2.

"The more I reflect on that mission, the more I became convinced that the Commodore had lost his mind. Enlisting the aid of Super Mario, the Flamebreaker, didn't sound like an easy mission. How do you convince the man who's killed countless members of the Imperial Koopa Troop, both Army and Navy personnel alike, to help you? The Emperor had specifically requested Mario's aid, though, and that was something we hadn't ever known him to do. Mario helped the Emperor during the Invader's attack, but… still…"

Belle Fontiere, Imperial Commander, Koopa Empire, History Channel, Before the Great Reconciliation, 1010 SV

The rhythmic thwack of a knife against wood filled Luigi Segale's modest apartment, a counterpoint to the cheerful tune he hummed under his breath. He tipped the cutting board, sliding diced carrots into a pot where beef simmered in a fragrant broth. It was a simple stew—nothing fancy—but crafting it brought him a quiet joy. The rich aroma curled through the air, teasing his stomach into a low growl. He stirred the pot with care, lifting a spoonful for a taste, and nodded. Not their mother's caliber—Mario always swore nothing touched her magic—but decent enough. Ladling a portion into a bowl, he carried it to the table with a satisfied sigh.

A sharp knock jolted him, nearly sending stew sloshing across the wood. He grimaced, wiping his hands on a rag as he crossed to the door. Another prank from the complex's pint-sized terrors? He braced for a giggle and a fleeing shadow, but swung the door open anyway.

"Hey, bro," Mario said, a faint smile tugging his lips. He rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish. "Sorry for barging in like this." His nose twitched, catching the scent wafting from the kitchen. "Whoa—did I just crash dinner?"

Luigi chuckled, stepping aside with a wave. "Get in here. I made plenty for two."

Mario crossed the threshold, exhaling heavily, and Luigi's brow quirked. Something shadowed his brother's face—pensive, distant. Now that was worth a second look. What had snagged Mario's gears this time? He gestured to the waiting bowl, then turned to ladle another for himself. A glance at the pot's polished curve caught Mario's reflection—haggard, unshaven, eyes dulled by a weight Luigi couldn't name. Odder still, Mario wasn't inhaling the stew like a man starved. For a guy who'd arm-wrestle a goomba for seconds, that was a red flag. Luigi settled at the table with a theatrical groan, bowl in hand.

"If it's awful, you don't have to fake it," he said, grinning brightly. "I won't cry over a bruised ego."

Mario flinched, as if snapped from a trance. "Huh? No, it's not that—just… head's full of junk." He scooped a spoonful, muttering, "Beats the tar outta anything I'd whip up."

Luigi snorted, leaning back. "That's 'cause I don't churn out grey sludge that looks like it surrendered its soul."

Mario's lips twitched, a spark of his old mischief flaring. "Grey's the gold standard—means it's done, genius!"

"Done being edible, maybe," Luigi shot back, shaking his head with a grin. He sobered, studying his brother. "C'mon, Mario. You don't pop in unannounced—usually you'd be scraping that bowl clean and eyeing mine by now. What's eating you?"

Mario's spoon paused mid-air, his gaze dropping to the stew as if it held answers. Luigi waited, letting the silence stretch. He knew that look—Mario wrestling with something bigger than his appetite. And damn if he didn't look like he'd been dragged through a warp pipe backward—hair a mess, stubble thick enough to sand wood. Whatever this was, it wasn't just a bad day.

Luigi's eyes narrowed at the shadow crossing Mario's face. Was this about her again? He opened his mouth to head off the inevitable, but Mario raised a hand, stalling him. Chewing slowly, Mario seemed to wrestle some knotty riddle, then leaned back with a sigh. "Got a royal summons to the palace today," he said, measured and slow. Luigi fought the urge to roll his eyes—anything but another dive into that tangled mess. He nodded, keeping it neutral, and Mario pressed on. "Peach issued it. We had a chat—long overdue, bit awkward, but… productive, I guess. Too soon to call it smooth sailing, though. Takes time." He shrugged. "She let something slip, though—didn't mean to, I think."

Luigi set his spoon down, interest piqued despite himself. "Oh? What'd she drop?"

