As it turned out, Momo’s Way did not sit well with Grimli.

“We’re canceling the campaign trail,” Momo repeated, watching as the bard’s face drained of life once more. It was paler than pale – like a ghost with a face mask on. “The last stop is going to be Mekna. Queen’s orders.”

“But, but – my shirt!” he said, pointing two thumbs towards his torso. “It’ll all be a sham! I was disappointed already that it didn’t include Snowdrop Village, a minor error as that was, but to think that I’ll have to cross out half of the remaining tour dates. And oh, the songs I was planning on singing. I had a notebook full of melodies –”

“Grimli. Do you want your soul to be consumed by a wraith in a box?”

Grimli’s mouth shut like a zipper.

“No.”

Momo sighed, hauling the rest of their things into the back of the carriage.

“That’s what I thought.”

–

The journey to Mekna was long and doused in rain; and seeing as Grimli would soon have no public outlets to share his songs, he seized the one opportunity in front of him: accosting Momo’s ears with every combination of rancid tune and mismatched lyric imaginable.

“O’Momo, O’Momo,

Great Ruiner of Plans,

Famed Queeness Who Trampled

On my Dreams

In Advance…”

“Can you please stop, Grimli?”

“Of course, your highness.”

—

Three minutes later.

“May I resume my strumming, your highness?”

“Do you have a pair of earplugs I can borrow?”

“I carry no such thing, your highness.”

“Then no, Grimli.”

—

Fifteen minutes later.

“Your highness, this awkward silence is deafening. Why don’t I relieve it with a song?”

“Will the song have lyrics?”

“Of course, your highness.”

“Can the lyrics be in a language I don’t understand?”

“Oh, like dwarvish?” Grimli brightened. “Glad-vad-ra’h-tahv, ro-da-da-tadvh?”

“Yes – perfect.”

—

It occurred to Momo, as thoughts do when you stare out the window of a vehicle, that leading a country was a whole lot easier than leading one singular bard around a country.

—

During the last leg of the carriage ride, Momo drew up a letter explaining her plans to Sumire.

In plain, Momo would be leaving the continent. But unlike when she left Nam’Dal, she wouldn’t let the nation waste away unsupervised. She was going to have Sumire pretend that Momo was still around — they’d find a fitting shapeshifter, someone trustworthy and capable to do her public appearances. Read out new laws and doctrines and fend off the lobbyists.

Of course, Momo and Sumire would write the impersonator’s scripts, sign off on every word they’d say. They’d be a walking political puppet. All the while, Momo would be sailing towards the Vagrant Dunes. She’d be able to track down Lione, figure out how to disable the Wraith Box, and possibly snuff out the location of Jarva’s new upstart kingdom. She’d be a royal spy in enemy territory.

The plan would work twofold — foremost, it would prevent Jarva from seeing the Queendom as compromised. If that were to happen, it’d be increasingly likely that he’d prepare an attack to reclaim the capital. And secondly, the imitation plan would allow Momo to throw the Holy Resistance off her trail. If they thought she was sitting pretty in Jarvirium, any assassination attempts would be targeted at the highly-guarded capital, not Momo’s boat overseas.

It’ll work, she assured herself, goosebumps running up her forearm as she finished the final stroke with her quill. I can do it all at once.

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—

They arrived in Mekna just as the rain let up. Gleaming under the cloud-parted sun, the port city was as vivacious as Momo remembered it, brimming with hawkers selling all sorts of miscellany. Only now, the docks were in full swing again. Hundreds of boats dotted the coastline, bobbing like soap bubbles across the wide open blue expanse.

Good, Momo thought. Now we just have to find the right one.

“Remember, Grimli, no announcing our presence. We have to do this quietly and intelligently, so that the Holy Resistance doesn’t catch wind,” Momo instructed the dwarf as they approached the front gates. “So let’s use some finesse, alright?”

“Finesse, yes,” he said, replying in a low whisper. “I will be very finnessive.”

“You don’t know what that word means, do you?”

“Not a clue, your highness,” he said, digging out his notebook with a swiftness.

They had three parallel missions while in Mekna – one, to find a mechanic who could fix up Grimli’s dwarven vehicle contraption, which they could then use as transportation when they arrived in the Dunes. Two, to give a persuasive interview to Kelly Kraken in order to offset the efforts of the Holy Resistance and Kyros’s [Brainwash].

And three, commandeer a whole ass ship.

It’s just like a car that goes on water. Can’t be that hard.

Momo laughed nervously.

—

They were able to get through the gates without a problem. Momo flashed the captain’s badge she borrowed from Akram, and she was welcomed in with the rest of the registered traders. She didn’t want to float around her Queen clout here, so it was better to use other means of entrance.

The guards did give a sidelong glance at the giant forklift of a machine they were hauling in — but Momo tried to distance herself as far from it as possible. That’s Grimli’s mess.

