Legacy's Wake

"Quite the celebration, isn't it?"

A woman's voice resonated through the dark night, calm yet carrying a sharp edge. A figure stepped forward, adjusting her glasses with a measured precision before crossing her arms beneath her chest. Her posture was firm, unwavering—an embodiment of control.

Temoshí and Stitch turned toward the approaching woman, immediately recognizing her presence before she even spoke again. She carried herself with an air of authority, exuding a calm composure that neither of them, even together, could quite match.

"You've caused quite the disturbance in Cascade Cradle," she stated coolly, her voice refined and deliberate. "And yet, for all your reckless actions, you failed to notice that we've been tracking you from the very start."

The voice was unmistakable—Ophelia. She had given them no moment to run, no opportunity to slip away. Her gaze bore into them, unwavering, assessing every detail.

Temoshí exhaled through his nose, keeping his stance relaxed but his mind sharp. "This is getting out of hand. You've been on our heels all this time, and you're still not letting it go? Come on, Ophelia. You're smarter than this. Can't you see that Desmond's playing you?" His voice carried a tinge of frustration, but he kept his tone level, maintaining a safe distance from the woman whose scrutinizing eyes never wavered.

Ophelia didn't flinch, nor did she appear the slightest bit moved by his words. Instead, she let out a quiet sigh, adjusting her glasses once more as if his claim was nothing more than an ill-informed theory. "Manipulated?" she repeated, her voice carrying a weight of controlled amusement. "That is, perhaps, the most absurd accusation I've heard today."

She took a slow step forward, her gaze sharp, dissecting. "The artifact sought by Phalris was destroyed because of your carelessness. Do you truly comprehend the consequences of that? Have you taken a moment to witness the aftermath? The chaos it unleashed?" Her voice remained smooth, but there was something piercing about it, a subtle authority that cut deeper than a blade.

She gestured toward the smoldering ruins in the distance, the destruction wrought by the events of the night still lingering in the air. "Take a moment. Breathe it in. Perhaps then, when you witness the scale of devastation with your own eyes, you will finally grasp who the real threat is."

Temoshí's smirk faded slightly as her words dug into him. He hated to admit it, but there was something about the way she spoke, the sheer conviction in her voice, that made it difficult to dismiss outright.

Stitch nudged Temoshí aside, stepping forward with purpose. "Why won't you believe us?" she asked, her frustration evident. "Desmond is a complete scumbag, and you know it. I don't care whether you like our accusations or not—he's a criminal, playing both sides like it's a damn game. What even made him worthy of being a 'royal guard' in the first place? Was it just something he claimed, or was it actually Phalris' decision?" There was a sharp edge to her voice, demanding answers.

Temoshí took the opportunity to add to her words, his expression unwavering. "And that artifact? It was a fake. Just another one of Desmond's tricks." He let his words hang for a moment before continuing. "Do you really believe something that fragile—something that shattered from a simple impact—was capable of reawakening Phalris' divinity? It was never real to begin with."

He crossed his arms, eyes locked on Ophelia. "And let's not pretend we don't both know exactly where Desmond's loyalties lie. He's got the marine officials in his pocket, sure, but he's also working with Hollow behind the scenes. He admitted it himself when we fought back in the city."

Ophelia remained silent for a moment, inhaling deeply before exhaling in a measured breath. With a slight adjustment of her glasses, the lenses caught the light, momentarily obscuring her eyes behind a sharp gleam. "I am well aware of Desmond's ties to the marine officials," she stated, her tone composed yet firm. "However, this claim that he operates on the same level as Hollow is a misleading assumption. Furthermore, regarding his loyalty to our goddess, Phalris—Desmond willingly sacrificed his status as a marine to aid in upholding the honor of the royal guard."

She took a slow step forward, unwavering in her stance. "You may see him as a manipulator, a man playing both sides for his own gain. But what you fail to consider is the weight of his choices. He abandoned the strict order of the marines, a force that once defined his entire existence, to pledge his service to a higher cause. A cause that ensures the protection of Cascade Cradle and the will of our goddess."

Ophelia's gaze sharpened as she continued. "What you call deception, I call duty. Desmond has maneuvered through treacherous waters, balancing obligations that neither of you could possibly understand. The destruction of the artifact—whether real or not—was an irreparable mistake. One that could have lasting consequences on the fate of this city. And yet, instead of recognizing the gravity of what has been lost, you stand here slandering a man who has given everything to prevent disaster."

She adjusted her stance, crossing her arms, her expression unwavering. "If you are so certain of Desmond's deception, then tell me—what proof do you have that his intentions are anything less than righteous? What evidence do you possess that he is truly the villain you claim him to be?"

Temoshí let out a sigh, his expression turning indifferent as Ophelia spoke. "So you just take everything he says at face value, huh? You're seriously impossible to reason with, Ophelia." He ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head in clear frustration before shutting his eyes briefly. "How the hell are we supposed to get through to you if you refuse to listen? No matter what we say, you won't believe a damn word of it. This is turning into a real headache."

"You're bold, I'll give you that, pirate," Ophelia remarked, her gaze shifting toward Stitch. "And the same goes for you, needle girl. But if you expect me to believe your claims, you'll need solid proof. Otherwise, I have no reason to think you're telling the truth. Desmond has never once failed Phalris or the Royal Guards. He's a seasoned warrior—someone who fights for justice and protection, not deception."

Temoshí, unimpressed, merely crossed his arms and met her stare head-on. "You're only fooling yourself, Ophelia. We're telling you the truth—you just refuse to see it."

