The Sunny docked at Rookstone Island mid-morning. Forests covered the lower slopes in thick stands broken by narrow fields, garden plots, and low stone walls, then thinned into a town gathered along the harbor road and scattered farther up the hillside. Gray stone houses with steep roofs sat close along twisting lanes, chimneys and narrow windows turned toward the water. Beyond them, an old castle stood higher on the rise, square towers and weathered walls set above the town. Mountains lifted behind it all, broad and stony, with the woods, the roofs, and the fortress tucked below.
The log pose would need a day. That meant supplies, food, a walk through town, and one night tied at the dock. It also meant clothes.
Nami took one look at the harbor once they were close enough and said they were not going ashore dressed like themselves unless they wanted every eye on them. She was right. The people on the docks wore wool, linen, leather, and muted colors. Tunics belted at the waist. Long skirts. Cloaks. Soft boots. No one walked around in open shirts, bright suits, kimono robes, or haramaki.
There were shops near the docks built to catch travelers before they got farther into town. Bolts of cloth hung in the windows. Shirts and cloaks were set out on hooks by the doors. The whole thing was simple enough. Everybody got changed. Zoro took a plain brown tunic and left it at that. His coat, sash, and haramaki stayed behind on the Sunny.
“You look like a tree,” Sanji said when Zoro came down the gangplank. Half the crew had scattered already, heading into town in their new clothes.
Zoro smirked. “And you look like an asshole.”
Sanji’s face tightened at once, ready to fire back, but Nami cut in before he could. “Sanji-kun, how much do you need to restock?”
Zoro kept walking. He headed for town before he got pressed into packmule service. He wanted a drink and a stretch of shore under his feet. They had been at sea for three weeks. By the end of it, even the people he liked best were wearing on him.
Sanji was the other problem he needed a break from. Sanji fell into his own category of people Zoro wanted to both strangle and sleep with, which made for a special type of torture locked at sea for too long.
It wasn't anything new. Zoro'd had an interest in Sanji for so long it was background noise now. The cook was just his type: strong, protective, and called him on his shit. Standing up to Zoro and not backing down from a fight was a surefire way to make his trousers tight. He'd had a handful of bed partners over the years who ticked those boxes. He hadn't tried anything with Sanji mainly because the man never saw a pair of tits he didn't bleed over, and they were also on the same crew. Spending a few days with a lover then leaving with fond memories was good all around. Living with the person added all sorts of layers called feelings that Zoro was reluctant to tangle with.
The town streets narrowed once he left the harbor behind. Stone gave way to packed earth in places where grass pushed through at the edges. Houses leaned over the lanes with upper stories built out beyond the lower ones. Laundry snapped from lines strung between windows. He passed a cooper’s yard, then a baker with his door open to let out heat and the smell of crust and yeast, then a square with a well in the middle and three roads splitting off from it.
He kept his eye out for a tavern. When a street looked promising, he turned down it. If he found nothing, he turned in a different direction. Houses became farms became a farrier became a cluster of buildings that turned out to be an abby. After a while the houses thinned more. Garden plots appeared behind low stone walls. Chickens scratched under shrubs. The road narrowed to a path. The sounds of town dropped back little by little until he could hear wind in leaves and the low drone of insects rising out of the brush.
Zoro stopped and looked around. Trees. Thick trunks. New leaves. Moss at the base of old stones. A path that might have been the one he came down, but all these paths looked the same to him.
He continued walking. The woods near town were open enough that sunlight still reached the ground in broad patches. Fresh green showed at the ends of branches. Wildflowers had come up in the grass where the trees broke wide enough for light. The air smelled of damp soil, bark, and growing things. Birds moved overhead now and then quickly through the leaves. Somewhere off to his left water ran over stone.
Eventually, when the trees outnumbered anything else he could see, he decided it was a nice time for a nap. He found a broad tree with roots shouldering out of the ground in thick ridges and a patch of dry grass at its base. He sat with his back against the trunk, one knee bent, katanas tucked against his shoulder, and tipped his head back. Sun filtered through the leaves and crossed his face in shifting bands. The bark pressed solid between his shoulder blades. A breeze moved now and then, enough to stir his shirt at the throat and cool the skin under it.
He shut his eye and let the quiet sounds of nature lull him. He drifted, not fully asleep. Enough to let his breathing settle. Enough to hear the woods around him sort themselves into separate sounds. Leaves moving. Insects. A bird dropping lower through the branches. Footsteps, eventually. More than one set. First casual along the path, then a sudden stop. He didn’t register any danger as they began talking amongst themselves.
“Please tell me I am not imagining things.”
“It does look like him.”
“It can’t be.”
“I think I agree, it has to be him.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“It could.”
“Wasn’t the prince more rotund?”
A pause.
Another voice said, with complete seriousness, “Could still be him, if he worked out.”
“It has been a number of years,” a second voice agreed.
Zoro opened his eye. Four men stood between the trees looking at him as if he might vanish if they blinked. Two wore rough peasant garb: faded tunics belted with rope, patched trousers, worn boots with mud dried at the seams. The other two had better cloth and straighter posture. Lean men in fitted doublets under traveling cloaks, boots that had seen use but were well made, belts with simple buckles. Lesser nobles, maybe. Or men attached to one.
Zoro stared at them until one of the better-dressed men cleared his throat awkwardly. He closed his eye again. “You’re disturbing my nap.”
There was a brief scramble of movement. Boots scuffed leaves. Somebody sucked in a breath. The man who had cleared his throat stepped forward half a pace. “Forgive us.”
Zoro did not answer.
The man tried again. “By any chance, are you Prince Hanaka Ichigo?”
“No.”
“Oh.” The man sounded thrown for a second. “Our apologies.”
Zoro grunted. He heard them retreat after that, slower than they had come. Branches brushed cloth. Their voices dropped again once they were a little farther off. He let his eye stay shut.
They stopped again. Not far enough away that he couldn’t hear them.
“It’s a shame.”
“What is?”
“If it were him–”
“It isn’t.”
“He said it isn’t.”
“Well, yes, but–”
“Do not say but.”
“The usurper won’t loosen his grip on the city by polite request.”
A stretch of silence followed. The breeze shifted through the leaves overhead. Then one of them said, “What if he is the prince?”
Another snapped, “He just said he’s not.”
“What if,” the first man said, slower now, “we pretend he is.”
Even with his eye shut Zoro could picture them turning that over. He could hear it in the shift of their boots and the way nobody answered right away.
One of the peasants said, doubtful, “Would that work?”
“It might work long enough.”
“He has the face.”
“He does.”
“And the hair color.”
“He’s too muscular.”
“Excused by his absence.”
There was another pause. Longer this time. Then the footsteps came back. Zoro opened his eye before they could start clearing their throats at him again. He did not sit up. “What?”
The man at the front drew himself together, glanced at his companions, who nodded, and said, “We were wondering if you’d be willing to do us a favor?”
“Six years ago, when Prince Ichigo was seventeen, he decided he was tired of living in a gilded cage and wanted to see the world before he became king,” Eldric said to the group gathered in the Sunny’s galley.
The meeting had taken over most of the space. The big dining table sat in the center with eight chairs around it, worn smooth by meals, card games, and long nights at sea. The couch along one wall had Usopp at one end and Franky taking up the rest of it in his usual sprawl. On the other side, the built-in bar bench seating held Nami, Jinbe, and Chopper. The four guests, Zoro, Luffy, Robin, and Brook took up the seats around the table. The kitchen stood just beyond the breakfast bar, separated from the dining area by the counter where Sanji had whipped up snacks and drinks for everyone.
The Sunny shifted softly under them. Wood creaked. Glass clinked when the ship rocked against her moorings. Light from the galley windows fell warm across the table and caught on bottle glass, polished wood, and the edge of Jinbe’s cup. Beyond it all came the muffled sounds of the harbor: gulls, distant voices, and the knock of rope against the mast.
They had gone back to the ship after Eldric and the others proposed their plan. Zoro had sent Brook and Jinbe, who’d been on watch, to gather the rest of the crew while he headed to the Aquarium Bar and helped himself to the Sunny’s alcohol stores. He had missed his chance at the tavern. He was not missing his drink.
Sanji had noticed. He had not said much about the two bottles Zoro kept near his elbow, but the look he gave him while setting out food had made the point well enough. Zoro ignored it.
Luffy sat at the table in his usual clothes except for the red noble cloak trimmed with white fur that he had insisted on buying in town. He was eating crackers and slices of cured meat fast enough that he should have run out already, but a new board appeared every time he neared the end. He looked like he was only half paying attention. Zoro knew better.
Eldric sat at the table with Alrick, Kiyoshi, and Saburo beside him. Up close, they looked even more worn than they had in the woods. Eldric and Kiyoshi carried themselves like lesser nobles or merchants used to speaking for others, though both had frayed cuffs and tired faces. Alrick stood broad through the shoulders, hands rough from work despite the better quality of his cloak. Saburo kept wringing his cap between his fingers, the motion small and constant.
Rookstone Island’s hierarchy, as Eldric explained it, had some resemblance to Wano’s old feudal structure. The king stood at the top, then the knights, then everyone else. Unlike Wano, nobles and peasants were not divided so sharply. The nobles handled shops, trade, and services. The peasants farmed. Since the island lived or starved by what came out of those fields, the farmers held equal footing to the nobles unlike in other places.
“King Hanaka, though reluctant, allowed Prince Ichigo to depart with a retinue of knights and servants,” Eldric continued. “He was meant to return within a year, but he did not. The king was already late middle age, so at first it was a worry, but not yet a crisis. Then the king died unexpectedly.”
Robin, seated straight-backed on the chair with her hands folded in front of her, tilted her head. “Of unnatural causes?”
Eldric shook his head. “Our court physician found no foul play. It was only a tragedy, made worse by the prince still being gone.”
Kiyoshi took up the story. “That was four years ago. The throne remained empty for a year. The king’s advisors kept the island running much as it had before. Then the head advisor, Malric, declared that Rookstone could not continue without a ruler and named himself king. A majority of the advisors backed him. The rest were forced out.”
“The usurper king,” Jinbe said.