Mario's brow creased. "Did something go down between Peach and King Russet? Felt like there's a backstage drama brewing."

Luigi's eyes widened a fraction, spoon hovering mid-scoop. Mario dodging politics like a fireball was standard—him sniffing out palace intrigue was new. He took a bite, chewing thoughtfully as he sifted through the chatter clogging the nets, papers, radio waves. Anything stand out? Dabbing his mouth with a napkin, he exhaled. "Nothing's crossed my radar about Peach and her dad," he admitted. "Could tie to the Senate grumbling over her Prime Minister gig, though—some whispers I've caught."

Mario frowned, tilting his head. "Thought the King could just point at whoever and say 'you're up'?"

"Half-right," Luigi said, leaning in with a lecturer's ease. "The monarch can appoint or sack a Prime Minister on a whim—technically. Tradition's kept heirs off that seat, though, since King Euhorn Toadstool's day."

Mario's eyes sparked, and he snapped his fingers. "The Civil War! Mushroom Kingdom's big dust-up!"

Luigi snorted, a grin tugging his lips. Politics might bore Mario to tears, but history? That was his playground. "Nailed it. Kicked off when Euhorn tapped Princess Valessa as Prime Minister. Crimino started howling for independence around then, too—whole kingdom nearly split like an overripe berry. Folks are eyeing Peach's appointment through that lens now, comparing her to Valessa." He shook his head. "It's a stretch, though. Crimino's been quiet—no referendum in seventy years. Peach isn't some war-hungry tyrant. Still, people fret."

Mario leaned back, spoon twirling idly. "Fret's an understatement. Peach sounded… off about Russet. Not just annoyed—something heavier."

Luigi's brow arched. "Heavier, huh? Could be Senate pushback rattling her. She's got her New Society reforms—big plans, big fights. Maybe Russet's not on board." He tapped the table, mind racing. "Or it's the quiet from the Empire. Six months of nothing—Bowser's not parading or bellowing. Hardliners are itching to flex, and if Russet's leaning that way, Peach'd be the wall in front of it."

Mario grinned, a playful glint cutting through his haze. "You're doing that thing again, Lu—talking like a Senate scribe. Next you'll be drafting bills over stew."

"Somebody's gotta keep the brains in this outfit," Luigi fired back, smirking. "You look like you've been wrestling goombas in a ditch, by the way—when'd you last see a razor?"

Mario rubbed his stubble, chuckling. "Aw, c'mon—this is vintage charm! Palace didn't kick me out, so I'm golden."

Luigi shook his head, grin fading to a flicker of dread. Peach's name still prickled—months of Mario's moping had driven him to this apartment, a refuge from the gloom. They were solid, sure, but that topic was a live wire. At least this time, Mario kept it to the palace's shadows, not his heart's. Small mercies.

"I'm shocked Lord Graemon's not banging on about the Crimino brothers again," Mario said, flicking a hand between them with a grin. "Peach mentioned he's pushing her reforms—maybe even bulking up the Kingdom's defenses. What's your read?"

Luigi hummed, spoon tapping the bowl's rim. Duke Hoster Graemon—prickly old buzzard—loved lobbing barbs their way, yet he'd clawed his way into the Senate's good graces. When Peach unveiled her New Society, Luigi had nearly choked to see Graemon stumping for it—rare for a lord who'd rather sneer than strategize. "Yeah, he's sunk his teeth into her program," Luigi muttered, frowning. "Relief, Recovery, Reform," he intoned, mimicking a puffed-up orator.

Mario snorted, leaning back. "Not his style, though, right? This is the same stuffed shirt who wanted us to skewer Bowser after that first Peach snatch."

Luigi barked a laugh. "Hand him a cup of water, he'd scowl at the taste and demand a vintage. Setbacks clipped his wings a while back—maybe this is his redemption play."

Mario shrugged, a glint of mischief in his eyes. "Still amazes me he gets anywhere with an ego that bloated." He glanced out the window, the sky bruising into dusk. "Maybe you're onto something."

Luigi studied his brother, sigh slipping free. "You look beat, Mario. Still dodging sleep?"

Mario shook his head, scraping up the last of his stew. "Not that. Something's… off. Can't pin it down." He pinched the bridge of his nose, stubble rasping under his fingers. "Might need a breather."

