Political marriages.
The concept is simple enough to grasp. Rather than uniting for mutual love or the genuine desire to spend one's life with another, a political marriage joins two wealthy families seeking favorable relations—or perhaps simply coveting each other's land and influence. Children become bargaining chips, married off from obligation rather than affection.
This was the situation Rika had found herself in.
And in all honesty? She had no one to blame but herself for how it had transpired.
***
FEBRUARY 1ST — THE EXACT SAME DAY, LATER IN THE EVENING
1900 HOURS
UHURU GARDENS — NAIROBI
On a completely unrelated note: if you were in the mood for a first date—the kind where you want to impress your special someone—might I offer a suggestion?
Take them to the central square of Uhuru Gardens at night.
The space transforms after sunset. Strings of lights crisscross overhead, casting warm pools of illumination across carefully manicured lawns. Fountains ripple with colored illumination. The city's hum fades to a distant backdrop, muffled by hedges and trees. It's the kind of atmosphere designed explicitly for romance—for couples sitting at small tables, sharing meals and stolen glances.
Unless, of course, you're not actually in love. In which case, bringing someone here at night might prove... awkward.
When the weather cooperated—as it did tonight, warm and still—the garden keepers transformed into chefs and waiters, serving guests who'd made reservations at the night restaurant. A profitable venture, to be sure. Clever, even.
Depending on your preference, you could choose your setting. The manmade lake at the garden's center, its surface reflecting scattered lights like fallen stars. Or perhaps the bubbling stream that cut through the grounds, winding its way toward the distant sea.
For this high-stakes information-gathering mission, Rika had selected a table near the garden's edge—far from the crowds, secluded enough for private conversation, close enough to the exit for a quick escape if necessary.
She hadn't even bothered going home to change.
The same outfit she'd worn to meetings all day—a tailored charcoal pantsuit, slightly wrinkled now, her hair escaping its severe knot in places—would have to suffice.
'Sometimes,' she thought, watching ice melt in the bucket beside a towering bottle of 8th-century wine, 'low-effort clothing is the only option.'
The restaurant took its service seriously. A pristine white tablecloth. Polished silverware. A single candle flickering in a glass hurricane. The wine alone probably cost more than most people's monthly salary.
'I have to stay on my toes,' Rika reminded herself, forcing her posture straighter. 'No distractions. In theory, they could be using this as cover—trying to figure out our next move. I intend to do the same with him.'
She considered what she knew of the Count Saints.
'The one thing I'll always give them credit for is their lack of transparency. We're locked in this perpetual cycle with people we barely understand, yet they somehow know us intimately.'
Only the first three Count Saints were truly known to her—all introduced by name:
Zeus. Germain. Ares.
Beyond them? A blur. A void of information.
'I'd like to gather intelligence,' she mused. 'Figure out how to deal with them when the moment comes. Understand them within a week, if possible.'
The scrape of a chair interrupted her thoughts.
Rika looked up—and felt her breath catch.
Germain sat across from her, having approached with such utter silence that her senses hadn't registered his presence until he was already seated.
For anyone unfamiliar with his appearance: he dressed in the style of another century entirely. A black jacket, its side seams held together by four square brooches running vertically down the front, secured by a belt at the waist. Around his neck, a large white cravat, intricately folded. Over the jacket, a long overcoat bearing decorative patterns that caught the garden lights. And draped across everything, a cape that wouldn't have looked out of place on Bela Lugosi's Dracula.
His features suggested someone in their late teens—impossibly preserved. Long white hair cascaded past his shoulders. Golden-brown eyes regarded her with an unreadable calm. Those who had seen him years ago would swear he hadn't aged a day, fueling rumors of vampirism. Mythical creatures, perhaps? The two prominent canines that occasionally rested against his lower lip certainly made a compelling argument.
His skin seemed to shift with the light—peach-brown during the day, now reflecting a pale, almost luminous white in the evening glow.
Even after all this time, Rika found herself momentarily mesmerized.
"Miss Amanai." Germain's voice was smooth as aged whiskey. He'd removed his overcoat, draping it over the back of his chair. Leather gloves covered his pale hands, and on one, an emblem she couldn't quite place caught the candlelight. "It's a pleasure to see you."
Rika straightened automatically, professional mask snapping into place. But beneath it, alarm bells rang.
'He passed my senses. Completely. Effortlessly. If he'd wanted to kill me just now...' She suppressed a shiver. 'I just hope not all Count Saints are like this. Otherwise, fighting isn't a viable option. It's not even an option at all.'
"Nice of you to finally join me, Count Germain." Her voice emerged steady, thank the gods.
Germain's lips curved—not quite a smile. "I requested this meeting at exactly seven o'clock. It would appear you arrived earlier of your own volition. Complaining about my punctuality to me is, therefore, highly ineffective."
'This,' Rika realized with sudden clarity, 'is why I hate him. I'd forgotten. But now I remember.'
She allowed herself a single moment to compose her features—a brief downward glance, a steadying breath—before meeting his gaze directly.
"What?" Germain's eyebrow arched. "You look as though you've seen a ghost."
"I might as well have." Rika's voice was flat. "It's been three years since we saw each other face to face. So why don't you save us both the trouble and spit it out. I know why you're here."
"Oh?" Germain's expression didn't shift. "And why's that?"
"About the capture of Akame." Rika leaned forward slightly. "Why else would you appear in Loliwe?"
Germain regarded her for a long, stretched moment.
Then, without a word, he reached for the small service bell on their table and rang it.
'Even the way he rings that bell pisses me off.'
A waiter materialized with impressive speed—a man in elegant attire, posture perfect, expression professionally pleasant.
"How may I serve you both tonight?"
Germain picked up the menu, scanning it with the casual interest of someone who had all the time in the world. "I hear you have a couples special." He paused. "No garlic, please. It's terrible for my digestion."
"Ah, yes—it is our specialty." The waiter nodded approvingly. "Beef roast with a side of raw vegetable salad, cut fresh, accompanied by a rich broth. I'll ask the chef to prepare it without garlic, sir." He turned to Rika. "And for you, miss?"
Rika blinked, momentarily thrown. "Oh... um. Garlic with mine is just fine."
"Excellent. I'll bring that for you both shortly."
The waiter departed with elegant grace, disappearing into the garden's shadows.
Rika turned back to Germain—
And found him reading a newspaper.
Not glancing at it. Not using it as a prop. Actually reading, his eyes tracking across the columns with genuine interest.
'Is he... ignoring me?'
TO BE CONTINUED....