Eldric nodded. “It would have caused less harm if Malric had been even a decent ruler. He is not. He raised taxes tenfold and used the knights to force payment.”
“Farms seized. Shops burned,” Saburo said, voice tight. “Men and women beaten badly enough to end up in hospital, or else they disappear. Others get sent to debtors’ prison mining camps.”
The galley seemed quieter after that. Even the harbor noise through the windows felt farther away.
Alrick spoke next, more steadily than Saburo. “We have always paid taxes. To maintain roads, sewers, wells. To pay the knights to protect the people and serve as constables. We knew some of it supported the king, his household, the servants, the upkeep of the castle. But it was reasonable. If a family fell on hard times, other arrangements could be made. Days spent repairing roads. Work on the harbor walls. That kind of thing.”
“But Malric squeezes people dry,” Kiyoshi said. “Then he turns them into unpaid labor and uses seized farms to feed the camps. When he bothers to feed them.”
Luffy stopped chewing. His face had gone still in a way that meant he was listening with his whole body now.
“Where does Zoro come into this?” Nami asked. She sat angled toward the visitors, one elbow on the table, fingers curved around her drink. Her expression had gone sharp and cool, the one she wore when she thought somebody might be trying to sell her trouble in a nicer wrapping.
Eldric looked across the table at Zoro. “Your companion bears a striking resemblance to Prince Ichigo. We were hoping he might stand in as the prince returned from his voyage and remove Malric from the throne.”
Franky thumped one fist into the other palm. “Wouldn’t a few well-placed punches do the job faster?”
Saburo looked openly alarmed. “It would be better if this happened without violence. We do not want to give the knights reason to turn on the people in defense of the crown. Or in retaliation after.”
Robin’s gaze sharpened. “And if Zoro succeeds? Do you intend to place one of your own on the throne?”
Eldric shook his head at once. “No. We want him to dissolve the monarchy and establish a Council of Nine instead.”
“Elected?” Robin asked.
“Yes,” Kiyoshi said. “By the people of the island. With fixed terms. No permanent seat, no inherited authority.”
“And if Malric wants a place on this council and wins enough support, he can have one,” Alrick said, though he sounded like the thought sat badly in his mouth. “What matters is that he loses unilateral power.”
Saburo nodded quickly. “We would ask the prince to name Daisuke as temporary head of the council until elections can be held. He has no ambition for power. He keeps sheep in the uplands and would rather stay there. That is why we trust him.”
Sanji had been leaning against the breakfast bar with his arms folded, listening while he topped up drinks and kept serving plates full. Now he straightened a little. “What stops Malric from taking over again the moment your prince leaves? If the knights are in his pocket, he could just use them and put himself right back where he was.”
Eldric let out a slow breath. “You are right to ask. We hope the prince’s return, even if brief, would remind the knights of what they were meant to serve.”
“Or the knights get dissolved, too,” Kiyoshi said. “Not all of them are corrupt. But too many stand by and do nothing while this happens.”
Silence settled over the galley.
The Sunny shifted against the dock. Wood creaked low through the floor beneath their feet. A gull cried somewhere beyond the portholes.
Then Luffy said, “It’s up to Zoro.”
Heads turned to him first, then to Zoro. Zoro looked back at the four men seated at the table. Weariness sat plain on them. So did hope. He already knew from Luffy’s face that they were not sailing away and leaving the island to a king who bled his people dry. The only question was whether they did this the peaceful way first.
And if that failed, they could always punch.
Zoro lifted one shoulder and took a drink before answering. “How hard could it be?”
Plans fell into line quickly after that. Luffy would just be around and Jinbe would accompany him to keep him out of trouble. He would also keep an eye on the Sunny. Nami would pose as a visiting Lady from another island with Robin as her knight-attendant and get herself invited to stay at the castle. Usopp, Brook, Franky, and Chopper would be part of Zoro’s retinue of knights.
“Sanji-kun, you’ll be Zoro’s knight-attendant,” Nami said, once the others had cleared out. Sanji was finishing cleaning up, with Zoro’s enforced help. “You’re a real prince and know how to act appropriately. You can help keep Zoro out of trouble.”
Sanji stiffened. “You know that I’m not a part of that family anymore, Nami-san.”
“Yeah, I know,” Nami said. “But you were once and lived like royalty.” Her eyes narrowed. “Besides, you still owe me for what you put us through.”
Sanji’s gaze dropped. “Of course, Nami-san.” He pushed away from the counter, where he’d been drying the dishes Zoro handed to him. “I'm going to go pack. I'll pack for you, too, marimo. Don’t leave a mess.”
Zoro watched him leave, a bit surprised. Sanji didn’t like leaving his galley in any form of disarray. He also didn’t like Sanji’s subdued reaction. “What’s he owe you for?”
“Some things he did on Whole Cake Island,” Nami said.
Zoro made a sound of acknowledgment. He didn’t know what happened there, only that there had been a cake Luffy didn’t get to eat and that Sanji came back unmarried. Luffy didn’t say anything else and Zoro hadn’t asked. What was done was done, in Zoro’s opinion, and if Sanji wanted to share, he would. Zoro’d gotten over his anger about it long ago, once he’d learned about the coercive threat.
“And you need to be on your best behavior for this to work,” Nami told Zoro. “Which means listening to Sanji-kun.”
Zoro pulled a face. “I just need to tell Malric I’m Prince Ichigo and that I want the throne back.”
“Yes, but you have to do it in a royal manner, not through grunts,” Nami said. She pointed at him threateningly. “If you screw this up, I’m charging you for all the armor we’re getting.”
“Eldric is getting us the armor,” Zoro said with a scowl.
“You heard me,” Nami said, heading for the door. “Listen to Sanji-kun.”
Zoro grumbled in irritation after she’d gone, leaving him alone in the galley. He finished the dishes, drying what was left and setting it in the rack. He knew better than to try putting it away. One misaligned dish, and Sanji would throw a fit. And while Zoro wouldn’t back down from a fight, they had other things pressing right now.
It was anticipated they’d spend a few nights at the castle, to ensure the transition of power went smoothly. Luffy wouldn’t leave until the people of the island were free no matter what. Eldric and the others would gather the armor and meet them back on the Sunny, and one of their friends would provide a small ship for them to “arrive” at the island. Robin had returned to the clothing shop to obtain additional clothes for Zoro and the others, since they were to stay unseen.
Done in the galley, Zoro went to find Sanji.
The cook was in the men’s quarters, packing one of their backpacks with essentials, even though they’d be wearing island-appropriate clothes. The men’s quarters held eight bunks, a sitting area, a row of lockers for their clothes, a wash area, and other flotsam that accumulated on the floor from eight guys sharing a space. Zoro dropped himself on the sunken sofa, setting his katanas on the table in front of him. A cloud of smoke hovered around Sanji’s head as he rifled through his locker.
“So what kind of princely shit do I need to know?” Zoro said, folding his arms over his chest.
Sanji’s shoulders tightened. “Manners, refined speech – basically be the opposite of you.”
Zoro snorted. “Seems like a waste. The prince has been gone for years. Maybe he picked up a few rough edges. Besides, you don’t talk like that. Your foul mouth is worse than anyone on this ship.”
“I was raised by an ex-pirate surrounded by ex-pirates turned chefs,” Sanji said, cramming boxers into the bag.
“So why can’t Prince Ichigo have been hanging out with foul-mouthed pirates for a few years?”
“Because we want to sell this in one go, and the prince would still have some measure of decorum about him if he didn’t leave until he was seventeen,” Sanji said. He tapped ash into the tray perched on the shelf in his locker. “Just… pretend you’re Princess Vivi. Or Mihawk. He seems like a snooty bastard.”
It was an apt description of Mihawk. And since Zoro spent two years with him, he could probably mimic the guy enough. “Nami made it sound like I’d need your help.”
Sanji’s face disappeared in another exhale of smoke. “Nami-san is an angel whose advice should always be heeded. And I just helped you.”
“Yeah, by telling me to act like Mihawk,” Zoro said. “Don’t you have some insight from all those royal parties and duties or whatever you did once upon a time.”
“No.”
The answer was short. Final. Sanji slammed his locker shut. He chucked the bag toward the couch. “I’m going to fix the mess you made of my galley,” he said, then left Zoro alone in the men’s quarters.
Zoro frowned at the Wanted posters tacked up on the wall, wondering what was up with the cook. He thought for sure Sanji would rub some better-than-thou attitude in his face. Instead, he got tension and clipped advice.
Well, whatever. He’d act like Mihawk as suggested, get this over and done with, and the people of Rookstone would be free. He just hoped the castle stocked plenty of booze to drink over the next few days.
Eldric and the others return with knights' armor in a cart and a special breastplate for Zoro to wear. One of their compatriots was the blacksmith. The green-tinted chainmail had a skull and swords motif attached to the chest. Zoro frowned at it. “This only has two swords.”
“It is similar to the design that the prince wore when he left.”
“I carry three swords,” Zoro said. “And I’m not leaving any behind. Give the prince an upgrade.”
Eldric and the others exchanged looks. The blacksmith spoke up. “I can stick another sword on it. It’d only take about an hour.”
“It has been six years,” Saburo said. “Details will be fuzzy.”
The blacksmith left with the chainmail, and the others remained behind to discuss the plan once more. Nami and Robin would depart first and head to the castle. Zoro and the others would pretend to sail into harbor mid-afternoon and make a production of docking, to ensure being seen. Then they’d head to the castle for an audience with the king.
Everyone had additional clothes, courtesy of Robin, in packs. To sell the ruse, the idea was that Sanji would remain with Zoro while Brook, Franky, Usopp and Chopper rotated as guards outside Zoro’s door and otherwise blended with the other knights.
By the time all was said and done, Franky had modified his armor to include pop-up canons. Usopp wore only a portion of his over a green floral doublet. Chopper and Brook wore full armor, including helmets to hide their faces. Chopper’s was big enough to hide his antlers as well. Sanji wore his sans helmet. When the blacksmith returned, Zoro’s chainmail now had three swords crossed behind the skull, which was great, but Sanji made him wear a stiff necked ruffled shirt under the chest piece, which sucked. It poked up beneath his chin and made him feel ridiculous.