Luigi chuckled, leaning forward. "What, like Isle Delfino? You've yapped about saving for that forever. Me, I don't get the hype—Marrymore sounded solid from your tales."

"Marrymore's nice, but that hotel's a gold-drain," Mario grumbled. "Nah, thinking New Donk City. Different vibe there, y'know? Everywhere else, I'm Super Mario. Back home, I'm just the nut who chased a kong off a scaffold."

Luigi snorted, grin tugging wide. "Still can't believe you walked off that one upright." Mario's knack for collecting pals like stray crowns always stung a little—Luigi envied that ease. But here, stew cooling between them, his brother was just a guy, worn and human. "Don't sleep on Sarasaland, though."

Mario waved it off, smirking. "Lu, you're the golden boy there—not 'cause I got… distracted. You stepped up, big time. Own it."

Luigi's lips twitched, a flicker of warmth cutting through old guilt. Distraction—only Mario could shrug off a castle coup like a stubbed toe. Sarasaland had been his win, sure, and Mario's lack of grudge just sharpened the pang of envy he'd nursed. He shifted, voice dipping cautious. "Hey, Mario… Pauline's still in New Donk. Planning to swing by?"

Pauline Verducci—childhood pal, Mario's first flame. Their split had gouged him raw, and five years later, Smithy's fallout still had Luigi braced for echoes. Mario's face shadowed, but no storm brewed. He sighed, soft and final. "Nah… too late for that." His eyes glazed, seeing ghosts. "Whatever we had, it's dust now. Besides, she's got better gigs than chasing me down."

Relief washed through Luigi, unspoken as he gathered the bowls and dumped them in the sink. "Well, don't bet your crowns at the casino," he teased, grinning over his shoulder. "Just have some fun, yeah?"

Mario mock-pouted, stretching. "No gambling? You're killing me, Lu!" He stood, grin fading to a flicker. "Gotta bounce—thanks for the grub, bro. I'll swing by before New Donk. Catch up then?"

Luigi crossed the room, pulling him into a tight hug. "Take care, Mario," he said, voice low, earnest.

"Always!" Mario tapped his cap's brim with a wink and slipped out.

Alone, Luigi tackled the dishes, suds swirling as his mind churned. Mario shunned politics like a bad warp—save that one prickly sit-down with Graemon, he let folks project whatever onto his silence. What cracked that shell now? Peach's slip about Russet, sure, but why'd it stick? He set the pot on the rack, unease coiling tight. Something was shifting—behind the throne, beyond the Senate's noise. And Mario, haggard and restless, felt it too.

Peach sank into the plush armchair, a weary breath slipping free as she replayed her talk with Mario. It had gone better than she'd dared hope. He'd clawed his way out of the gloom that had shadowed him these past six months—enough to toss self-deprecating quips her way again, a flicker of the old Mario. She should've been relieved, and she was, mostly. Yet a nagging thorn pricked her: she hadn't pressed him, hadn't faced the rift head-on as Granny—Matilda Rosewood, her sharp-tongued caretaker—had once urged. Strike the iron, child, while it's hot, she'd said, eyes glinting like a hawk's. Peach hadn't. She'd danced around it instead, and now she kicked herself for the dodge.

Her gaze slid to the desk, where a paper fortress loomed—proposals, reports, endless ink-stained battles. She glared at it, a flare of loathing cutting through her fatigue. Five bills she'd shepherded to the Senate floor; only three had survived the gauntlet. A decent tally in the political mire, sure, but it stung. She'd earned the Prime Minister's mantle from her father only after laying bare the Kingdom's rot—crumbling bridges, hollowed-out garrisons, a realm teetering on neglect. Her "New Society" pitch had swayed him, bold and brash as it was. Too bold, maybe. That zeal had driven her to court the Duke of Ironpointe, a gamble she still couldn't fully weigh.

Thumb tracing her lower lip, she scowled. Lord Graemon had latched onto her reforms with a fervor that baffled her—pushing her bills, rallying votes. Why? His motives eluded her, a cipher she couldn't crack. She rose, stretching against the ache in her spine, and yawned, shoving politics to the back of her mind. Work clung like damp fog; she hated dragging it into her rare slivers of peace. Nodding to the guards as she left the study—two crisp salutes snapping in reply—she stepped into the courtyard.

