Langsung ke konten utama

Aeryn Valeria Roderick Journal Page : 21

For the first time in my entire life…

I completely lost control.

Completely.

Utterly.

Catastrophically.

I cried while throwing objects across a private cabin aboard the Leviathan Fleet so violently that several crew members became convinced I was possessed by ancestral spirits.

At one point I vaguely remember someone attempting to enter the room before immediately apologizing to whatever gods protect sailors and closing the door again.

I have since been assigned a separate cabin.

Nobody currently dares approach me.

Excellent.

I am writing this journal as a final attempt to stabilize my emotions before I commit an act of irreversible violence.

If this writing fails to calm me…

Then I can confidently promise that Roderick blood WILL spill aboard this ship.

And it will NOT be mine.

I do not care if that spoon-headed fencing lunatic is supposedly the greatest duelist in the Southern Territories.

I will hand him a saber personally and then fight him barehanded because weapons alone cannot adequately express my emotions anymore.

I screamed at High Admiral Kael Dravenholt.

HIGH ADMIRAL KAEL DRAVENHOLT.

The man stared down sea monsters and military fleets.

I pointed at him while crying and yelled loud enough that nearby sailors visibly evacuated the hallway.

And he said NOTHING.

THAT is the level of emotional instability I have reached.

Three days ago everything was normal.

Normal.

Reine—

YES.

REINE.

There is no more “Miss DeLuna.”

Do not question me.

Reine finished saying farewell to her parents, Master Root, the Undines, and everyone else on the island.

Then we began walking toward the port where the Leviathan Fleet could already be seen near the horizon.

And suddenly—

I heard it.

“WIIIIIFEEEEE!!!”

At that exact moment, every surviving fragment of my mental stability collapsed instantly.

All my denial.

ALL OF IT.

Meaningless.

Because HE WAS REAL.

THE SPOON-HEADED MENACE WAS ACTUALLY THERE.

Wearing a black robe.

A BLACK ROBE.

Standing beside High Elves and academy instructors while smiling like an escaped laboratory accident.

And the children—

THE CHILDREN—

WERE CALLING HIM “PROFESSOR RODERICK.”

PROFESSOR.

RODERICK.

I looked toward Reine in complete horror.

She smiled brightly.

BRIGHTLY.

Then immediately shouted:

“HUUUUBYYY!!!”

At that moment I realized two things simultaneously.

First:

I was not hallucinating.

Second:

I was now also angry at Reine.

Because she said it with the most unbelievably spoiled, mildly annoyed, affectionate tone imaginable.

I repeat:

AFFECTIONATE.

She complained that he should have told her earlier so they could have “played together more.”

PLAYED.

TOGETHER.

ON THE ISLAND OF ELDRITCH SUPER SCHOLARS.

At that point I completely lost emotional regulation.

I grabbed him by the collar.

Violently.

In public.

In front of HIGH ELVES.

And interrogated him immediately about how he infiltrated the island.

DO YOU KNOW WHAT THIS MAN SAID TO ME.

“I didn’t sneak in.”

EXCUSE ME???

Apparently Daddy personally allowed him aboard the caravel.

Then I demanded to know how he infiltrated the LEVIATHAN FLEET.

Again:

“I didn’t sneak in.”

“People here know me.”

KNOW HIM???

WHY???

APPARENTLY—

APPARENTLY—

HE DESIGNED PART OF THE LEVIATHAN FLEET NAVIGATION SYSTEM.

I nearly died.

Actually no.

Correction.

I WANTED to die.

It became worse.

Much worse.

He already knew Master Root.

They were FRIENDS.

FRIENDS.

WITH A TALKING TREE.

He had gone swimming with the Undines.

The black robe council made him an honorary member.

HE HAS WORKSHOP ACCESS.

HE TEACHES THERE.

TEACHES.

CHILDREN.

THE TERRIFYINGLY INTELLIGENT CHILDREN.

Meanwhile I spent an entire month trying not to embarrass myself.

Trying to behave properly.

Trying to appear intelligent.

Trying not to get judged.

Trying not to get quietly exiled into the ocean.

And this spoon-obsessed disaster simply WALKED into the island and apparently became part of the ecosystem.

Worse.

He casually asked if I knew they had portal systems for cargo transportation.

OF COURSE I DIDN’T KNOW.

AND I DIDN’T WANT TO KNOW.

Then the Leviathan Fleet arrived.

Which somehow made everything EVEN WORSE.

I demanded he return home with us immediately.

At first he refused because he “still had work to do.”

After several corrective impacts directly to his head, he reluctantly agreed.