Mid-afternoon the harbor had filled with the slow churn of carts, fishermen, housewives, boys running errands, and traders trying to catch one more sale before supper. The small ship they’d been loaned sailed into harbor and docked at the far end, well away from the Sunny.
Zoro stood near the gangplank in the modified breastplate and tried not to think too hard about the shirt under it. Sanji had laced Zoro into the shirt himself with an expression that said he knew exactly how much Zoro hated it and enjoyed every second.
“You keep tugging at your collar like that,” Sanji said under his breath, “people are going to think the prince came home from sea with a rash.”
Zoro dropped his hand from his throat. “People are going to think the prince dresses like an idiot.”
“Considering you are an idiot, it’s a perfect fit,” Sanji smirked.
The gangplank dropped. Rope groaned against timber. The borrowed ship knocked once against the dock. Time to go.
Eldric stood waiting below with Saburo, Alrick, Kiyoshi, and a handful of others placed through the harbor crowd. None of them looked directly at Zoro at first. That was part of the plan, too. Let the town notice him before anybody announced what they were seeing.
Zoro stepped onto the gangplank and went down at an even pace, boots sounding dull against the wood. The breastplate pulled a little with each step. Chainmail whispered at his arms. Behind him came the armored tread of the others.
People noticed. Heads turned. A porter straightened from a cart shaft and stared. A woman with a basket stopped in the middle of the road. Two children looked up from a pile of rope and went quiet. The sound moved through the dock in small breaks, conversation snapping and reforming around the sight of him.
Eldric stepped forward at last, dropped to one knee hard enough for the gesture to carry, and bowed his head. “Your Highness.”
That did the rest. It spread fast. Faces turned. More people stopped. A fishmonger near the quay crossed himself. Someone farther back said, too loud, “Prince Ichigo.”
Zoro kept walking. He channeled his inner-Mihawk and pretended he was both bored and above it all. Zoro hoped he never reached that stage in life. He enjoyed the quiet times, but he didn’t want to feel like he reached an end. World’s Greatest Swordsman was only the current goal. After that, he planned to ensure all his crewmates reached their dreams. Then he thought maybe he’d try having a family, pour all his energy into being the best husband and father.
His head turned on its own, glancing at Sanji where he walked half a step behind on his blind side. Zoro shoved down the thought of the cook as a part of it.
People came out of shops as they passed. Faces appeared at windows. A cooper stood with his mallet still in hand. A woman leaned out of an upper story with flour on both forearms. Men in market aprons stared open-mouthed. A pair of old women on a bench by a fountain grabbed each other’s sleeves and kept looking from Zoro to the castle hill.
By the time they reached the road that climbed toward the gate, a tail of townspeople had gathered behind them at a distance. With all that attention on it, the town seemed to draw in tighter around the road, narrow lanes between stone houses pressed shoulder to shoulder, smoke lifting from chimneys, wash stirring on lines strung between upper windows. The smells of bread, horse dung, and damp wool hung in the air while bells rang somewhere farther upslope.
The castle walls grew higher as they approached, stone weathered dark in places and patched lighter in others where repairs had been done. Towers flanked the gatehouse. Banners hung from the battlements in Malric’s colors, deep red and gold, heavy in the still air. Guards in mail and surcoats stood at the open gate with spears in hand.
They saw Zoro. Then they saw the crowd gathering below the hill. One of the guards swallowed and shifted his grip on the spear. “State your business.”
Zoro stopped in front of the gate and looked at him. The guy was young. Younger than Zoro. Sweat already stood at his temple under the helmet. “Prince Hanaka Ichigo. I’ve returned to take my rightful throne.”
The guard stared for another beat, then turned and barked for someone inside. Bootsteps rang through the gate tunnel. Another guard ran deeper into the castle. The first one did not lower his spear, but he stopped looking eager to use it.
They were left waiting just long enough to make it irritating. Beyond the gate lay a broad courtyard carrying the smell of horses and old straw, with a line of servants gone still near a side door, baskets clutched in their hands. Two dogs had fallen silent beneath a wagon. Above them, movement flickered now and then behind the arrowslits cut into the inner wall.
Then a captain came down, older, harder in the face, one hand resting on the pommel of his sword. He looked Zoro over from boots to collar, paused on the breastplate, then on the swords at his hip. His brow drew down slightly at that, but he said only, “His Majesty will grant an audience.”
“Good for him,” Zoro said.
They were escorted through the castle in a march loud enough to carry, boots striking stone while banners stirred high in the halls above them. Servants flattened themselves against walls to get out of the way. Nobles and clerks stopped mid-conversation to stare as the procession passed. Somebody dropped a sheaf of papers. Somebody else whispered “Prince Ichigo” with the kind of disbelief that meant the plan was working too well to stop now.
Nami and Robin had arranged for a rumor to start at the right moment that Prince Ichigo had been seen in the harbor, planting the idea in the castle servants’ minds before Zoro ever arrived. The servants would have been the people most likely to notice discrepancies, since they would have known the real prince best. This way, by the time Zoro appeared, the thought was already fixed: he was the prince returned, not an impostor.
The throne room sat at the end of a long hall, high-windowed and built around a raised dais beneath a carved canopy. Cold light fell through the glass and stretched pale across the floor. The whole chamber was made to keep distance between the throne and everyone forced to stand before it, with a long sweep of open stone, a high ceiling, and a tall chair on the dais carved with hard angles and beasts. Malric sat in it like a man well used to the seat.
He was not old. That was the first thing Zoro noticed. Late forties, maybe. Well fed. Trim beard gone silver at the chin. Rings on both hands. Robes layered in red and gold, lined in fur too heavy for the season. He had the face of somebody who liked hearing himself obeyed.
At the foot of the dais stood counselors, knights, and two priests in dark robes. On the edges of the chamber more guards waited with hands near weapons and expressions locked down hard.
Malric did not rise when Zoro entered. He only looked him over, slowly, taking in the armor, the swords, the escort, the crew. His gaze paused on Sanji, then Franky, then Chopper and Brook’s helmets, then came back to Zoro. When he smiled, it had nothing warm in it.
“Well,” Malric said. “Either the sea has returned a lost prince, or someone has dressed a brigand in family colors and sent him uphill.”
Zoro gave his best Mihawk nod of polite disdain. “Head advisor Malric. Word reached me in the West Blue that my father passed. It took me time to return, but I am here now to claim my throne. Thank you for keeping things in order in my absence.”
Eldric and Kiyoshi had coached him on what to say about the prince’s long absence, and Robin had suggested West Blue to account for the four years between the king’s death and the prince’s return.
The room broke into murmurs at once. Malric lifted two fingers and they died again. “How direct,” Malric said. “No longer the soft youth who ate in these halls. Travel has done interesting things for you.”
“Being at sea and fighting battles will change any man,” Zoro said. “I set out what I intended to do, which was to explore and gain experience to help serve my people. Now, I have returned to claim my birthright.”
Malric studied him coldly for a long moment. Then his lips curved in a false smile. “Of course, Your Highness. I was merely occupying the throne to keep Rookstone stable. We will make arrangements for the succession tomorrow. But tonight, we shall have a banquet in honor of your glorious return.”
Zoro hesitated, not sure if he should press or agree. Eldric and the others wanted a peaceful resolution and pressing now might cause a fight. He decided one more night wouldn’t kill anyone and inclined his head. “I look forward to the banquet.”
Malric motioned with his fingers and an attendant hurried forward. “See that Prince Ichigo is settled in his old room and that his knights are shown to the barracks.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
Malric nodded politely to Zoro in dismissal. “Your Highness.”
Zoro didn’t answer. He held Malric’s gaze until the attendant at his side cleared his throat. “This way, Your Highness.”
They left the throne room under the eyes of the court and turned into the inner halls of the castle. The route carried them deeper than the public chambers, past wide corridors hung with faded banners and portraits gone dim under years of candle smoke. Their steps rang softer here. Fewer people moved through this part of the castle. A maid pressed herself to the wall with a basket of linens in her arms. Two footmen stood aside near an archway and bowed low as Zoro passed, though both of them sneaked quick looks at his face before dropping their eyes again.
The attendant kept a measured pace, one hand extended now and then to guide them around corners as if Zoro had grown up here and only needed a little help remembering the way. The residence wing sat beyond a carved stone screen and a set of double doors banded in iron. The air changed there. Less draft from the outer halls. Less noise. He could smell beeswax, old wood, cold ash in long-unused hearths, and the dust that lingered in rooms people kept shut more often than open.
They climbed one broad staircase, then another shorter one, and the attendant stopped before a pair of tall doors carved with climbing branches and small crowned birds worked into the panels. The brass handles had been polished recently.
He opened them at once. The chamber beyond was large. A sitting area occupied the front half of the room with a couch near the hearth, two upholstered chairs, a low table, and a carpet patterned in dark green and gold beneath it all. Tall windows looked out over the slope below the castle and the town beyond, the late light turning the glass pale. Past that sat the bed, broad and high, draped in heavy hangings of green velvet faded darker where the sun had not reached. A carved wardrobe stood along one wall beside a tall mirror gone cloudy with age. Shelves built into alcoves held books, boxes, and a scattering of objects left behind years ago and touched by dust. Another door farther in likely led to a dressing room or private bath.
The whole place had the stale feel of something shut up too long, though that was changing fast. Three servants were already inside in the middle of cleaning. One beat dust from the curtains with a cloth. Another knelt by the hearth sweeping old ash and grit into a pan. A third had stripped the coverlet halfway back and was shaking out fresh linens while trying not to stare openly at Zoro. Nami and Robin’s rumors worked well.
Behind Zoro, armor shifted. Brook, Franky, Usopp, and Chopper had come up with him as part of the escort. Sanji stood at Zoro’s shoulder, expression flat in the way that meant he was taking stock.
The attendant turned toward the others. “If the prince’s knights would follow me, I will see you settled in the barracks prepared for the royal guard.”
Sanji spoke before anyone moved. “I’ll remain with His Highness.”
The attendant paused.