The evening air hit her like a balm, cool and fragrant with blooming starflowers. She settled onto a bench, leaning back to let the quiet seep in, a fleeting escape from the grind. Lemuel Renard's voice drifted up, unbidden—her predecessor's gravelly counsel. Graemon's a strong dose, Princess. Potent medicine, but not for every ache. Her New Society was no everyday ache, though—revolutionary, sprawling, a beast that demanded bold cures. Graemon fit the bill, didn't he? She mulled it over, eyes tracing the darkening sky. Mario shunned politics like a bad warp pipe, but Luigi—Luigi swam in it, sharp-eyed and steady. Maybe she'd been overlooking a tool right under her nose.

She exhaled, a faint frown creasing her brow. Mario's ease today had disarmed her, but that slip about her father—her own unguarded growl—gnawed at her still. She'd nearly spilled more, nearly cracked open a door she'd bolted shut. Granny would've prodded her to push Mario, to dig into why he'd faded from the palace's orbit. She hadn't. Couldn't. Not yet. But Luigi… he might see what she'd missed, might untangle the threads she'd left dangling. The thought lingered, heavy as the paperwork she'd fled, as she watched the first stars prick the dusk.

A throat cleared behind her, sharp and deliberate, snapping Peach from her reverie. It took every ounce of drilled decorum to stifle the groan rising in her chest. She opened her eyes, turning to face a thin, reedy figure—snow-white hair swept back, blue eyes piercing like a hawk's. Lord Graemon. Her tutors' lessons echoed: Always the mask, even in shadow. Rising, she summoned a regal smile, smooth as polished marble. "Lord Graemon, what brings you here unannounced? Surely not just my company?"

His lips curved, a faint, practiced arc, as he adjusted his necktie with a gloved hand. "No, Your Highness. His Majesty summoned me." A shadow flickered across his face, brief but telling. "Certain… colleagues have been pressing the King to intervene in your New Society ventures."

Peach's brows lifted a fraction, surprise prickling her spine. Senators sidestepping her to petition the throne? Unorthodox, though not forbidden—the monarchy held levers in the Senate, dusty but functional. She pursed her lips, mind racing. "They want him to recall me? Replace me with another?" Her voice stayed even, probing.

Graemon chuckled, raising a hand as if to ward off her concern. "Mere grumbles, Highness—discontented whispers from the benches. Nothing like the storm we weathered six months ago." His tone softened, reassuring. "I've assured His Majesty that your removal would spark a mass resignation in the Senate. They'd not dare."

A smile tugged at her lips, unbidden. The Senate's nuclear option—mass walkouts—could sway even a king. Her appointment had ruffled feathers, true, but she'd craved it, fought for it after laying the Kingdom's decay bare to her father. She shook her head, fatigue seeping through. "Some days, I wonder if I was mad to want this," she murmured. "The Senate seems happiest when we're just gilded fixtures, not meddlers."

Graemon's chuckle was dry, almost fond. "Naming you Prime Minister certainly rattled their cages." He tilted his head, eyes glinting. "I trust you're advancing with that Monstro Town lass on the hypercrete?"

"Goomhilde's been a godsend," Peach said, nodding. "We'll miss the Empire's fancier quirks, but the core benefits—durability, speed—more than compensate."

He hummed, a faint smirk playing. "Best keep Lord Butler in the dark on the finer points." His voice dropped, conspiratorial. "I've a proposal, if I may?"

Peach sighed inwardly. How often did these "casual" chats birth amendments to her bills? "Of course, my lord."

"My civil service pitch didn't sway you," he began, frank but measured, "but I've studied other nations—public works, private partnerships. Picture this: we tie the Royal Engineers to key firms, fund a jobs program through them. Short-term cost, long-term gain."

She frowned, turning it over. It had teeth—aligned with her push for tangible returns on bold investments. "Draft me an outline—how it'd work, numbers included. I'll weigh it then."