DO YOU KNOW WHAT HAPPENED NEXT.

PEOPLE LOOKED SAD HE WAS LEAVING.

SAD.

HIGH ELVES LOOKED DISAPPOINTED.

BLACK ROBE MEMBERS SHOOK HIS HAND.

ONE OF THE UNDINES WAVED AT HIM FROM THE WATER.

MASTER ROOT CALLED HIM “small loud engineer” AGAIN.

AND THE CREW OF THE LEVIATHAN FLEET—

THE CREW—

CALLED HIM “MASTER RODERICK.”

MASTER.

RODERICK.

I AM THE HEIR OF RODERICK STREET.

NOT HIM.

For the first time in my life…

I considered overthrowing my own family’s internal power structure.

Specifically so I could personally terminate all research funding connected to Spathian Carver Roderick.

When I return home I WILL ensure Daddy and Mommy punish him severely.

Possibly imprisonment.

Possibly exile.

Possibly forced marriage to a blueprint.

I suddenly miss Daddy and Mommy deeply.

I want them to hug me and gently explain that Spathian was actually adopted.

Unfortunately I now have to spend MONTHS traveling with him again.

Another caravan.

Another journey.

Potentially another civilization-ending engineering incident.

Meanwhile Reine looks DELIGHTED.

THEY HAVE NOT STOPPED TALKING.

THEY HAVE BEEN TALKING FOR HOURS.

I AM THE YOUNGER SIBLING.

ME.

NOT HER.

At this point writing is no longer helping.

If I stop writing after this page, there are only two possibilities.

Either I am dead.

Or imprisoned for murdering the Spoon-Headed Menace with my bare hands.

Komentar

Postingan populer dari blog ini

πŸ“– Journal of DeLuna — Entry II: The Powers Beneath the Crown

If the king of Dunskar stands at the peak… then beneath him lies a web that never truly rests. There are four powers here. Not equal—but none insignificant. The Nobility came first. Old families, their names carved into the foundations of the kingdom itself. They do not rule outright, but their bloodlines built Dunskar. Land, wealth, influence—most of it flows through them. Some smile at the crown. Others measure it. Then, the Church of the Sun. They worship Solus, the ever-burning eye above the world. Their temples are quiet, but their reach is not. Faith here is not forced… yet somehow, it is everywhere. Even soldiers bow their heads before battle. I cannot tell if they serve the king… or if the king simply allows them to exist. The third is… unusual. The Guild. Not a government body, yet somehow essential. They write the guidebooks—records of monsters, ruins, forbidden paths. To adventurers, it is survival itself. To the crown? A tool, perhaps. Or a risk. Information is ...

‎πŸ“– Journal of DeLuna — Entry I: Dunskar

‎Dunskar is not ruled by age. ‎It is ruled by presence. ‎I arrived expecting a kingdom bound by tradition—an old king, a fixed line of succession, predictable order. I was wrong. ‎ ‎The throne of Dunskar does not belong to the eldest child, nor the firstborn. It belongs to the one who can take it… without tearing the kingdom apart. ‎Every ruler must carry the blood of the previous king—this much is sacred. But blood alone is not enough. Among the royal lineage, they choose. ‎ ‎Not by simple decree, but by a form of judgment. Influence. Strength. Charisma. The ability to command not just soldiers… but belief. ‎ ‎They call it a “vote,” though it feels less like democracy and more like quiet warfare. Alliances form in whispers. Loyalty is tested long before the crown is placed. ‎ ‎A weak heir is never crowned. ‎A strong one is rarely unchallenged. ‎The current king—whoever he may be—does not simply inherit power. ‎He survives for it. ‎ ‎And perhaps that is why the people do no...

πŸ“– Journal of DeLuna — Special Entry: The Weight of Knowing

We left the gathering behind. The colors faded first. Then the voices. Then the sense that the world was… wider than I could follow. For days, we walked. The ground changed slowly. Red gave way to something softer. Not yet green—but no longer harsh. And still—I found my attention returning to the same person. Sondre Eldar. Though no one calls him that unless they must. To most, he is simply the Caravan Master. I had watched him before. Everyone does. But not like this. Not with questions that refuse to settle. It began with a memory. A sound I could not place. Clicks. Tongue against teeth. The language of the Siltfang. I had heard it clearly. And I had heard him answer. Just as clearly. For several days, I said nothing. It felt… inappropriate to ask. As if the answer would not be given freely. Or worse—as if it would. He noticed before I spoke. “Something on your mind,” he said. Not a question. Just an observation. I asked anyway. About the language. He did not answer immed...