Sanji did not pause with him. “And I want one of the knights stationed outside the door at all times.”
That got a brief silence.
Brook lifted one gauntleted hand at once. “Yohoho. I can take first watch.”
With the helmet on, the words came out slightly muffled, though not enough to sound normal. The attendant’s eyes flicked to him, hesitated there for just a fraction too long, then moved away again.
“I see,” he said. He did not, clearly, but he also did not argue.
Zoro said nothing and let Sanji handle it. Easier that way. More in character for a prince returned from years abroad with a personal guard he trusted.
The attendant bowed. “Very well. Sir knight, remain at the door. The others will come with me.”
Franky looked like he wanted to ask whether the barracks had enough room for his shoulders. Usopp looked like he wanted to ask whether anyone would notice if he went back to the ship. Chopper’s helmet tilted toward Zoro for a second, checking. Zoro gave the slightest nod.
Brook stepped back out into the corridor and took up position by the door, sword at his side, posture tall and composed enough to pass at a glance. Franky, Usopp, and Chopper followed the attendant back into the hall. Metal sounded against stone. Voices dropped. Footsteps receded.
Inside the chamber, the servants kept working. One laid fresh sheets over the mattress and smoothed them flat. Another opened the windows a little wider to move the stale air out. The third crossed to a side table and replaced a dusty candleholder with a clean one from the tray she had brought in. None of them spoke to Zoro directly, though he caught glances when they thought he was not looking.
The servants finished in quick order once the important things were done. Dust cloths folded. Ash pan lifted. Fresh water set out in a basin. One of them bowed so low she nearly folded in half before hurrying the others toward the door. The last servant pulled it shut behind her. The latch clicked. At last, the room went still.
Sanji moved only after the attendant and the others were fully gone. He crossed the room, checked the windows, the inner door, the hearth, then the main door again when Brook’s shadow settled outside it. His gaze skimmed the bed last. Big enough, which Zoro also noticed and immediately stopped thinking about.
Only the muffled sounds of the castle carried through the walls now, far off and faint. A footstep in the corridor. The shift of Brook outside the door. Wind at the window. The bed curtains moved a little in the late draft.
Zoro stood in the middle of the prince’s old chamber with Sanji and no one else. He scratched at his neck around the annoying ruffled collar. “Think we pulled it off?”
Sanji touched his breastplate, like he’d been reaching for his cigarettes. “For now. Got a banquet to get through.”
Zoro nodded, then dropped onto the couch, which was difficult in armor. He frowned. “Can I get out of this getup now?”
“Yeah. You’ll need to dress for dinner anyway.” Sanji headed for the door. “I’ll find someone to get our bags from the ship. Stay here. We don’t need your ass to get lost in a castle full of people who knew the prince.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Zoro waved him off.
Sanji pulled the door open, paused long enough to glance once into the corridor, then slipped out and shut it behind him.
Zoro reached up and stripped away the chainmail, fingers working the straps with more force than patience. He dropped it onto the low table hard enough to make the wood complain. The shoulder pauldrons followed. The stupid shirt came next. He yanked it loose at the throat, peeled it off, and threw it over the arm of a chair.
The room had warmed under the armor, and cooler air moved against his skin now from the cracked windows. He stood a moment in just the underlayer clinging to his shoulders and ribs, then bent to deal with the rest. The boots were the worst part. Stiff, awkward, and built for somebody with more patience than he had. He braced one foot on the edge of the couch and worked them off one at a time, dropping them to the floor beside the table. Greaves, knee pieces, the rest of the armored nonsense followed after that.
Zoro stayed in the plain under-armor trousers they had put him in and the socks that came up over his calves. The trousers were loose and dark and better than the rest of it by a mile. He rolled his shoulders once, then his neck, working out the tight pull the metal had left behind.
He crossed to the bed and looked at it more closely now that nobody else was in the room. Big. Too big for one person, really. Thick mattress. Heavy carved frame. Curtains tied back at the posts with tassels gone a little dull with age. Fresh sheets stretched tight over it now, cream linen with a coverlet folded at the foot in deep green. Someone had plumped the pillows.
The windows gave a better view than the ones downstairs. He could see over part of the town from here, steep roofs stacked below the castle wall, smoke lifting from chimneys, late light lying gold over the road to the harbor. Beyond that sat the water, bright where the sun hit it. The Sunny was visible between two towers and the line of outer buildings, small from this height but unmistakable.
He leaned one hand on the stone beside the window and looked out for another second, then pushed away. The room still smelled of dust under the fresh linens and stirred air. Old wood. Beeswax. A place kept waiting too long for somebody who never came back. Well, close enough now.
Zoro bent to peel off the socks next, then thought better of it and left them on. The floor was cold stone under the rug’s edge, and he had no interest in freezing his feet for no reason. He dropped back onto the couch instead, this time without armor fighting him, and stretched one arm across the back. Much better.
The couch cushions gave more than he expected. He sank a little into them and let his head tip back, eye half-closed. His swords leaned within reach against the arm. Outside the room, Brook shifted once more at his post. Farther off, somewhere down the hall, a servant laughed quickly and then went silent.
Sanji had said stay here. Fine. Zoro could use a nap.
Time passed slowly. The light at the windows shifted lower. Castle noise rose and fell beyond the walls in muffled pieces – footsteps in the corridor, a distant door shutting, the faint carry of voices from somewhere below. Brook traded places once outside the door, Franky’s heavier step taking over for a stretch before quiet settled again.
Zoro had been napping on the couch when the door opened. Sanji came in first. An attendant followed with their packs. The attendant bowed. “Fresh water has been brought to the bath, Your Highness. If you require assistance dressing for supper, a valet can be sent.”
“No,” Sanji said at once.
The attendant blinked.
“I’ll handle it.”
Another bow. More careful this time. “Very good.” He set the bags by the wardrobe, glanced once at Zoro half-sprawled on the couch in under-trousers and socks, then wisely kept his face empty. “The banquet will begin within the hour.”
“Great,” Zoro said.
The attendant withdrew. The door shut again.
Sanji stood there a moment, looking at the abandoned armor, the breastplate on the table, the shirt over the chair arm, and Zoro doing nothing. Then he exhaled through his nose. “You look like a stray dog that found its way into a noble house and decided to dirty the upholstery.”
Zoro closed his eye again. “Don’t care.”
“I’m bathing first.”
“Also don’t care.”
Sanji muttered a few choice words under his breath, then the room filled with the sounds of him stripping off the outer armor piece by piece. Metal set down on wood, leather straps loosened, a heavier piece placed with more care than the rest. A moment later he disappeared into the adjoining bathing chamber. Water sounds followed soon after: pouring, the dull clink of pitchers, then the splash of someone settling into the tub. Steam drifted faintly under the door, carrying soap and hot water with it and cutting through the room’s older dust smell.
Zoro let himself drift again. He’d normally be training at this time and could probably use some of the furniture as makeshift weights, but he’d been told not to draw undue attention even in private spaces. The possibility of someone showing up unannounced wasn’t zero and Sanji warned that servants had a way of knowing things even behind closed doors.
Zoro imagined what it must’ve been like for Sanji growing up royal. A bedchamber like this. Servants and attendants. Someone drawing him baths, valets to help him dress. Banquets. People deferring to him, bowing to him. Calling him Your Highness. If Sanji hadn’t left, Zoro wondered what kind of person he’d be.
Zoro had no clue how, or why, Sanji was no longer part of that family. He knew there was bad blood, that Sanji considered Zeff his family. Zoro liked the man Sanji was, even if he would never admit it aloud. Strong, competent, capable of protecting others, not shy in expressing himself. Even with the hitch of his leaving, Zoro never stopped trusting him. He was proud to call Sanji nakama, whether or not the attraction went anywhere.
The chamber settled into quiet again, the dimming light beyond the windows. Zoro dozed. Sanji eventually emerged from the bath and kicked him awake. “Your turn, marimo.”
Sanji had bathed, shaved, and somehow looked even more put together than before. His hair hung damp at the nape. He wore fresh black trousers and a white shirt open at the throat for now, sleeves rolled while he worked through the bags.
Zoro grumbled and headed into the bath chamber. It was bigger than he expected, built in stone with a copper tub set into one side, towels warming near the hearth, and enough hot water already hauled in to make the room thick with steam. A prince’s bath. Still, the water was hot, and after a day in armor he wasn’t going to complain about that part.
He got in, washed fast, scrubbed the stink of metal and sweat off his skin, and got back out. By the time he returned to the bedchamber with a towel slung around his neck and his hair still damp, Sanji had laid out his dinner clothes across the bed in pieces.
Zoro stopped. “No.”
Sanji looked up from straightening the sleeves on a dark green doublet and said, “Yes.”
“That has lace.”
“You’re a prince. Princes wear lace.”
“Not this prince.”
Sanji ignored that and started handing him pieces. First the linen shirt, white and soft enough until he got it on and discovered the collar and cuffs had more lace to them than any sane person needed. Then darker trousers, fitted enough through the leg that they reminded him uncomfortably of what they weren’t concealing. Then stockings. Then shoes polished enough to catch the lamplight.
Sanji shoved a doublet into his hands and Zoro pulled it on. The doublet was dark green with black trim and fastened close down the front, leaving the white lace at the throat and wrists to show. A short mantle in deeper green sat over one shoulder, fixed with a clasp worked like a crown. Zoro tugged irritably at the collar where the lace brushed too high against his throat. “Hate this,” he muttered.
Sanji stepped in, slapped his hand away from the collar, and started fixing everything Zoro had already made worse. “Stop pawing at it.”
“It itches.”
“Tough shit. Deal with it like a big boy.” Sanji straightened the front of the doublet, tugged the sleeves properly into place, adjusted the mantle, stepped back, then came in again because apparently whatever he saw still offended him. His fingers were quick at Zoro’s cuffs, at the collar, at the fall of fabric over one shoulder. Zoro stood there and let him do it because the alternative was getting into a fight, and as fun as that would be, it’d ruin their cover.
The room smelled of bath steam, soap, Sanji’s cologne, and the faint oil from the lamps that had been lit while they dressed. Evening had thickened at the windows. The castle outside had gone to that dim hour between day and torchlight.