“Okay,” Momo said, folding her arms and pulling her cowl over her eyes. She wanted to stay as camouflaged as possible. “You deal with the big mechanical boy, and I’ll find the Mekna Gazette. We meet by the docks tonight when all is settled. Sound good?”

“Roger that, your highn–”

“Shh.”

“Right!” Grimli gave her a salute instead. “Roger that, Captain Coco.”

Momo grimaced. If they got onto a ship without all of Aloysius knowing, it’d be a miracle.

—

The Mekna Gazette was taller than last time. It had gained six stories of wide window panes, like a proper New York office building. It was surrounded by reinforced wooden gates and tuxedoed bodyguards, and topped with a giant billboard, showcasing the one and only face of the paper—Kelly Kraken.

“Never meet your heroes,” Momo mumbled, staring up at her ridiculous mug.

Kelly was like a tan Medusa. Sunglasses pushed up her hair, which was not quite hair, and more so a cluttered arrangement of black-scaled snakes. The snakes slithered around her olive skin and freckled cheeks, framing her face into the perfect proportions. No photoshop required.

“Sorry, no peasants allowed in the offices,” the guard at the entrance said gruffly, extending his trident over the entrance for extra oomph. “If you’d like to buy a copy of the gazette, you can do so at any licensed dealer.”

Momo had expected this. With the gazette, and specifically Kelly, being so high profile nowadays, it made sense that they wouldn’t let just any street ruffian in to talk to the premier reporter herself.

“Look,” Momo whispered. “I know you’re just doing your job. That’s totally cool. Keep at it. But I’m actually the Queen.”

He creased his eyebrows, unamused. “Queen?”

Momo bit down on her lip. “Chief Necromancer-in-charge? Momo the Ripper? I’m here to give an interview to Kelly myself. In-person.”

His eyes lit up with recognition, but quickly dimmed as he reviewed her choice of clothing.

“You expect me to believe a queen is dressed like a common street urchin? The cowl, the clogs, the, the–” he scoffed, gesturing towards her general presence. “I’m no idiot. Move along before I report you to the actual authorities for royal impersonation.”

One great thing about the advent of photography – it ensured that people knew what other people looked like. Especially prominent people. Aloysius lacked such a mechanism. And since she wasn’t an egomaniac, Momo hadn’t bothered to have a portrait artist distribute her horned mug to all of the populace.

“Err – what do you think the queen looks like?” Momo tried. “Because I assure you it’s me.”

He frowned, taking a moment to consider it.

“Well, she’d be taller than you, of course,” he said. “And regal, as queens are. Very regal.”

Momo straightened her back, fixing her posture.

“How’s this?” she murmured.

He hummed, gesturing with his hands for her to do a spin around. Seeing no other option, she obeyed – twirling slowly like a model being appraised for a fashion magazine.

After a moment, he shook his head.

“Still pretty bad.”

Momo sighed. She was really counting on her Charisma or myriad persuasion skills to give her some extra points here, but the unfortunate reality was that most of her persuasion skills only helped her when she was trying to deceive someone, not tell them the truth.

She’d normally blast him with a case of [Maladaptive Daydreams], but that wouldn’t be very low profile of her. She’d have to find a way inside the building that didn’t require ringing any alarm bells.

Momo looked past him and through the gates. Inside the Gazette’s courtyard, there was a guard that rotated position every five minutes. He’d walk to his post outside, survey the area, then return inside the building. That gave her an idea.

“Nevermind,” she said to him. She gave a quick, awkward bow. “Have a good day.”

Before he could respond, Momo trailed away from him, walking until she was out of view.

She hid behind a bush, eyeing the guardsman who was about to return to his shift inside. She had her gaze pinned to the handkerchief hanging lazily out of his pocket.

“[Possess],” she whispered.

In all honesty, it was one of her more genius plans—within the blink of an eye, her consciousness had teleported into the piece of cloth, and soon enough she was being carried into the office.

Once inside, a hundred voices assaulted Momo. The place was a mess of journalists and editors, white-collared lizards and ravens with their ties knit neatly to their chest. Papers fluttered in every which direction, coating the floors and the ceilings. It was equal parts disaster and highly organized chaos.

The guard Momo was attached to took a moment to survey the first floor, then went up to the second. He swiped a badge at a door, and was then let up to the subsequent third, fourth, and fifth. It was only on the sixth floor that Momo heard a promising voice, high-pitched and overly cheery, a certified radio host.

“It was a pleasure to meet with you, Ms. Bellafor. I won’t lie, your angle on this whole story really surprised me.”

Momo was jolted by the name. She looked up. Standing like mammoths before her were two women – one with wild, snake-infested hair – and another as blonde as the morning sun.

And unmistakably familiar.

“The pleasure’s all mine, Kelly,” said the other woman. “Now, do the story justice, won’t you?”

She turned to leave, exposing the pale, taut skin of her face towards Momo.

Vivienne.