The morning sun, bright and promising, slanted across the dusty practice yard behind the modest house Edmond shared with his father. Edmond leaned on his practice spear, catching his breath and shaking his head with a rueful grin after another swift defeat at Fernand Mondego's hands in their spear bout. Fernand, ever the picture of effortless grace despite the exertion, merely offered a tight smile as he leaned his own spear against the wall.

  "Ready to concede the day entirely, Captain Dantes?" Fernand asked, the title still carrying that faint, sharp edge only Edmond seemed not to notice.

  Edmond laughed, tossing his spear aside carelessly. "Never! But perhaps a change of weapon is in order?" He eyed the practice swords leaning nearby – simple, Qi-hardened wooden blades. "Though I suspect the outcome will be much the same. Your swordsmanship has always been leagues beyond my simple guard training." He meant it good-naturedly, acknowledging the difference in their upbringing and instruction.

  Fernand's smile tightened again. "As you say, Dantes. I've had the benefit of instruction since I could walk. Especially with the sword." He picked up his practice sword with practiced ease, testing its balance. "A different discipline entirely. Requires finesse, not just strength. Not truly a tool for common work." The snub was subtle, wrapped in a statement of fact, contrasting the 'noble' sword with the 'common' spear Edmond wielded professionally.

  Edmond, however, missed the barb, still buoyed by the prospect of the day. He picked up the other practice sword, feeling less comfortable with the shorter weapon but eager for the challenge. "If you insist on demonstrating your superiority again," he grinned, settling into an awkward approximation of a swordsman's stance.

  The difference was immediate and stark. If Fernand had been skilled with the spear, he was fluid grace with the sword. His movements were economical, precise, flowing from one guard to the next. Edmond, relying on the broader, stronger movements learned for spear work, felt clumsy, his attempts to parry often meeting empty air as Fernand disengaged and tapped him lightly on the arm or shoulder with the flat of the wooden blade, pulling back before causing any real discomfort but making his dominance clear. Within moments, Fernand executed a swift bind, twisted his wrist with practiced ease, and sent Edmond’s practice sword flying from his grip to clatter in the dust. Fernand held his point steady, inches from Edmond’s chest, a picture of effortless superiority.

  "Point. And match, I think?" Fernand lowered his blade, a faint smirk playing on his lips.

  Edmond stared at his empty hand, then laughed again, shaking his head in genuine admiration mixed with only a touch of frustration. "Completely outclassed! You move like water, Fernand. I barely saw that disarm coming." He clapped his friend on the shoulder, warmth in the gesture despite the easy defeat. "You must give me lessons sometime, truly!"

  "Perhaps," Fernand allowed noncommittally, turning away to place the practice sword back against the wall, hiding the flash of contempt in his eyes. Lessons? For this peasant who had somehow stumbled into the captaincy and Mercedes' heart? Unlikely.

  "Well, I must call it quits now," Edmond said cheerfully, stretching his arms. "Have to make myself presentable for the feast! The most important day of my life!"

  Just as he spoke, the back door of the small house opened, and his father, Louis Dantes, emerged, leaning heavily on a cane. He hobbled slowly towards them, his face pale but alight with pride. "Edmond! Enough playing! You cannot be late today, my boy! Not today of all days! Mercedes and her mother will be expecting you soon at Monsieur Morrel's."

  "Yes, Father," Edmond said, his voice softening with affection as he went to support the frail old man. "Just finishing up. Fernand was kind enough to indulge me in a friendly bout." He turned back to Fernand. "Thank you, my friend. I will see you at the feast?"

  "Wouldn't miss it," Fernand replied smoothly, his expression once again carefully neutral. He watched Edmond help his father back towards the house, a complex mix of envy, resentment, and calculation swirling beneath the surface. The captaincy... Mercedes... even his father. Edmond truly loves his father, and it was returned. Fernand's own father was cold and calculating. It all should have been *his*.

  * * *

  Sunlight streamed through the tall windows of Monsieur Morrel’s spacious dining hall, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air and glinting off polished silverware. Laughter and cheerful conversation filled the room, weaving through the warm, celebratory Qi generated by the gathered friends, family, and loyal employees of the Pharaon Trading House. At the center of it all sat Edmond Dantes and Mercedes Herrera, their faces radiant with happiness. Today was their betrothal feast, a formal announcement and celebration of their impending union, generously hosted by Morrel himself.

  Edmond, looking slightly uncomfortable but proud in newly acquired formal wear, beamed at Mercedes. Her joy was a palpable thing, a bright, warm energy that seemed to embrace everyone nearby. Across the table, Edmond’s elderly father, Louis, watched them with tears glistening in his frail eyes, his own weak cultivation momentarily buoyed by pride. Mercedes’ mother sat beside him, her hand resting gently on his arm, sharing in the happiness. Even Monsieur Morrel, seated at the head of the main table, allowed himself a broad, genuine smile, his usual reserved demeanor softened by affection for the young couple.