Zoro rolled one shoulder once the adjustments stopped. “I can’t move.”
“You can move,” Sanji said. “You just shouldn’t be doing much more than sitting, eating, and drinking in that.”
“There’d better be a lot of booze.” Zoro reached up to grab irritably at the collar again. Sanji slapped his hand away a second time.
“Don’t act like your usual drunkard self,” Sanji told him, turning to start pulling on his armor again. He’d apparently shined it while Zoro was in the bath.The lamplight glinted off the metal. “Pretend to actually have manners.”
“Anything else I should know, Prince Dumbass?”
Sanji’s scowl came up fast. “Don’t call me that.”
Zoro smirked at him. “Hits too close to home?”
That kept the scowl there, but changed it underneath. Something harder sat behind it now. “I’m not a prince.”
“Yeah, not anymore. But you’re supposed to be helping with insider knowledge.”
“I don’t remember.”
Zoro frowned. “How can that be true? Even if you were a kid, you should remember something. Couldn’t have been that bad.”
Sanji went still. The kind that shut everything down behind his face. When he answered, his voice was flat enough to scrape. “If you’d like lessons on being beat to shit on a regular basis or as an eight-year-old in a dungeon, I’m your guy. Otherwise shut your piehole and let’s go to this banquet.”
The room held for half a beat after that. Zoro looked at him. Sanji continued pulling on his armor, expression locked down again, mouth a hard line, all of it packed away as if nothing had slipped at all.
Dungeon. Eight. The words went round in his head. They didn’t talk about their pasts. Zoro believed they didn’t matter. But this – this mattered. “Cook–”
“Don’t,” Sanji said shortly. “I’m not interested in your opinion.”
Zoro’s jaw ticked once. He swallowed down what he wanted to say. “Right.”
Sanji nodded once, clipped and unreadable, then finished putting on his armor. Zoro helped where he could without getting in the way. Metal settled over cloth. Buckles tightened. The familiar line of Sanji’s body disappeared under plates and leather.
By the time they were done, the tension in the room thinned into the background. Voices carried faintly in the corridor. Somewhere deeper in the residence wing, a bell rang once to mark the hour.
“Come on,” Sanji said. “Wouldn’t do to have the guest of honor be late.”
Zoro strapped his katanas to his side and followed him to the door. Franky was still outside and he gave Zoro a whistle. “Looking super, Prince Swords-bro.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Zoro glanced once at Sanji. Sanji did not look back. “Let’s get this over with.”
The banquet hall spread long beneath a high timbered ceiling darkened by age and smoke. Iron chandeliers hung down in two rows, every candle lit, their light caught and broken by polished cups, serving platters, and the gilt edges of wall hangings worked with old family scenes and hunting beasts. Tall windows lined one side of the chamber, but evening had already thickened beyond the glass, leaving the hall to lamp and candlelight. At the far end, a raised dais held the high table beneath a canopy trimmed in Rookstone’s colors. Below it, long tables ran the length of the room in ordered ranks, crowded with nobles, officers, advisors, their wives, grown sons, marriageable daughters, and lesser officials trying to look as though they belonged exactly where they sat.
Servants moved constantly through the gaps with wine, bread, roasted meat, bowls of early spring greens, dishes of peas and onions, trout laid out on platters, and little honeyed pastries already disappearing from the nearer tables. Conversation filled the room in layers – low talk, brighter laughter, the scrape of chair legs, the knock of cutlery, the occasional lift of a goblet too hard against wood. Everywhere Zoro looked, people were looking back, though many snapped their eyes away the second they were caught.
Nami was in place farther up the hall, seated among the guests as though she had every right to be there. She wore court clothes better than half the room, posture easy, expression pleasant, gaze sharp over the rim of her cup. Robin stood off to one side in borrowed armor with the other castle knights, not close enough to draw attention to herself, not far enough to lose sight of the room. The rest of the knights held their stations along the walls and near the dais, hands near sword belts, faces blank, mail and plate catching the candlelight whenever they shifted. Robin fit among them too well, still and watchful, one more armed figure in the line unless someone looked twice.
Zoro sat at Malric’s right with a plate in front of him and a wine cup that never stayed empty for long, the rest of the high table crowded with nobles and inner court people whose names meant nothing to him. They talked around him, jeweled hands lifting cups, servants slipping in to replace platters and pour more drinks. Zoro ate, drank, and ignored most of them. He was glad the alcohol was flowing, even if it was all wine.
Sanji stood behind him somewhere, blending in with the other knights. A pointed presence, but not one to be observed. Malric peppered Zoro with questions about his travels as Prince Ichigo. Zoro kept up his Mihawk impersonation while sticking to mostly truths – fights without using names or locations, storms and sea beasts, training to become a better swordsman.
“I noticed you carried three swords,” Malric said, swirling his wine in his hand. He’d worn a crown, which Zoro guessed was supposed to be a slight. “Is there a purpose in it?”
“One’s for people,” Zoro flashed a sharp, bloodthirsty grin, “one’s for beasts. The third doesn’t care what it kills.”
They’d worked that out ahead of time, too, though with less aggressive language. Malric paused briefly at the perceived threat. Then he changed the subject to life at sea.
Candlelight wavered over the high table and caught in Malric’s crown when he turned his head, throwing brief flashes of gold into his wine. Around them, the banquet carried on at full volume. Talk rolled up and down the tables in layered currents, broken now and then by laughter, the scrape of carving knives, the knock of goblets on wood, and the steady traffic of servants bringing fresh platters up from the kitchens. Roast meat, butter, wine, and woodsmoke sat heavy in the air.
Somewhere farther down the hall a court musician worked through a soft string piece nearly drowned out by conversation. Zoro kept eating what was in front of him, drank when his cup was filled, and let the noise cover the small pauses while he chose what parts of the truth Prince Ichigo could have plausibly lived through.
By the time the meal began to turn, the noise in the hall had shifted with it. The heavier platters of meat and potatoes disappeared, replaced by smaller dishes carried out in careful ranks: stewed pears with cream, little berry tarts glazed dark, almond cakes dusted with sugar, wedges of soft cheese with honey, and bowls of preserved cherries shining in their syrup. Servants cleared trenchers and greasy knives, wiped spills from the high table, and freshened the cloth where wine had gone over. Candlelight burned lower in the chandeliers now, the wax scent stronger under the sweetness of fruit and sugar. Conversation had loosened with the drinking. Laughter came quicker from the lower tables. Even some of the courtiers near the dais had relaxed enough to lean closer to one another and speak without watching every word.
Zoro was still eating. Still drinking. Still listening only as much as he had to.
Then Malric lifted a hand. A servant stepped forward at once with a bottle cradled in both palms, dark glass with no label and a waxed neck cut cleanly open. Not wine. Zoro could smell that much before it even reached the table. Something sharper. Darker. A real drink, finally.
Malric’s mouth curved faintly as the servant set down two smaller cups before him and Zoro, then withdrew without pouring. “A welcome deserves something better than table wine,” Malric said.
He took up the bottle and poured for them both. The liquor ran amber in the candlelight, heavier than wine and stronger at the edges when the room’s warmth pulled the scent up from the cup. Rum, maybe. Or whiskey. Either way it had teeth.
Malric set the bottle down between them and lifted his cup. “To the return of Prince Ichigo,” he said smoothly. “Long absent, and at last restored to Rookstone.”
Zoro picked up his cup. The liquor hit sharp on the first breath, richer up close. Better than the wine by far. He did not bother making a ceremony of it. “Yeah,” he said, and drank it down in one go.
It burned nicely, clean down the throat. Warm in the chest after. Good enough that he almost wanted the bottle for himself.
Malric lowered his cup, setting it beside his dessert plate. He picked up the bottle. “Another?”
Zoro held out the cup.
Malric poured while conversation carried on around them and the night settled deeper beyond the windows.
By the time they made it back to the residence wing, the castle had gone mostly quiet. The halls lay dim under spaced lamps, their light low against old stone, with only the occasional servant moving quickly out of the way or a distant door shutting somewhere deeper in the floor.
Usopp was outside the prince’s chambers now, armor half on over the floral doublet and helmet tucked under one arm, trying and failing to look like he belonged in a castle corridor. He straightened when they approached. “How was the banquet?”
“Tedious,” Zoro said. His collar itched, the cuffs brushed too much at his wrists, and every step reminded him that princes apparently dressed for standing still and smiling at people they didn’t like. All he wanted was to get out of the stupid clothes, drop them in a heap, and go to bed.
Sanji looked at Usopp. “Anyone try to get in?”
“Only a hundred people.” Usopp puffed his chest. “But I, the Great Knight Usopp, defended this door without wavering.”
Zoro took the boast for what it meant – no one came by. He pushed open the door, while Sanji exchanged a few more words with Usopp before following him in. The door latched shut behind him.
In seconds, Zoro stripped off half the clothes, and he threw the lace shirt in the direction of the hearth. Too bad a fire wasn’t lit. He would love to see that thing go up in smoke.
Sanji clucked his tongue and retrieved it, laying it and the doublet over the arm of a chair. Zoro ignored him, pulling off the shiny shoes and hose.
“Malric mention anything about the succession?” Sanji asked as he began shedding his armor.
Zoro shook his head. “Only said that’d be better discussed tomorrow.”
“Hn.” Sanji unbuckled the breastplate and set it aside. “He seem suspicious?”
“No.” Zoro pulled off the trousers, leaving him only in the briefs Sanji had forced on him. “Asked a lot of questions about the prince’s travels, but I handled it.”
Sanji nodded. “Let’s hope tomorrow goes as smoothly.”
Zoro went to use the toilet. When he came out, Sanji was in the black trousers and white shirt which clung to him with a sheen of sweat. Zoro averted his gaze and aimed for the bed.
“I’m not sleeping on the couch,” Sanji told him.
“I’m sure as hell not,” Zoro said. “I’m the prince, after all.”
“More like castle mold.” Sanji scoffed. “The bed’s big enough for half the crew. You stay on your side, I won’t kick your ass.”