"This conversation is over," Ophelia declared, her tone sharp and unwavering. She drew her dual spears—each glowing in a distinct hue—and leveled them at her targets. "Your execution will proceed as planned, with or without Desmond's presence."

Temoshí immediately shifted into a battle stance, ready to fight, but before he could act, Stitch stepped in front of him, stopping him in his tracks.

"Nah, this one's mine," she said, spinning her needles. "If I'm gonna sail with you, I gotta prove I can pull my weight. I messed up once—I'm not doing it again." She rolled her shoulders, shooting Ophelia a determined grin. "And now that I can actually see what's going on? Yeah, I'm about to wipe the floor with her."

Ophelia raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed, as she scanned Stitch from head to toe. "You, try to take me down? A street rat like you?" she sneered. "You're far too confident for someone who's barely made it through this hellish mess."

Stitch stood still, her face set in a serious expression. There was no hesitation in her stance. "You have no idea what I'm capable of," she muttered, her voice low but firm.

Suddenly, the eerie atmosphere shifted. A chill swept across the air, a subtle yet unmistakable sign that something was changing. Mendy—the doll—floated behind her, its form slightly shimmering as if something was stirring beneath its small surface. Then, the air grew heavier. The doll's lifeless eyes glowed faintly as it began to twitch unnaturally, its tiny frame vibrating with dark energy.

The shadow around it thickened, and in a flash, a ghostly figure began to form. A faint, almost invisible thread-like glow connected Mendy's limbs to the ghost, as if the spirit was being puppeteered. The ghost was intangible, translucent, but its presence was no less terrifying. It wore a twisted, distorted grin as it loomed behind Stitch, its arms jerking unnaturally as though controlled by invisible strings.

The ghost's eyes were wide and hollow, filled with an unsettling emptiness. Its movements were jerky, like a puppet pulled by invisible strings. Despite its grotesque appearance, there was something eerily beautiful about how it flowed and swayed in the air, every motion following the pull of Mendy's subtle manipulation. The strings connecting the spirit to the doll vibrated in the air, pulsing with each movement, as though the ghost were a mere extension of Mendy's will.

Ophelia's confident expression faltered, a hint of uncertainty creeping in as she noticed the chilling figure behind Stitch. "What is this?" she muttered under her breath, eyes narrowing as she scanned the ghostly apparition, now fully formed and hovering ominously over Stitch's shoulder.

Stitch's lips curled into a knowing smile. "I think you'll find it's more than just a ghost... It's my puppeteer."

The ghost let out a low, guttural growl, its limbs jerking like the strings of a puppet, and it reached toward Ophelia with a malevolent force. The strings—thin and delicate as they were—seemed to stretch and grow taut with an ominous promise, controlling the specter like a marionette with its master. The power behind it was chilling, but it was clear—this wasn't something Ophelia was ready to face.

Ophelia took a step back, visibly disturbed by the sight of the ghostly figure, its puppet-like movements unnerving her. "Puppeteering? You actually gave control to that doll? Are you out of your mind?" she asked, her voice laced with disbelief as she studied the spirit behind Stitch.

Stitch's eyes remained calm, her stance unshaken as she watched Ophelia's reaction. "I didn't give control to anyone, Ophelia." Her voice was steady, almost casual. "I don't need to be some puppet, and I don't need to rely on anyone else to move me. I'm just me, the same girl I've always been." She took a breath, and the doll—Mendy—floated more freely, its energy swirling around her like an invisible thread.

The ghost behind her twitched again, not in a jerky, forced motion like a puppet, but as if it were responding to an unseen force, its movements flowing with a strange grace. "Mendy and I? We're partners. I don't control her, and she doesn't control me. It's more like... an exchange, you know?" Stitch explained, her expression becoming more intense. "Mendy's energy gives me something I couldn't access on my own. It's not about being her puppet. It's about balance. She lends me power, and I give her purpose."

The eerie apparition behind her floated closer to Ophelia, but there was no malicious intent in its movements—just a chilling presence that served as a reminder of the deep connection between Stitch and her doll.

"I use Mendy's strength, sure," Stitch continued, her voice softening just a touch. "But she doesn't dictate my actions. I control my own fate. She just... makes sure I'm not walking it alone."

The ghost shifted again, its movements smooth and deliberate now, as if understanding the bond they shared. The haunting figure was no longer a mindless marionette, but a reflection of the trust Stitch had built with the doll.

Ophelia's face tightened, still trying to understand the unnatural bond between them. "This… this is something I didn't expect," she muttered, eyes darting back and forth between the spirit and Stitch. "But it won't be enough to stop me."

Stitch's grin remained, her gaze unwavering. "I'll leave that up to you."

Stitch moved forward slowly, the ghost behind her becoming increasingly translucent, almost vanishing entirely. What remained was a faint frame, subtly supporting her every step. As she walked, several copies of herself flickered into existence, distorting the air and unsettling Ophelia. Each copy seemed to echo Stitch's movements, creating an eerie effect, like the very space around them was bending to her will. Her needle casually danced between her hands, adding to the unsettling aura.

"That's a unique technique," Temoshí commented, his voice low. He could feel the atmosphere shift, as if they were standing in a distorted reality, affected by Stitch's power. The air felt thick, and the multiple versions of Stitch distorted his perception, creating a disorienting, almost unreal atmosphere. The world around them seemed to warp, and even he couldn't shake the unease creeping up on him.

To be continued...