whatever presence might be lurking.
Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, but the silence remained unbroken. There was nothing—no sound, no movement—but the oppressive quiet only fueled her paranoia. She swallowed hard, trying to convince herself it was all in her head. Just nerves... nothing's out here, she thought, though her body refused to fully believe the lie.
Determined to press on, Stitch tried to focus back on her search, her earlier urgency returning. But the unease lingered, like an unwelcome companion clinging to her every step. This time, she moved quietly, her voice silenced by caution. Whatever—or whoever—might be out there, she didn't want to draw its attention.
As Stitch turned her head, her breath caught in her throat, and a wave of terror washed over her. Emerging from the shadows was a figure that seemed torn from a nightmare. Its face was a grim, skull-like mask of polished metal, the left eye carved into a cross that stared blankly into nothingness, while the right eye burned with a searing crimson pupil, flickering like a dying flame.
Before her stood the assassin, silent and menacing, cloaked in darkness. In its hands were two monstrous cleavers, their jagged blades glinting in the faint light. The handles of the weapons were connected by heavy chains that rattled with an ominous metallic hiss as the figure shifted its stance. The air around it seemed to grow heavier, as if the very atmosphere recoiled from its presence.
Panic surged through Stitch's veins as the assassin lunged with terrifying precision. One of the cleavers swung toward her with a force so immense it seemed to cut through the air itself, the blade humming with lethal intent. Her instincts took over—her hand darted to her pocket, grabbing a fistful of needles—but there was no time to throw them. She leaped back with all her strength, feeling the wind of the cleaver's swing brush past her face.
The sheer power of the attack left her momentarily frozen. The blade had passed so close, she could feel the cold edge graze a strand of her hair before it whistled past, cleaving into the ground with a deafening crack. A cloud of shattered stone and dust erupted from the impact, the force shaking the ground beneath her feet.
Stitch stumbled backward, her heart pounding like a war drum. Her trembling hands clutched the needles tightly as she widened the distance between herself and the assassin. Her breath came in short, frantic gasps, her mind screaming a single thought: That could have been my head.
The assassin's presence seemed to suffocate the very air around them, an unsettling calmness in the midst of chaos. Its eyes, those burning red pupils, locked onto Stitch with a chilling, predatory precision. For a moment, the world seemed to freeze, and Stitch, still reeling from the near-death experience, struggled to breathe, to understand the sheer terror she had just felt.
The assassin didn't move. It didn't need to. The silence between them was deafening, a vacuum where nothing existed but the weight of its gaze. Its cold, mechanical voice pierced the air, heavy and emotionless, as if it had come from the deepest recesses of a forgotten, soulless place.
"Who are you...?"
The words hung in the air, sharp and ominous, sending a shiver down Stitch's spine. The question wasn't one of curiosity—it was a command, a demand for an answer. But Stitch, heart racing, still couldn't piece together what was happening. Who was this monster before her? What was it, and why did it feel as though her very existence was being dissected under that unblinking stare?
Her mind raced, fighting to find some kind of clarity amidst the chaos, but all she could do was stand there, her body tensed, her fingers clutching the needles in her pocket like a lifeline.
To be continued...