  Fernand Mondego circulated through the crowd with practiced ease, extending well-wishes with slightly excessive warmth, his meticulously managed facial expressions concealing the acidic jealousy that continued to simmer inside. He praised Mercedes' beauty and grace to everyone who would listen, gave Edmond another hearty pat on the shoulder that lingered just a moment too long, and raised his glass in countless toasts. To any observer, he performed the role of devoted childhood companion flawlessly. Only in the brief moments when no eyes fell upon him did the mask slip, revealing a tightness around his mouth and a cold calculation in his gaze as he surveyed what he believed should have been his celebration, not Dantes'. But then someone would call his name, and the perfect smile would return instantly, as though it had never faltered.

  After the main course, Monsieur Morrel stood, clinking his glass to request silence. A hushed reverence descended, with all attention shifting to the Trading House's leader. His demeanor, serene yet commanding, dominated the gathering.

  "My friends, faithful members of our Pharaon family," Morrel commenced, his tone affectionate. "We've assembled today for a truly delightful celebration. To honor the engagement of two individuals precious to us all." He cast a fond glance toward the pair. "Mercedes, who illuminates our existence with her elegance and vivacity, the daughter of my beloved late colleague and companion, with whom I established this very Pharaon Trading House, though harsh destiny claimed him during its beginning stages. And Edmond Dantes, a youth whose dedication, bravery, and honesty demonstrated during the challenging first Nice voyage have already shown him an invaluable contributor to our Company, and whom I'm honored to appoint Captain of our crucial Azure Serpent Route."

  He raised his glass. "Edmond’s character shone brightly, demonstrating the discipline and loyalty that are the true strength required for leadership in such a crucial venture. It is these qualities, more than mere cultivation or cunning, that form the foundation of trust. We celebrate his well-deserved promotion, and even more, we celebrate the love he shares with Mercedes. May their life together be blessed with happiness, prosperity, and enduring devotion. To Edmond and Mercedes!"

  "To Edmond and Mercedes!" resonated throughout the hall, glasses lifted high, the assembled guests radiating joy and festive energy as their faces glowed with genuine goodwill and delight for the happy couple.

  At that exact instant, the height of celebration and fellowship, the massive wooden entryway at the hall's far end crashed open.

  The festive sounds ceased immediately, giving way to shocked quiet. Standing in the doorframe were four Imperial Guards, their burnished armor reflecting dimly, their expressions severe and emotionless. They emanated a chilling, regimented presence completely absent of the room's conviviality, similar to frozen shards plunged into a warm lake. They followed by a hard-faced commander who radiated menace and inflexibility.

  The commander marched into the chamber, his footwear resounding against the gleaming floor. His eyes moved across the gathering, finally focusing on the main table, on Edmond.

  "Edmond Dantes?" the officer called out, his voice devoid of inflection.

  Edmond, startled, half-rose from his seat. "I am he."

  "You are under arrest," the officer declared, loud enough for all to hear.

  A collective gasp rippled through the room, echoing against the walls as conversations died instantly. Two guards moved swiftly towards Edmond, their armored forms cutting through the stunned crowd with practiced efficiency, their hands reaching for his arms with the mechanical precision of men who had performed this duty countless times before. Edmond stood frozen, his mind unable to process the sudden transformation of his celebration into this nightmare. Around him, the faces of his friends and colleagues shifted from joy to confusion to horror, while at the edge of his vision, he caught a glimpse of Mercedes's pale, shocked expression.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  "No!" Mercedes cried out, jumping to her feet, one trembling hand flying halfway to her mouth while the other stretched desperately toward Edmond across the impossible distance growing between them. Her face drained of color, eyes widening with horror as if witnessing a nightmare made flesh. Her joyful Qi—moments ago a warm, radiant glow around her—shattered into sharp, jagged points of fear and disbelief that pulsed inside her slender form. The golden threads of celebration that had connected them now snapped one by one, leaving only the raw, electric panic of separation in their wake.

  "Arrest?" Edmond stammered, completely bewildered. "On what grounds?"

  Monsieur Morrel was already on his feet, his face thunderous, his own powerful Qi flaring protectively. "By whose order is this arrest made, and what are the charges?"

  The officer met Morrel’s furious gaze without flinching. "The order comes directly from Deputy Prosecutor Villefort. As for the charges, you must take the matter up with him. My duty is only to bring the prisoner in." The guards seized Edmond’s arms firmly.

  "Father!" Edmond cried out, turning towards the head table. Louis Dantes had gone deathly pale, clutching at his chest, his frail body trembling as his strength seemed to drain away like water through open fingers. Mercedes' mother rushed to support him.