Graemon nodded, and for a split second, his poised mask slipped—eyes widening like a lad caught pilfering sweets. He cleared his throat, rallying. "One small favor, Highness…" A placating hand rose. "I know it's a stretch, but tomorrow night, I'm hosting a charity gala. Would you… honor me with your presence?"

She blinked, caught off guard. Not the worst ask, yet his sheepish air amused her—Graemon, flustered? She'd rather dodge it, let the evening be hers, but optics mattered. Snubbing a duke as Crown Princess and Prime Minister? Double the fallout. She fixed a polite smile. "I'd be delighted, Lord Graemon."

His face lit up, a broad grin breaking through as he clasped his hands. "Thank you, Highness! It'll be a night to remember, I promise!" He bowed—graceful despite his wiry frame—then turned on his heel, striding off with renewed vigor.

Peach held her mask a beat longer, then wilted, exhaustion crashing in. She pressed fingers to her forehead, debating a second glass of wine—medicinal, at this point. How did Daisy keep that spark as Sarasaland's princess? A faint smile tugged her lips. Her cousin thrived—blamed it on smashing tennis balls, a grin on her face. Peach's thoughts drifted to Uncle Cedaris, Emperor of Sarasaland, a giant of a man with a laugh to match. Nothing dour or stiff like Challah of Waffle Kingdom or even her father—just pure, booming warmth. Yet he'd forged Sarasaland into a continental titan, a feat Bowser never dared challenge head-on. She smirked. If only the Senate coveted that model over the Empire's bluster.

"Your Highness?"

Peach's temper flared, a spark she barely smothered. She opened her eyes, turning to find not Graemon's reedy silhouette but a broader figure—tanned skin, white suit stark against a black shirt, hazel eyes skittering anywhere but her face. Baron Oliver Kiramman of Duskhaven. He hovered a respectful distance away, a courtesy Graemon hadn't bothered with. Her irritation ebbed, replaced by a faint smile. "Lord Kiramman?" Weariness seeped into her voice, and his gaze flicked to her, concern creasing his brow. She gestured him closer, softening the edge.

His eyes widened a heartbeat before he dipped into a stiff bow—earnest, if clumsy. Peach frowned, not at the gesture itself but at the pang it stirred. Mario and Luigi's easy camaraderie had spoiled her; this formality felt like a step back. Kiramman swallowed, voice catching. "It's… a rare pleasure, seeing you outside the Senate, Highness."

She snorted, a flicker of amusement cutting through her fatigue. His awkwardness charmed her—raw, unpolished sincerity. "Relax, my lord," she said, her tone a gentle balm. "Sit with me."

He exhaled, a shaky breath, and settled beside her, gaze lifting to the star-dusted sky. "I, uh… apologize for barging in. I had to meet His Majesty—and Lord Graemon." The name landed like a stone, his jaw tightening briefly.

Peach tilted her head, catching the hitch. Graemon again? "He mentioned senators pushing for my recall," she said, slow and probing. "Claims they'd resign in droves if Father acted on it."

Kiramman's posture stiffened at Graemon's name, a flicker of distaste he didn't quite mask. He nodded, measured. "True on both fronts, Highness. Plenty think His Majesty overreached, naming you Prime Minister. But Graemon's not wrong—your ouster would gut the Senate. Resignations would pile up fast."

She nodded, curiosity piqued. "And you, my lord? Where do you stand?" Her smile softened, inviting candor. "Speak plain."

He exhaled, a soft, steady breath. "I'd be one walking out if they pulled you, Highness. Your New Society's already pumping jobs into Duskhaven—my people feel it. That's worth my seat."

Her smile warmed, genuine now. "Good to know." She rose, brushing out her trousers. "Have you eaten, Lord Kiramman?" His splutter—half-choked, half-stunned—nearly undid her composure. She pressed on, dignity teetering. "Join me for dinner, then. I'd welcome the company."

He gaped, fish-like, before managing a nod. "Y-yes, Your Highness."

She raised a finger, a playful glint in her eye. "One catch—just Peach, please. 'Your Highness' is wearing thin."

"Uh… y-yes, Your—Peach," he stammered, rubbing his neck. "Though, uh… in public, I'd rather stick to the title? If that's all right?"