“Tch. As if you could.” Zoro threw back the covers and slid beneath the fresh sheets. They were cool against his skin, the mattress softer than he liked but good enough once he sank into it, and the pillow gave nicely under his head. His katanas leaned within reach against the night table. He was full, tired, and done with the day. It was early for him, but sleep was already pulling at his eye. “Don’t forget to douse the light, shit cook.”
Sanji moved around for a while longer, smoking a cigarette near the window while the last of the heat bled out of the room, then heading to the toilet himself. After that the chamber went dark and quiet. The castle had mostly gone to sleep. A guard’s step passed once outside, then faded. Wind pressed lightly at the panes. The bed gave when Sanji finally got in on the far side, the sheets pulling around Zoro’s legs.
Zoro pretended he wasn’t affected by Sanji sharing a bed with him. It wasn’t like he hadn’t shared with other members of the crew, or slept beside Sanji on occasion. But they usually weren’t alone, behind a closed door. It invited intimacy that Zoro refused to acknowledge, even if his traitorous pulse gave an extra thump.
He opted to meditate to get his mind off the warm body beside him. He centered himself and breathed deep for a while. Somewhere far down the corridor a door shut, and after that there was only the low shift of the old place settling around them, the faint scrape of branches against stone outside. Wind whistled lightly through the cracked window. The curtains stirred once, then settled. Eventually he drifted, half asleep, rising only enough to feel the mattress shift or hear the old wood murmur in the walls before sinking back down again. Then, even that faded, and he sank the rest of the way under.
Sleep broke all at once. Zoro sucked in air and felt his chest lock around it. The breath he got was thin and tearing, barely enough to scrape past his throat. He shoved himself upright with one hand knotted in the sheets and tried again. No better. His lips tingled. So did his fingers. His feet felt wrong under the blankets, distant and numb.
Moonlight came through the window in a pale wash, enough to silver the bed curtains and catch on the rumpled sheets. The room swayed around him. His heart had kicked into a hard, ugly pace. He dragged in another breath and got a raw rasp for it, too little air and too much work. Something was wrong. Very wrong.
His head spun. Pressure built behind his ribs. He turned blindly and hit at Sanji through the dark, open-handed at first, then harder when that didn’t get him fast enough.
“What?” Sanji grunted.
His rasping sounded too loud in the room. He hit at Sanji again, harder this time, while black spots started to break across his vision. Beside him, Sanji jerked fully awake with a rough sound, fumbled for his lighter, and on the second strike got the bedside lamp lit. Sanji took one look at him, went pale, swore, and was out of bed in the next second, running for the door.
He flung it open, and Zoro could hear metal against the stone wall as Usopp startled awake. “Usopp, get Chopper now,” Sanji ordered. “Tell him to bring his med kit.”
“On it,” Usopp said, and his metal boots pounded down the hall.
Sanji shut the door and got back to him fast. Zoro swayed where he sat, dragging for air that would not come. Each breath came worse than the last, thin and scraping, his throat tightening more by the second. The tingling in his hands and feet sharpened until his own body hardly felt like his. “Cook,” he rasped.
“I know. Fuck.” Sanji sat beside him, supporting his back, helping him keep upright. “Chopper’s on his way.”
Zoro could feel it getting worse. The room had narrowed to lamp light, shadows, and the hard drag of air that would not come right. Black pressed at the edges of his vision, closing in. He lifted a shaking hand and set it against Sanji’s cheek.
He was not dying. He refused. But if he was wrong, if this was it, then he wanted this once. Something gentle. Something true.
Sanji caught his hand at once – not to pull it away, but to hold it there, pressing Zoro’s palm to his face. “Don't you dare die on me. Not now, shit swordsman. Not like this. Not before I have the chance to try–"
He cut himself off, blinked hard, and forced himself to think. “You were fine when we went to bed. Did something bite you?”
Zoro managed a weak shake of his head, no longer able to speak.
Several thoughts moved fast across Sanji’s face. “Something at dinner, then. But everyone ate the same–” He stopped. His eyes widened. “Oh, shit. The drink with Malric. I thought he had some, too. Or did he? Fuck. I bet he poisoned it. Shit, shit, shit.”
Zoro’s arm lost what little strength it had. His hand went slack against Sanji’s cheek, and the rest of him sagged with it.
“No you don’t, marimo. You stay here. With me.” Sanji hauled him closer, tucking him hard against his chest. “A piece of shit like Malric doesn’t get to take you out. Chopper’ll be here soon. You hang on, like the stubborn son of a bitch I know.”
Zoro’s vision clouded until even the scruff on Sanji’s chin blurred out. Sanji’s warmth held against his side, and somewhere near his ear he thought he could hear Sanji’s heartbeat.
If this was how he went, then Sanji’s arms were the best place for it.
Sanji kept one arm locked around him and lifted his head, listening toward the door with his whole body gone taut. Outside the room, feet pounded down the corridor. Too far. Not fast enough.
Zoro wheezed in one thin breath and felt the dark closing over him. He hoped Chopper got there in time.
Sanji’s hold tightened. “Zoro. No.” His voice rose and then broke. “Stay with me. I’ll kick your ass if you die.”
The dark took him anyway.
Zoro lurched awake and barely had time to turn before his stomach heaved. He hit the side of the bed on one hand, the other clawing at sheets that were not his, and vomited hard into a basin shoved under his face at the last second. It tore up out of him in a hot, ugly rush that left his chest burning and his head pounding worse. His mouth tasted like charcoal, something medicinal, and a bitter edge that clung to the back of his tongue no matter how he tried to spit it out between retches.
He coughed, gagged, and threw up again. His eyes watered at once. Everything hurt. His throat. His ribs. His lungs, still raw from the night before. Somebody had a hand braced hard between his shoulders, keeping him tipped forward so he did not choke on it. The basin rang faintly when he retched into it again.
The room swam in and out around him through tears and half-focus. Bed curtains. Lamp light. A washstand. The old prince’s chamber. Right.
His stomach clenched again and gave him one more miserable, hollow heave before it eased off enough for him to drag in a shaking breath. Even that tasted wrong. Char and bitter herbs. Ash, maybe. Whatever Chopper had forced down him to keep him alive sat thick on his tongue and in the back of his throat.
He spat weakly into the basin and tried to straighten. Big mistake. The room tipped hard enough that he nearly followed it. The hand at his back shoved him steadier before he could fall sideways. Voices moved near him, one sharp and worried, one lower and trying not to sound either of those things. Zoro shut his eye, swallowed against the rotten taste, and immediately regretted that, too.
“His color is better,” Zoro heard Chopper say. A cold disk touched down against his bare chest, then shifted to another spot and another. “So’s his breathing. But he’s still not out of the woods. I need to get more activated charcoal into him, then more of the antipoison brew. He’s lucky he has such a strong constitution. Getting poisoned by that water in Wano probably helped a little, too. Boosted his tolerance.”
The thought of drinking charcoal sent another wave of nausea through him. He twisted and retched again into the stinking basin shoved under his face.
He felt like shit. Alive shit, though, so he would take it. He sank back against the pillows propping him upright in bed and forced his eye open. Chopper, still in his armor, was nearby mixing something in a cup. Sanji stood on the other side of him with his face pulled tight.
“Didn’t die,” Zoro managed, his throat still raw.
“Not for lack of trying, dumbass,” Sanji said. Something flickered behind his eyes and was gone again. “You’re lucky Chopper’s the best doctor on the Grand Line.”
Chopper blushed at once and did his little wiggle. “I don’t appreciate that compliment at all, jerk!”
Zoro’s arms felt weak as hell when he tried to shift, and even that much effort left his ribs aching. He had felt better after sword wounds. At least there weren’t bandages to deal with.
Chopper pressed the cup into his hand. “You need to drink all of this and keep it down.”
Inside was a thick gray-black liquid that smelled like ash. Zoro’s stomach rolled again. “Do I gotta?”
“Stop being a baby and drink it,” Sanji said. “It’s only a little medicine.”
“You drink it, then.”
“Zoro–” Chopper started in his worried doctor voice.
Zoro cut him off. “Yeah, yeah. I got it.” He grimaced and forced the concoction down. It tasted exactly the way it looked. He managed not to throw it back up, though it sat in his stomach like wet dirt. Sweat still clung to his skin. He needed to brush his teeth.
“Try to get some rest,” Chopper said, pulling the sheet back into place over him. “I’ll stay here and keep an eye on you. If things keep going well, you should be fine by morning.”
Zoro gave a slight nod and turned his eye toward Sanji. “Hear that, cook?”
“Yeah, whatever. I didn’t really care if you lived or died.”
It was a blatant lie, and they both knew it. Sanji held his gaze a second longer, then turned away and headed for the bathroom with the basin.
Time blurred after that. Chopper made him swallow more foul black slurry, alternating it with a bitter-smelling brew. He checked Zoro’s breathing twice more, then finally let the room settle. Zoro slept through most of it, surfacing only in shallow snatches before sinking under again. By the time the chamber went quiet for good, Chopper had curled up beside him in the bed, and Sanji had stretched out on the couch. The lamps were turned low. Beyond the walls, the castle had gone mostly still, leaving only the occasional creak of old wood and the faint drift of wind at the windows.
Zoro’s haki alerted him to danger before the creak of the cracked window signaled it being opened. The awareness hit first, sharp and immediate, cutting through the lingering weakness still dragging at his body. Moonlight silvered the edge of the sill as the window shifted wider.
Sanji was already on his feet, across the room. One second the intruder had a leg over the sill. The next, he was flat on his back with the air knocked out of him and Sanji’s foot planted over his windpipe hard enough to keep him there. The man wore dark clothes meant for quiet work and had a knife strapped at his side, though he never got close to using it.
“Who sent you?” Sanji demanded.
“The- the king,” the man gasped.
“Why?” Sanji ground his foot a little harder.
The man gurgled and clawed at Sanji’s ankle. Sanji let up enough for him to talk. “To dispose of the prince.”
“Figures.” Sanji knocked him cold, hauled him to the window, and dumped him out into the dark. Branches cracked in the shrub beneath the window.