  "Unhand him!" Fernand Mondego pushed through the stunned guests, his voice ringing with feigned indignation. "This is outrageous! I am Fernand Mondego, son of Lord Mondego! Release him at once! Dantes is loyal to the Emperor! There must be some mistake!"

  The officer gave Fernand a look of cold indifference. "Your station matters little here, sir. Step aside, or you will be charged with obstructing Imperial justice." He motioned to his men. "Move."

  The guards began to pull the stunned Edmond towards the door. Mercedes sobbed, trying to follow, held back by friends.

  "Don't despair, Mercedes!" Fernand called out dramatically, rushing to her side as Edmond was forced away. He placed a supposedly comforting hand on her shoulder. "I swear to you, I will get to the bottom of this! My father has connections – I will speak to everyone I can! We will clear Edmond's name, I promise you!" He looked the very picture of a devoted, outraged friend.

  Morrel, his face grim, stepped beside Fernand and Mercedes, his voice low but firm, cutting through Fernand's performance. "Indeed. *We* shall get to the bottom of this." His gaze followed Edmond until the doors slammed shut, leaving behind a scene of utter devastation and confusion.

  * * *

  Deputy Prosecutor Villefort examined the anonymous accusation in his austere office, the afternoon light casting long shadows across his polished oak desk. He forced his Qi to remain meticulously controlled, radiating intelligence and aspiration as befitted a man of his station and ambition. He pondered the nebulous charges against the Pharaon Trading House's newly appointed Captain for the essential Nice route, tapping his fingers thoughtfully against the parchment. The accusation seemed convenient—perhaps too convenient—but in these politically volatile times, even vague Bonapartist connections required thorough investigation.

  Before he could summon the prisoner, however, an agitated clerk announced unexpected visitors: Monsieur Morrel and the young Lord Mondego, demanding an audience. Villefort sighed inwardly. Morrel's intervention was expected; Mondego's continued performance was noted. So, the Captain inspires such quick loyalty, he mused. Or Mondego enjoys drama. And while the allegations were officially anonymous, Villefort knew Mondego's fingerprints were metaphorically all over the parchment. His informants at the courthouse had already whispered that the letter had originated with that merchant Danglars, passed through Mondego's hands before delivery. The young lord's presence now—feigning concern for a man he'd helped condemn—showed a duplicity that Villefort found both distasteful and familiar. Such were the games of ambitious men.

  He received them standing, expression neutral. Morrel demanded answers while Fernand proclaimed Edmond's innocence. Villefort listened patiently before responding, "Gentlemen, I appreciate your concern for Captain Dantes. This anonymous accusation about Elba contact just reached my desk. I haven't even questioned him yet."

  He offered a placating smile. "Return tomorrow morning. By then, I will have conducted a preliminary interview." His tone brooked no argument.

  Vexed, Morrel gave a stiff nod, his weathered face betraying genuine concern for his newly appointed captain. Fernand added another flowery assurance of Dantes' character before they departed, though Villefort noted the young lord's eyes never quite matched his earnest tone. Despite his annoyance at the interruption, their show of loyalty—particularly Morrel's authentic distress—slightly inclined Villefort to believe in Dantes' innocence. The case was likely straightforward, perhaps even a waste of his valuable time. "Bring in the prisoner, Dantes," he ordered his clerk with a dismissive wave, already anticipating a brief interrogation.

  Edmond stood before Villefort's imposing desk, pale yet composed. "Captain Dantes," Villefort said reasonably, "your supporters speak highly of you. Despite this, I must investigate this accusation. Complete honesty is required." He settled back, resting his fingertips on the desktop's obsidian inlay—activating his Truth Stone—and asked, "Tell me about your Nice operations and return journey."

  Edmond recounted the mission truthfully. When he mentioned the stop near Elba, Villefort interrupted, focusing his intent.

  "Direct questions now, Captain. Did Captain Leclere order the halt near the island of Elba?"

  "Yes, Monsieur le Procureur." Villefort perceived the familiar, faint chill radiating from the obsidian beneath his fingertips – truth. The stone's subtle resonance confirmed the words where true, a sensation he'd grown accustomed to over years of interrogations. He maintained his impassive expression, not allowing Dantes to realize that his every statement was being verified by the artifact embedded in the desk's surface.

  "Did you know the reason for this stop?"

  "No, Monsieur. He only stated it was personal business."

  "Did you conspire with Captain Leclere, or anyone else, in any plot against the Empire?"

  "No, Monsieur! Never!" Edmond exclaimed, his eyes wide with genuine shock at the suggestion. Villefort felt the sharp, unmistakable chill radiating from the obsidian beneath his fingertips – truth, absolute and unequivocal. The young man's indignation was not feigned; the Truth Stone's reaction confirmed what Villefort's instincts had already suggested about Dantes' innocence regarding any conspiracy.

