Same Bed, Different Dreams
The announcer on the magic screen wore a grave expression as she began reporting the incident in the imperial capital.
Click.
"Huh? I was watching that just fine. Why'd you turn it off?"
I said that while covering my flushed face with my hand, staring at Ariel, who had just shut off the magic screen mid-broadcast.
"Saintess?"
"...Abel. You really are..."
"Ahaha. Sorry, sorry."
It had been about two days since the Miraz drug incident wrapped up.
In that time, every news outlet and newspaper in the empire had been running nonstop coverage of Ariel's heroics at the hotel.
Necromancy—a heretical power—had reared its head in the imperial capital.
And the one who subdued it? The Saintess, dual-wielding pistols.
Even I had to admit, it was headline gold no one could ignore.
Rustle.
As if to prove my point, today's newspaper splashed a front-page photo of Ariel striding out of the hotel, pistols in hand.
Her holy garb fluttered like an angel's robes, sacred and ethereal, inspiring awe in anyone who saw it.
"Ugh..."
But for some reason, Ariel hated seeing herself in that outfit. She squeezed her eyes shut, as if confronted with something mortifying.
"So."
I held up the photo on the front page—the one of her in the battle-modified nun's habit, as the papers called it.
In truth, this was only our third meeting since the incident ended. The first was just casual chit-chat.
From the second onward, we'd delved into more personal topics: what she did in her downtime, her hobbies, favorite foods—shared interests, basically.
Am I flirting?
The thought crossed my mind for a second, but she showed no real affection, so I scrapped it.
Less like affection and more like...
How to put it? She seemed to be building rapport for pragmatic reasons.
Of course, given her personality, those reasons weren't selfish or anything.
Anyway, as our meetings continued, today's visit took a turn.
We were just settling in for our usual routine—chatting over news or papers—when she spotted the newspaper on the table and froze.
Eh...?
Not her usual reaction.
Curiosity piqued, I tested the waters during our talk: the broadcast, the news, and especially that paper that set her off first.
"Why the strong reaction?"
I checked the photo again—no reason to be that embarrassed.
If she hated media exposure, she'd have flipped out harder at the TV or headlines.
But only this one photo—the newspaper shot—drew that intense response.
"..."
She squeezed her eyes shut tighter, dodging my question.
"Heh."
Short laugh. No matter how I pressed, she evaded. I glanced down at the paper in my hand.
Almost every article was about Ariel.
Not a single line on the Miraz drug that drew her to the hotel in the first place.
Of course, "Saintess Purges Undead Horde from Hotel with Dual Pistols" trumped "Drug Ring Busted" for clicks.
Any reporter would salivate over that scoop.
But zero coverage on the drugs? Only one explanation.
They buried it.
Whether through pressure or direct orders, the empire wanted this drug mess hushed up. My guess, anyway.
"Well, given the timing, burying it makes sense..."
Just days ago, there was that airship hijacking terror en route to the capital.
In that chaos, announcing a drug ring too? Nah.
Hell, "Heretical Necromancy Strikes Empire, But Saintess Cleanses It" was way better for soothing the public.
As I muttered that, Ariel—hands over her eyes, squirming in embarrassment—opened them and looked at me.
"Ah..."
Her gaze hit the paper in my hand. She let out a quiet sigh.
She'd caught the implication.
"The empire isn't exactly peaceful right now, is it?"
"Yeah, no real upside to it going public."
"...Thank you for understanding."
"Huh?"
Her sudden words pulled my eyes from the paper to her face.
Understanding? What?
Hmm? No way.
"Ariel, were you thinking I'd demand some reward from the empire?"
"Pardon? Ah, yes. It was quite the incident... And wasn't it you who tipped them off about the organization secretly backing the Miraz mage?"
"Well, yeah, but..."
She had a point.
I'd passed intel on that shadowy group to Nostradamus Family's Breck; with his ties to imperial intelligence, it'd reach them easy.
But I'd asked Breck to keep my involvement quiet.
"Still, with the empire already buzzing over succession rights, I don't need them spotting me."
Honestly, I figured they knew something about me the moment I linked up with the Nebula Ducal Residence.
