William met Julia’s surprised, slightly narrowed gaze, forcing himself to hold it despite the heat rising in his own cheeks. His calculated stumble had worked, perhaps too well, and now required justification. He opted for partial transparency, the truth of his motive, if not the analytical deduction behind it.
“I… I noticed you seemed upset,” he explained, keeping his voice low and earnest, trying to project sincerity over the inherent awkwardness of his confession. “Ever since we started getting closer to the capital. You were… avoiding main streets, glancing around constantly. It wasn't my imagination.” He took a shallow breath. “I was worried. I wanted to know what was wrong, if I could help. And I thought…” he hesitated, the next part feeling particularly clumsy, “well, I thought if I seemed… worse off than I was, maybe you'd feel more comfortable talking? Create an opportunity away from Edward?” He grimaced internally. “Smooth, William. Real smooth. Nothing says 'trustworthy confidante' like admitting to manipulative social engineering based on feigned injury. Outstanding move.” He mentally braced for a well-deserved rebuke, perhaps even a magical slap.
Instead, the residual anger in Julia’s eyes dissolved, replaced by something else entirely. The tension that had held her seemed to drain away, leaving weary resignation in its wake. A small, shaky sigh escaped her lips, followed by a sound that might have been a short, humourless chuckle. “You,” she said, shaking her head slightly, a flicker of disbelief in her expression, “are definitely… something else, William Shard.” The fight seemed to go out of her. “Alright,” she conceded, her gaze dropping briefly before meeting his again, vulnerability replacing the earlier guardedness. “Let's go to the bridge. It isn't far.”
They walked the short distance in a heavy silence, turning off the slightly wider lane they were on into an even narrower, quieter alley that eventually opened onto their destination. The bustling sounds of the nearby market faded, replaced by the gentle gurgle of water. William, despite his analytical mind buzzing with the confirmation of his hypothesis (Subject responded positively to honesty regarding manipulative intent? Unexpected but noted.), consciously reined in his curiosity. He sensed the fragility of the moment, the trust tentatively offered. Pushing now would be like trying to force quit a delicate computing process, likely to corrupt the data entirely. He walked beside her, focusing on matching her slower pace, giving her the space to gather her thoughts. Patience, analyst, he reminded himself. This isn't optimizing code. It requires navigating complex, irrational human emotional variables. Proceed with caution. “My expertise,” he admitted internally, “lies firmly outside this domain. Spreadsheets are considerably less complicated.”
The bridge was small, a simple arch of weathered grey stone spanning a narrow stream that chuckled over smooth pebbles. Sunlight filtered down through the leaves of ancient willow trees lining the banks, dappling the water and the cool stone in shifting patterns of light and shadow. Tucked away between taller buildings, it felt like a hidden pocket of tranquillity amidst the city’s wary hum. They stopped near the centre, leaning side-by-side against the low, worn stone railing. The gentle murmur of the stream provided a soothing sonic backdrop, a natural white noise generator buffering the distant city clamour.
Julia stared down at the swirling water for a long moment, her reflection momentarily captured on its surface. William watched her profile, seeing the internal struggle play out in the slight tightening of her jaw, the way her fingers traced patterns on the cool stone. Finally, she took a deep, steadying breath, straightened her shoulders, and began to speak, her voice low and hesitant at first, as if dredging up words from a deep, painful place.
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“As you gathered, William,” she began, still not looking at him, her gaze fixed on the flowing water, “I am from Aver City. I grew up here… in the heart of the kingdom.” A faint, melancholic pride touched her voice. “Before Neverus… before the war bled the colour from everything… it was different. Truly vibrant. Prosperous, yes, but more than that… hopeful. There was opportunity here, a sense that effort was rewarded, that a better future was possible. People worked hard, certainly, but there was laughter in the market squares, music in the taverns, genuine contentment. Security.”
She paused, her gaze drifting towards the distant, hazy outline of the Royal Palace towers visible above the surrounding rooftops. “If you were diligent, followed the laws, there was a path. Noble or commoner, merchant or farmer, everyone felt they had a stake, a chance to improve their lot. But the war…” Her voice caught slightly. “It changed everything. It revealed the best in many, incredible courage, selflessness I never thought possible. People sacrificing everything for the common good.” Her tone shifted, hardening, bitterness creeping in like frost. “But it also… dredged up the worst. Latent greed. Ruthless ambition. Corruption that festered beneath the surface, now given fertile ground to grow.”
She turned slightly towards him then, her eyes flashing with a righteous anger that momentarily burned away her weariness. “King Bartam, whatever his faults in letting Aver grow complacent, has been resolute since the fall of Shendek. He pours every resource into the military, strengthening the walls, supporting the Guilds. He understands the stakes.” Her gaze swept back towards the city. “And many noble houses, many wealthy merchants, have stood with him. Donating fortunes, raising levies, sending their own sons and daughters to fight and die. They see their duty.”
“But some…” Her voice tightened again, her hands clenching into fists on the stone railing, knuckles showing white. The contrast between her controlled tone and the raw fury in her hands was stark. “Some saw only… opportunity. Not for service, not for sacrifice, but for profit. For power.” The words were laced with venomous disgust. “While others bled, they schemed. Hoarding essential supplies to inflate prices. Using chaos as cover for land grabs. Exploiting refugees. Bribing officials to secure lucrative war contracts, diverting resources from the front lines to line their own pockets.” She practically spat the last words.
She took another deep, shuddering breath, the anger seeming to drain away, leaving behind a profound, bone-deep shame that made her wrap her arms around herself. “The Blackcombe family…” she said, her voice dropping to a near whisper, barely audible above the stream. “One of the oldest, wealthiest merchant houses in the capital. Known for their shrewdness, their influence…” She finally looked at William, her eyes filled with a pain that lanced through his analytical detachment. “My family… they are one of the worst.”
The confession hung in the quiet air, heavy, raw, vulnerable. William stared back, the puzzle pieces clicking into place with sickening clarity. Her evasiveness navigating the city, the anxiety as they approached, the reluctance to return to a place that represented not just home, but also deep familial shame and betrayal. It all made a terrible kind of sense. Data point acquired: Source of Subject Julia's distress = Profound ethical conflict and shame regarding family's corrupt activities during wartime. Fully explains observed behavioural anomalies.
He wanted to say something, offer comfort, analysis, a solution. But his usual tools felt blunt, inadequate. Words seemed hollow in the face of such deep-seated pain. He recognized this feeling, the frustrating inability to compute an appropriate response in a situation dominated by complex human emotion. Optimal support response protocol: Uncertain. Defaulting to passive listening and non-judgmental presence. He simply met her gaze, holding it steadily, trying to convey silent support, acknowledging her pain without judgment.
He realized, with a jolt that had nothing to do with magic or data, that he cared. Deeply. About this young woman, burdened by her family's corruption, fighting her own battles amidst a larger war. This feeling was… an unexpected variable. Far more complex than debugging code. He quietly kept listening, sensing there was likely more to her story.