  Villefort nodded, outwardly relaxed, leaning back as if satisfied. *Innocent.* He picked up a quill, dipping it in ink, and pulled forward a sheet of official parchment, beginning to write what appeared to be a dismissal or release order. "Your account seems straightforward, Captain Dantes. Corroborated..." he paused, tapping the pen, "...by your sincerity." He fixed Edmond with a final, seemingly casual look. "One last detail, mentioned in the denunciation. Did Captain Leclere give you any correspondence before his death?"

  Edmond nodded, relieved, eager to be fully transparent. "Yes, Monsieur. A sealed letter."

  "Do you have it with you?"

  "Yes, Monsieur. It is here." He reached into his tunic and produced the letter, handing it respectfully across the desk with a slight bow, cooperating fully. The sealed parchment felt light in his hands, yet somehow carried the weight of his future without his knowledge.

  Villefort took it, examining the intact seal with practiced scrutiny, turning it slightly to catch the afternoon light streaming through the office window. He placed his long fingers back on the obsidian inlay, the stone cool beneath his touch. "What are the contents of this letter?" he asked, his tone casual yet precise, his eyes never leaving Edmond's face.

  "I do not know, Monsieur. I would not presume to open it," Edmond replied earnestly, his posture straightening with the natural indignation of an honest man accused. Villefort felt the unmistakable cold pulse from the obsidian beneath his fingertips – truth again, absolute and unequivocal. The young sailor's respect for proper authority and chain of command was evident in both his words and the stone's reaction.

  Villefort's belief in Edmond's personal innocence was complete. He resumed writing on the document before him, the picture of bureaucratic resolution. "And how were you to deliver this letter? To whom?"

  Edmond replied with trusting innocence, "The Captain gave no address, Monsieur. He said only that someone would make contact upon our return to Marseille, identify themselves with the name 'Monsieur Vendémiaire', and take delivery."

  Villefort's hand froze mid-stroke, the quill hovering silently above the parchment. Monsieur Vendémiaire. His father's secret, dangerous alias from the revolutionary days. The blood ran cold in his veins. This letter... this name... ruin. He stared at the innocent man before him, his mind racing through cascading scenarios of destruction. Everything he had built—his career, his reputation, his carefully cultivated distance from his Bonapartist father—all of it balanced on the precipice of this moment. The letter in his hand now felt like a venomous serpent, poised to strike at the foundations of his ambitions with deadly precision.

  With chilling calmness, he carefully set aside the incomplete release document. His expression became an impenetrable mask. He picked up the Captain's letter, broke the seal, and scanned the contents – details confirming Bonapartist activities, potentially implicating his father. Absolute ruin stared him in the face.

  He placed the damning letter deliberately on his desk beside the anonymous denunciation, securing them with a paperweight. He turned his gaze, now hard as flint, back to the bewildered Edmond. Villefort leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping but gaining intensity. "Have you mentioned this name – Vendémiaire – to anyone else?"

  "No, Monsieur," Edmond replied, confused by the sudden shift.

  "Not Morrel? Not young Mondego?" Villefort pressed, his eyes boring into Edmond's.

  "No, Monsieur!" Edmond insisted, bewildered. "No one has even asked! Only Captain Leclere and now yourself know of the letter's existence, let alone the name!"

  Villefort leaned back, a flicker of relief warring with cold calculation in his eyes. *Good. The secret is contained.* Self-preservation slammed down like a portcullis. His voice turned to ice. "The possession of such clandestine correspondence, obtained near Elba and intended for delivery via a known subversive element within the city, constitutes a grave threat to the security of the Empire, regardless of your professed ignorance." He picked up a fresh warrant form, dipping his quill with cold purpose. "You cannot be allowed freedom."

  "Guard!" He began writing the order for indefinite detention. "Take him to the Chateau d'If. No records. No communication. Ensure his arrival is unobserved." While writing, he casually dropped the half-finished release document into the nearby brazier, watching hope turn to ash.

  "Monsieur! Why?" Edmond cried out, stunned by the terrifying reversal. "I spoke truly! I am innocent!"

  Villefort finished writing, sanded the warrant, and looked up, his eyes devoid of emotion. "Your innocence is irrelevant, Captain Dantes. The danger you represent, even unwittingly, is not." He gestured curtly. "Take him away."

  As Edmond was forcibly dragged out, shouting confused protests, Villefort remained seated. He carefully placed the Captain's letter and the now-useless anonymous denunciation into a heavy, locked drawer in his desk. Safe. His future secured. The faint, odd thrum from the obsidian inlay faded, leaving only the cold silence of ambition served and justice betrayed.