She rolled her eyes, grin widening. "Fair enough, Lord Kiramman." She tapped her chin, teasing. "But I'll call you Oliver, if you don't mind?"

Oliver froze, stunned, then nodded, a flush creeping up his neck. They turned toward the palace, him trailing a step behind—protocol's rigid dance. Peach sighed inwardly, chafing at the rules boxing her in. Still, his deference was… refreshing, a shift from Graemon's oily confidence or Mario's casual sprawl. They entered a small dining room, its walls aglow with soft aether-lamps. Two staff swept forward, pulling out chairs with practiced grace.

Peach settled into hers, stealing a glance at Oliver as he sat. His broad frame filled the space, yet he moved with a care that belied his size—nervous, but not clumsy. Graemon's name had soured his mood; that much was clear. A rival, then? Or something deeper? She filed it away, a puzzle for later. For now, the flicker of warmth in her chest—unbidden, faint—caught her off guard. She masked it with a sip of water, letting the moment settle.

"Thank you, Gwen," Peach said, nodding to the human maid with a quiet smile. "And you, Oscar." She inclined her head to the toad, impeccable in his tailored suit, as he set the plates with a flourish.

Oliver dipped his head in thanks as the wine flowed, ruby-dark in the crystal. Peach speared a bite of veal marsala, the rich sauce coaxing a contented sigh from her lips. Across the table, Oliver chewed his own forkful, hazel eyes drifting over the room—its soft aether-glow, the tapestries softening the marble. "I'll confess," he said, a faint chuckle threading his voice, "I didn't expect dinner with the Princess tonight."

"Surely less daunting than facing His Majesty?" Peach teased, her smile light. "I'd hope I'm a touch more welcoming."

"By leagues," he agreed, a grin tugging his lips. "It's just… abroad, I never dined with officials. Grandfather swore travel would toughen me up—never mentioned banquets."

Her brows arched, curiosity piqued. "Oh? Where'd it take you?"

Oliver leaned in, ticking off destinations on broad fingers. "Ferros—solid folks. The Emerald Republic, too—easy to like. Waffle Kingdom was… tighter than I'd prefer, but Minister Crepe kept it lively." He shrugged, a rueful glint in his eye. "Missed King Challah and Princess Éclair, though. Pity."

Peach's smile softened. "You sound almost homesick for the road, Oliver. I get it—I've barely stepped beyond our borders myself." She paused, correcting herself with a faint shake of her head. "Well, Yoshi's Island, once. And six months back, with Mario."

Oliver coughed into his napkin, eyes widening as he lowered it. "I'd heard whispers, but…"

"Didn't buy them?" She chuckled, warm and low. "Fair enough. My caretaker played me while I ran with Mario—kept the ruse tight."

He hummed, a thoughtful note. "I've always envied those Mario brothers. Free to roam, no titles pinning them down. A simpler life—I could stomach that." His laugh was soft, self-aware. "Though I know their 'travel' wasn't exactly a holiday."

Her smile widened—his sidestep around Bowser's antics was deft, a cut above the usual clumsy jabs she fielded. She sipped her wine, savoring its bite. "Funny thing—their last name's Segale. Mario and Luigi Segale."

Oliver blinked, fork pausing mid-air. "Segale? Huh. Never caught that." He set the fork down, a flicker of surprise lingering. "Guess I figured them too… mythic for surnames."

Peach laughed, a spark of delight breaking through her fatigue. "Mythic's half-right—they've earned it. But they're flesh and bone, same as us." She twirled her glass, watching the wine catch the light. "Maybe that's why I lean on them. Keeps me grounded."

Oliver tilted his head, a spark of intrigue in his hazel eyes. "So how'd they land on 'Super Mario Brothers'?"

Peach's grin flashed, quick and bright. "It started with their first landlord—a gruff old sort. He botched their names, dubbed them the Mario Brothers on a whim. Mario left a mark, I suppose—big personality, bigger mess. The tag stuck. When they ditched construction for pipes, Luigi pitched 'Super Mario Brothers Plumbing.' His idea, their brand."

Oliver nodded, chewing it over. "Got a nice snap to it, I'll give him that. Can't picture them as anything else now."