Zoro pushed himself higher in bed, Chopper kneeling up beside him. For a second there was only the crackle of the hearth and the settling rustle of the bush below.
Sanji dusted off his hands, lit a cigarette, and leaned into the sill in his boxers and loose sleep shirt as if this were a normal interruption to his night. He looked back toward Zoro and Chopper. “Malric’s not doing things halfway, is he? First poison, then an assassin to make sure you’re dead.”
“Guess he really doesn’t want to lose the throne,” Zoro said.
“Hn.” Sanji turned his attention to Chopper. “I’ll stay with the patient, in case more assassins show up. Nami-san needs to hear that the plan may have just stopped being peaceful.”
“I’m on it!” Chopper scrambled to his feet. He was still in his underlayers and only snatched up his helmet to jam it over his head before hurrying for the door.
“Take Usopp with you, just in case,” Sanji said.
The door opened. Zoro caught Chopper’s voice first, high and urgent, with Usopp answering right behind him. Then the door shut again and the room went quieter.
Zoro threw back the covers and pushed himself to his feet.
Sanji was there in a blink. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?”
“Toilet.” Zoro stood still long enough for the floor to settle under him. The slight sway passed. “And I want to brush my teeth. Tastes like I ate your cooking.”
Sanji bristled. “I’m going to kick your teeth in, then you don’t have to worry.”
Zoro only smirked and headed for the bathroom.
Once refreshed, Zoro returned. Sanji had locked the window and put on trousers. Zoro was a little disappointed. He enjoyed the sight of Sanji wearing only boxers.
“Think there’ll be more tonight?” Zoro asked, as he went to grab his own pants.
“Probably not, but you never know.” Sanji hovered as Zoro dressed, as if Zoro was going to keel over any second.
“I’m fine, cook,” Zoro told him. “A little poison isn’t going to kill me.”
“It almost did.” Sanji frowned fiercely. “Malric’s going to get a flaming foot to the face.”
“Didn’t think you cared,” Zoro said, light enough to razz him.
“I don’t,” Sanji said immediately, and again, they both knew it was a lie. He pointed at the bed. “Get back over there and rest, or Chopper will throw a fit.”
Zoro returned to bed, spreading atop the covers with his pants on, leaning against the pillows. He watched Sanij stalk around for a few moments, unable to settle.
He remembered what Sanji had told him earlier, about his past, his childhood in another castle. He wondered if Sanji ever had chambers like this or if it was all misery. But Zoro didn’t ask. Instead, he said, “You know, this is the biggest bedroom I’ve ever been in.”
Sanji stopped pacing and glanced at him. “So?”
“So I grew up in dojos, sharing a room with ten, maybe twelve other boys and men,” Zoro said. “Then, once I was on my own, I was either camping out or sleeping on a dinghy. Now I’m back to sharing with eight other men.”
His parents had passed early. He didn’t remember much about them. Kuina’s was the death he carried over time.
Sanji studied him for a moment, then moved to sit on the armchair that, at some point, had been dragged closer to the bed. “I’ve always had my own room, in one way or another, until I joined the crew,” he said. “It was a hell of an adjustment. You shitheads reeked. And the snoring. I nearly smothered all of you at one point.”
Zoro chuckled. “Bet Luffy’s lack of personal boundaries came as a shock.”
“Fuck yes. I expected my first bed partner to be a woman, not an octopus with meat breath,” Sanji said, though he looked like he was fighting a fond grin.
“And now look, you got to spend half the night with me,” Zoro said with a smirk.
“A definite downgrade,” Sanji said, but the flush rising over his cheeks caught Zoro off guard.
He paused, remembering the feel of that same cheek under his palm. Of Sanji catching his hand and keeping it there. Of Sanji’s voice, rough and urgent as darkness enclosed on him: not before I have the chance to try–
“The chance to try what?” Zoro asked, suddenly wanting the answer.
Color spread farther across Sanji’s face even as he blustered. “Go to sleep, stupid swordsman. You’re talking nonsense.”
Zoro didn’t let it go. “The chance to try what, cook?”
Sanji looked anywhere but at him. Zoro didn’t think he was going to answer. Then he stopped, exhaled, and finally met Zoro’s eye. “You know what I damn well mean.”
And Zoro did. From the color in Sanji’s face. From the way his own heart skipped once, hard enough to feel. He shifted a little and gruffed, “Would be agreeable, if you ever decide to try.”
Sanji scrubbed his palms once against his thighs, cleared his throat, and looked away. “Good to know.”
The clatter of armor came just before the door opened. Chopper hurried in first with Usopp close behind, both of them flushed from moving fast through the castle in the middle of the night. “It’s done,” Chopper said. “I told Nami what happened.”
Sanji got to his feet too fast for it to read as casual. He crossed to the night table, snatched up his cigarettes, and headed for the window. The lighter clicked once, then again, and the tip flared orange before settling into a steady glow. He leaned into the sill in his loose shirt and trousers, one hand braced on the stone, smoke curling up past his face into the dark glass. “What did she say?” he asked.
Zoro let his attention shift to Chopper and pushed aside the low hum still buzzing under his skin from the conversation Sanji had cut short. His body was still tired, still wrong in ways he did not like, but the room had sharpened again.
“To wait and confront the king in the morning,” Chopper said.
Usopp shut the door with his heel and came farther in. “Robin said not to die a grisly death before then,” he added. “Then she proceeded to give suggestions on how that might happen, and now I am never going to sleep again.”
He glanced at Zoro, taking in the upright position in bed, the color back in his face, and the fact that he was still breathing. Relief crossed his own features fast before he covered it up with a crooked grin. “You look much better. Still awful, obviously, but before you were all gray and clammy and terrifying, and now you just look regularly terrifying.”
At the window, Sanji took a drag and exhaled slowly, smoke drifting pale in the lamplight. Outside, the castle grounds had gone black except for a few low watch lights burning along the wall. “Morning, then,” he said. His tone stayed even, but the set of his shoulders did not. “Fine. Gives us a few hours to decide exactly how unpleasant we want this to be.”
Chopper frowned. “You’re not doing anything until I say he’s steady.”
Sanji turned his head just enough to look back over one shoulder. “Did I say I was?”
“No,” Usopp said, “but you had that tone.”
“I always have this tone.”
“That is unfortunately true,” Usopp admitted.
Zoro leaned back a little deeper into the pillows and listened to them bicker around the edges of the room. The castle had gone quiet again outside the chamber. Wind whistled softly through the cracked window. Somewhere in the corridor, a guard passed and kept going. Morning felt too far off and not far enough at the same time.
They slept in shifts, except for Zoro, who Chopper had drink another bitter-smelling brew and then ordered him to sleep. Zoro’s attempt at protesting was cut short when Sanji said, “I will laugh at you when you lose tomorrow.”
Usopp took the couch in the end, armor dumped in a loose pile near the hearth and one arm thrown over his face before he was even fully settled. Sanji and Chopper alternated in the bed around Zoro. Chopper checked his breathing, his pulse, his temperature, then curled up for a stretch only to be replaced later by Sanji, who came back to the mattress smelling faintly of smoke. Somewhere in the shuffle, blankets were tugged back into place, a cup was pressed into Zoro’s hand once more, and low voices moved above him without asking anything of him in return.
The room stayed dim and close around them. Lamp light burned low. The prince’s old chamber held the stale weight of stone walls and heavy curtains, now mixed with medicine, ash, and the faint drag of cigarette smoke that had settled into the fabric overnight. Beyond it all, the castle moved through the last hours of darkness in muffled pieces – a distant footstep in the corridor, wind at the panes, old wood shifting in the walls, a far-off door opening and shutting again.
Zoro closed his eye. Sleep took him in uneven pulls at first, shallow and ugly from the poison still working its way out of him. He surfaced once to the feel of a cool hand at his wrist and Chopper’s quiet murmur. Another time to the dip of the mattress and Sanji settling in on the other side, warm and silent. Then even that thinned out.
When he opened his eye again, morning had come. Pale light pressed through the windows and laid itself across the bed, the floor, and the abandoned clutter of the night before.
Chopper and Usopp left together once they had redressed in their armor, heading off to find Franky and Brook and bring them up to speed. After that they would link up with Nami and Robin and meet in the throne room.
Sanji did not trust anything that came out of the castle kitchens after the poison, so breakfast was out. Zoro washed up instead, got the charcoal taste out of his mouth as best he could, and let Sanji shove him into fresh clothes and the chainmail breastplate without the rest of the armor.
“So you can move,” Sanji said while fastening the last strap.
They were expecting a fight. Zoro looked forward to it. Poisoning good alcohol was an insult on top of everything else.
They headed down through the castle with Sanji at his side. Morning had fully taken hold by then. Light lay pale across the upper halls, turning the old stone colder rather than warmer. Servants stepped out of the way as they passed, heads bowed, baskets and trays held tight against their aprons. The knights posted through the corridors were harder to read at a glance, but not by much. Some straightened. Some frowned. Two looked openly startled, then covered it too late. Zoro marked them and kept walking.
The closer they got to the throne room, the more traffic they met. Clerks with bundles of parchment. Petitioners in their better clothes. Lesser nobles moving in pairs and trying not to look hurried. The castle had already started its day.
The throne room doors stood open. Sunlight speared through the high windows and stretched across the floor in pale bands. The chamber was already crowded and already in motion, not set for spectacle but for business. Petitioners waited in a loose line below the dais: a merchant with his hat crushed in both hands, a woman in widow’s black, two men in work clothes who had likely come in from the lower farms, and a thin priest holding a paper roll against his chest. Clerks occupied a side table with ledgers and ink. Inner council members stood near the throne in layered robes and heavy chains of office, watching each petitioner with the distant attention of people who thought themselves above the details while living off them anyway. Knights lined the walls and the edge of the dais in full view, metal catching the morning light whenever they shifted.
Malric sat on the throne and conducted business as though the night had gone exactly to plan.
A steward had just finished reading some dispute over boundary stones or grain allotments. One of the farm men below the dais was trying to answer without trembling. Malric listened with his chin propped on one hand, the picture of patient authority. Crown on his head. Rings on both hands. Robes arranged around him in deep red and gold. A king holding court.