Standard for intel to track me.
But jumping from "Nebula bastard" to "key informant on major plot"? Totally different league.
My name floating around the succession-hot imperial court? Headache city.
"Ariel, aren't you dealing with this succession mess too?"
"Ahaha..."
She gave a wry smile, clearly relating—maybe even more than me, as the Saintess drawing political heat.
She might hate the politics, but "Saintess" was too juicy a card to ignore.
"..."
She looked worn out, enough that her wry smile couldn't hide it.
"Anyway, enough headache talk. What brings you here today?"
"Ah... I heard you're leaving today, so I came to say goodbye."
She smiled faintly and continued.
"You worked hard, Abel. Thanks to you, we nipped this drug crisis in the bud."
"I was just fulfilling a Nostradamus Family commission."
Exactly that—a job I wouldn't have touched without their request, or if the Master's shop hadn't gotten half-wrecked.
"Yes, perhaps. But without you, this would've dragged on, plunging people into suffering. Ending it quick? That's worth thanks."
"..."
I sipped my table coffee, silent.
Occasionally, chatting with Ariel revealed something.
Hard to pin down, but she'd casually state certainties about outcomes—like she knew.
I first noticed at our second meeting.
She'd done it talking about the airship hijacking too.
Curious...
Rofan protagonist with future knowledge? Or regressor?
But that's no smoking gun...
Just suspicious vibes—no hard proof.
Her friendly overtures plus those slips fueled doubt, but nothing concrete.
As I pondered her, Ariel spoke cautiously.
"You're heading back to the Nebula Ducal Residence, right?"
"Huh? Yeah, pretty much."
"...Abel, there's something I need to tell you."
She began carefully.
How she'd learned my name.
The [Shadow] assassins from the Nebula Ducal Residence visiting her room in the Holy Kingdom.
And the letter they'd delivered.
The mystery of why she'd known and approached me from the start—solved.
"The letter self-ignited after a while. Some timed mechanism to vanish."
"..."
"I think the Nebula Duke has his eye on you. That's why I'm telling you."
She didn't say it outright, but her eyes screamed caution: The family head's watching—be careful.
With that, she seemed done. She finished the coffee Mist brought and offered final goodbyes.
"Oh, and get the latest typewriter once you're at the residence. Got it?"
She left those parting words.
The house fell quiet.
"More coffee?"
"Yeah, please."
Sipping the fresh cup Mist poured, I mulled the duke leaking my info to Ariel—and deploying [Shadow].
Why share it? Why send them?
......
Nope, no clue.
Can't read a madman's mind.
One thing clear, though.
The duke's got me on his radar... somehow.
Logically, though, he'd hardly favor the guy who wounded him—even if it was illusionary—so "attention" likely meant trouble.
I treated the duke who "killed" me (in hallucination) like the psycho he was.
What a pain...
Tangled with a headache org, aiming to claim headship and counterattack—now slightly derailed.
Mist, noticing my brooding over coffee, asked while serving snacks.
"Abel, do you have worries?"
"Huh? Nah—er, yeah. Might as well spill."
She served me already; no secrets.
Plus, she'd overheard Ariel's careful words.
I laid it out: Planning to become head, but the duke's eyeing me—probably negatively.
Mist sipped her coffee, watching Abel quietly lament the snag.
Should be fine, though.
The duke hating her master Abel? Doubtful—probably the opposite.
Given the duke's nature, he'd respect the guts that wounded him that day.
"..."
As she geared up to convey that, no voice came. She frowned slightly at her constraint.
Bound by orders: no direct aid in the bastards' succession fight.
Even hinting the duke viewed Abel positively? That counted as aid.
Frustrating.
Intent to speak, body locks up.
Another limit kept her from approaching: orders to advise—or surveil—the bastards from afar.
Thus, she couldn't initiate contact.
What maid touches her master without leave?
Gazing at Abel's slightly exposed collarbone in his loose collar, she sighed wetly.
This is torture.
"Haa..."
"Haa..."
They sighed in unison.
Abel, over the duke's negative view.
Mist, from bottled-up desire.
A perfect case of same bed, different dreams.