"Super Segale Brothers Plumbing…" Peach tested it, rolling the words like marbles. Her nose wrinkled, a faint grimace tugging her lips. "No, you're right—clunky as a rusted wrench." She liked this—Oliver's quiet interest, the way he leaned into her stories. Too forward to push further? She set her fork down, meeting his gaze. "I've a small favor to ask, Lord Kiramman."

He straightened at the title, a flicker of nerves tightening his broad frame. "Yes, Princess?"

Her lips twitched, softening the formality. "Lord Graemon's roped me into a charity gala tomorrow night. No duty binds you, but… would you join me? As my guest? I'd breathe easier with a familiar face—your face—there."

Oliver paused, hazel eyes searching hers, then a slow smile broke across his features—warm, unguarded. "I'd be honored," he said, nodding once, firm and sure.

Peach exhaled, a tension she hadn't named easing. His grin lingered in her periphery as she sipped her wine, a quiet thrill threading through her fatigue. Graemon's polished charm grated; Oliver's earnestness soothed. She hadn't expected that—or how much she welcomed it.

"Goddammit!" Belle's hands crashed onto the table, the clang echoing off the Vigilant's steel walls. "How in the bloody hell are we meant to pull this off?"

She jerked her gaze from the desk to the wall map, its glowing lines sprawling like a spider's web across the Empire. She braced for a rebuke—none came. Soryn's eyes stayed locked on the map, fingers tapping the desk's edge with infuriating deliberation. Small blessing, then, that it was just them in this cramped office. Her scowl deepened, heat prickling her neck. Was the damned vyrn smirking at her meltdown?

"Patience, Commander," Soryn said, his voice a cool, steady current. She flicked her eyes sidelong—yep, that faint twitch at his lips. Smug bastard. He rose, stepping to the map with a predator's grace. "Start with what we know. Lay it out."

"He's got a pasta obsession that'd clog a dreadnought's vents," Belle spat, exasperation spilling over. "What's that worth? Portobello's crawling with over a hundred pasta dives!"

Soryn turned, glowing eyes pinning her with a chiding glint. "You're snagged on the details, Commander." His smile ghosted wider, teasing. "His tastes matter, sure, but…" He tapped a dot—New Donk City, pulsing amber. "We've got his origin. That's our anchor. We work from there."

Belle huffed, a sharp gust of disbelief. "Respectfully, Commodore, we should've told His Majesty to stuff this one. Silk purse from a pig's ear—whole mission's a sow's backside."

Soryn tilted his head, brow furrowing. "I'm… sorry? Silk and pigs?"

A grin cracked her frustration—his puzzled look was an old ally. Back during their cadet days, she had been assigned to him, by the Emperor no less, as his translator. She could never have hoped to speak his native language, but it was a small fortune that she had picked up the trade cant his people used when trading in Crestwood, "Tal'vresh ka'dun." She supplied in Kresh'tal. "Task beyond reach, sir. The Emperor dumped an impossible mission on us."

"Ah." Clarity sparked in his eyes, followed by a nod. "Bringing Mario to Caldera undetected—yes, an achievement worth bragging over." He faced the map again, unruffled. "First, we piece the past. That lights the path."

Belle shook her head, a bitter laugh dying in her throat. Madness—stark, raving madness. The Emperor's order—retrieve Mario, not seize him—gnawed at her like rust on a hull. This wasn't their usual dance: pirates skewered, borders tamed. This was clutching a piranha plant by the jaws, not the tail. "Impossible" was too tame a word—she'd need a dictionary's worth to tag this lunacy right.

Belle's frown deepened as she tracked Soryn's scaled finger on the map—New Donk City, a glowing speck in the sprawl. She snatched a file from the desk, thumbing through it with practiced speed, and pinned a page with her finger. "We know he's unhinged enough to tangle with a Kong over some woman—Pauline Verducci," she murmured, then pivoted to the terminal. Her fingers flicked across the keys, data flaring to life. "Here—Pauline Verducci, ex-prosecutor, now New Donk's mayor. You're saying we hit New Donk City?"

"Why not?" Soryn's voice was light, unperturbed. "If Mario carved a name there, it's a logical start." He sifted his own stack of papers, glowing eyes scanning. "He's only ever called New Donk and Portobello home—nowhere else."

Her lips pursed, skepticism sharpening her glare. "Begging the Commodore's pardon, but what're we fishing for?"

"Anything," he said, a faint smile playing at his lips. "If he's not there, we move to the capital."

Belle's eyes widened, incredulity spiking. "You're bloody cracked!" she growled, voice rising. "Sneaking into Portobello—The Mushroom Kingdom's heart—without tripping alarms? How?"

Soryn chuckled, low and steady. "One step at a time, Commander. What else do we know about Mario? Beyond the pasta fixation."

Her eyes narrowed, a prickle tingling her nape at "pasta." Odd, insistent. She snatched the folder again, flipping pages with a farmer's deftness—years of tallying grain sacks and manifests kicking in. Numbers were her domain, her quiet gift next to Soryn's art obsession. Pasta… could it be that dumb? Her gaze snagged on a line, and a grin broke through. "Bank statements," she breathed, spinning to the terminal. Keys clattered under her fingers, crown transactions flooding the screen—dates, sums, patterns. She swiveled the monitor toward Soryn, triumphant. "Sir, feast your eyes."

Soryn leaned in, blue glow sharpening with interest. "So…" He plucked the page she'd flagged, smile widening. "You mapped his haunts from bank ledgers alone?"

"Dead on, sir," she said, nodding. "Frequency's the kicker. Luca's Pasta Joint—weekly hits, like clockwork, until a month after the Invader's strike." She tapped the screen, pulling up a transaction grid. "Fifty crowns here, thirty there—consistent, then a drop-off. He still swings through New Donk regular-like, though. Luca's brags it's 'Super Mario's Favorite.' That's our foothold."

"Superb," Soryn said, approval glinting in his tone. "And next?"

Belle paused, stifling a grin—Soryn's favorite game, tossing the ball back. She pivoted to the screen, running the numbers. Vista Hill to Caldera: two weeks by ship, steady burn. Vista to New Donk: a half-day jaunt, tops. Her mind clicked—tourist flows, shipping lanes, Crown exchange rates. The grin won out. "New Donk's a tourist magnet, soaks up crowns like a sponge soaks up water," she said, voice crisp. "We lean into it—play sightseers. Low profile, no flags. Even Portobello'd barely blink at a couple of 'visitors' poking around."

Soryn's eyes shimmered, a rare gleam of delight. "Once again, Commander, impeccable." He turned to the map, finger tracing an arc. "Now, we craft the covers…"

Belle exhaled, adrenaline humming. Her knack—spotting the odd digit in a ledger, the glitch in a tally—had cracked the trail wide open. Soryn saw brushstrokes; she saw columns. Together, they might just thread this needle—assuming the Emperor's mad "retrieve, don't nab" order didn't sink them first.

Note from the Author:

Crafting the right balance across these three scenes was a tightrope walk. With Luigi, I wrestled to keep him from sounding like a heel to Mario. I've always been drawn to the idea of Luigi harboring a quiet envy of Mario's spotlight—a nod to the fan theory that Super Mario Land might star him instead. Here, I flipped that fame in Sarasaland, making Luigi the local legend and Mario the sidekick, a twist I hoped would deepen their bond without souring it.

Peach's segment gave me fits, mostly in tempering her exchanges with Lord Graemon and Kiramman. Graemon's early drafts veered too close to a greasy schemer—not my aim. I wanted him sharp, not slimy. Kiramman, too, risked feeling like a rote foil to Graemon, which didn't sit right; I wasn't building a feud, just contrast. The heart of Peach's part was her juggling the Crown and premiership—grace under pressure, not petty sparring.

Belle and Soryn's scene was trickiest to nail. Their breakthrough with Mario's restaurant felt like blind luck at first, and I hated that. I leaned into Belle's knack for numbers—her farm-bred, manifest-crunching grit—to make it earned, not fluky. It's a glimpse of her piecing odd threads into clarity, a perfect counterweight to Soryn's art-schooled lens. Together, they're more than the sum—exactly what I wanted to hint at.