Apparently he had not yet heard that his plan had failed.
Zoro did not slow when he crossed the threshold. Sanji matched him stride for stride on his right, not in full knight’s armor this time, just enough to read as armed and dangerous at a glance. Their steps struck hard enough on the stone to carry.
Voices cut off first. Then the steward stopped. Then heads turned in one sharp wave from the doors to the center aisle. The farmer in front of the throne half stepped back. The merchant forgot to breathe. Whispers broke at once along the edges, too low to catch every word, but enough to hear some of them. Prince. Alive. How? I thought–
Up on the dais, Malric’s expression changed. His mouth tightened, eyes sharpened, fury underlying it all.
Zoro walked straight through the middle of the room. He bypassed the petitioners, the councillors, the clerks, all of them, and stopped at the foot of the dais like the distance between them meant nothing. He rested his wrist on the hilts of his katanas, not pretending to be anyone but himself. Behind him, the throne room had gone very still.
“It’s time for you to leave the throne, Malric,” he said. His words carried in the hushed silence.
A few people in the room made small sounds they probably regretted at once. Someone at the side table dropped a quill. One of the knights near the wall shifted his stance. Another went rigid. Most of the room only looked startled to see the returned prince break into court like this. Malric’s inner circle looked different. Too still. Too tight through the mouth and eyes.
Malric’s mouth thinned. He did not rise at once. The pause looked deliberate, but Zoro could see the strain in it.
“You have made this difficult,” Malric said.
Zoro smiled without warmth. “And you made an enemy of the wrong person.”
That landed where it needed to. Not with the petitioners or clerks, they only looked confused now, startled by the open threat at the foot of the throne. But one councillor near Malric went pale. Another held himself too carefully. Along the wall, more than one of the knights looked ready to move the second Malric gave the word.
Malric rose then, slow and deliberate, using the movement to retain his command. “You come into my court armed,” he said, voice ringing out broader now for the audience, “interrupt proceedings, and make accusations without proof.”
“Proof?” Zoro echoed. His hand slid lower over the hilts of his katanas.
Sanji, at his side, did not move, but Zoro could feel the tension in him go finer and harder.
“You served me poisoned liquor at your table,” Zoro said. “Then sent an assassin to finish it when that failed. Don’t insult me by acting like this is still a discussion.”
The room cracked again into whispers, louder this time. Enough that Malric had to raise a hand for silence instead of simply receiving it. Most of them were hearing the accusation for the first time. Clerks looked up from their ledgers. Petitioners stared. Men and women who had come to court for ordinary business now stood caught in something larger, trying to decide whether they were hearing madness, treason, or truth.
That was the point of doing this here, in front of everyone. Clerks, petitioners, servants, guards, lesser nobles – people who would carry whatever happened next into every hall, kitchen, courtyard, and street on the island. Public enough that it could not be buried afterward.
Malric lowered his hand when the room obeyed. “And I suppose,” he said coldly, “that after threatening your king in his own hall, you intend to seize the crown by force.”
Zoro’s lip curled. “I intend to remove you.”
That sent another visible current through the hall. Not just fear. Not just shock. Anticipation. Calculation. Hope in a few faces. Alarm in others. The whole room leaned toward the moment before it broke.
From somewhere near the wall to the left, a voice cut in smooth and clear.
“Force seems unnecessary,” Robin said.
Heads turned again.
She had been standing among the knights at the edge of the room, armored and still enough to vanish until she chose not to. Now she stepped forward just enough to be seen. Nami was there, too, farther back among the gathered nobles, posture easy, gaze sharp, like she had been waiting for the exact second to let the court know this confrontation had more than one witness prepared to speak.
And just like that, Malric was no longer facing one returned prince at the foot of the throne. He was facing a room full of people who had all just heard the accusation out loud.
Malric’s gaze snapped toward Robin. “And which knight,” he said, voice clipped now, “has forgotten her place badly enough to speak over her king?”
Robin did not bow. “It was established yesterday in this very room that succession would occur today,” she said. “By your own account, you were merely occupying the throne to keep Rookstone stable.”
Nami stepped forward. "I was in attendance yesterday. I heard that as well."
Malric’s expression hardened, smooth composure thinning at the edges. One councillor near the throne looked quickly aside. Another held himself too still. The petitioners and clerks only looked confused, caught in the middle of something they had not expected to witness. But the people nearest Malric knew what a second witness meant, and the room had begun to feel it.
Malric turned on her at once. “Then you misunderstood what you heard.”
“Did I?” Nami said with a sweetness in her tone that bode trouble. “Or are the Prince’s accusations true?”
Malric spread one hand as though the whole thing bored him. “An unfortunate illness and some nighttime confusion in a strange castle do not become attempted murder simply because frightened people repeat them.”
“No,” Nami said, stepping cleanly into the opening. “They become attempted murder when the victim wakes up choking after sharing special liquor with only one other man at the table.”
That turned even more heads.
Nami had moved out from the cluster of nobles now, skirts brushing the floor, her expression pleasant enough to pass at first glance. She came to a stop where the whole room could see her and tipped her chin up toward the dais.
“If His Majesty is innocent,” she said, “then he should have no objection to stepping down from the throne while the matter is examined.”
Malric stared at her. “And you are?”
“Nami.” She smiled without warmth. “A woman with no patience for rulers who steal, poison, and misuse public funds. Or rule by force and fear.”
The silence after her words ran longer this time. Zoro did not look away from Malric, but he felt the room changing around them.
One councillor near the throne cleared his throat. “Your Majesty,” he began carefully. “Perhaps it would calm matters if–”
Malric cut him off with a look sharp enough to peel skin.
That was where the divide started to show. One councillor near the throne had gone pale. Another held himself too carefully. Along the walls, several of the knights Zoro had shifted, hands settling nearer their swords. Just as many had not.
Malric saw what was happening and reached for force. His voice came down hard enough to crack across the chamber. “Seize them.”
The words rang in the large room for half a beat. No one moved. That pause told its own story.
Malric’s face went darker. “Seize them!” he snapped again, louder now. “The usurper, his armed confederates, and anyone aiding this treason. Do it!”
This time some of the knights moved. The ones Zoro had marked came off the walls first, steel hissing free. Two near the dais stepped down fast. Another started around the petitioners to cut off the doors. A fourth barked for the side guard, and at once more armored men spilled in through the smaller entries flanking the throne room, drawn by the raised voices and the order.
But farther back, the older knight by the pillar stayed where he was. So did three more. One drew halfway, then stopped with his hand still on the hilt and his eyes on Malric instead of Zoro.
Petitioners scrambled back. Clerks abandoned their table. A chair hit the floor somewhere near the rear. Courtiers in velvet and silk moved badly and all at once, trying to get clear without looking like they were fleeing. The room lost all decorum in seconds. Lines broke. People shoved. Somebody shouted for the doors. Somebody else shouted to bar them.
Zoro’s hand closed over Kitetsu. The first loyal knight came down the dais steps hard, sword up and face fixed. Young. Fast enough. Scared enough to be dangerous. Zoro drew and cut him before the man got his second foot planted. The strike hit the knight’s sword arm hard enough to tear the weapon free and send it clattering across the stone. The man shouted and dropped to one knee clutching his arm.
The second knight was taken care of before Zoro noticed Sanji had moved. He was beside Zoro one second and gone the next, a black-and-silver blur with polished shoes that had no business moving that fast. His kick hit the charging knight square in the ribs and knocked him sideways into one of the lower stair rails with a crack of wood and steel.
Two more came in from Zoro’s left. He turned into them. Steel met steel once, sharp and ugly in the echoing room. He knocked the first blade wide, drove his shoulder into the man’s chest, and sent him sprawling back into a councillor who screamed and went down in a tangle of robes. The second got closer than he should have. Zoro caught the slash on Kitetsu, twisted, and struck him across the helmet hard enough to ring the hall.
Then everything went loud.
More knights were pouring in now from the side doors and the rear passage, enough to turn the room from a confrontation into a proper melee. Some moved for Zoro. Some for Robin and Nami. Others tried to push through the crowd and secure Malric’s retreat up the dais. The knights who had held back were forced to choose in real time. A few drew at last, but not for Malric. One older knight near the far pillar stepped in front of a clerk with his sword out and barked at the loyalists to stand down. They ignored him. Another seized one of Malric’s men by the shoulder and hauled him off a fleeing petitioner before the blade could come down.
Usopp whooped somewhere near the rear doors. Franky’s voice followed it, bigger, and then the sudden metallic cough of one of his hidden cannons deploying. A heartbeat later, one whole cluster of advancing knights got knocked off their feet when the floor in front of them blew apart in splinters and stone chips. Brook came in from the side line of knights with his sword already out, light on his feet and cutting through the edges of the fight where men least expected him. Chopper, small and armored and absolutely not staying out of it, darted between two fleeing councillors with his helmet askew and determination in his little doctor face, then launched himself straight into the knee of a guard trying to get past him.
Luffy was not supposed to be here, but he shouted from the back of the room, “Can I punch the king now?”
Jinbe’s laugh rolled along with him. “I am pleased we did not miss the fight!”
Men who had been trying to close off the rear of the hall scattered as Luffy drove through the opening force-first and Jinbe followed like a tide behind him. One knight made the mistake of lunging at Luffy head-on and got planted in the floor hard enough to crack stone. Another tried Jinbe and immediately learned why that had been a worse idea.
Robin did not move much. One of Malric’s loyal knights lunged for her and stopped short with both arms pinned behind his back by limbs that had not been there a second earlier. Another shouted when hands bloomed over the shaft of his spear and twisted it neatly out of line. A third got three steps toward Nami before Robin’s power took his ankle out from under him and sent him face-first into the floor.
Nami had already moved clear of the worst of it, but not far. Clima-Tact in hand, she took up a spot with a clear view of the room and started directing traffic like the whole throne room was one more mess somebody had left for her to sort out. “Down! Move left! Get away from the dais unless you want to die for his stupid crown!” she snapped, then cracked the staff across the knuckles of one panicking inner-circle councillor when he lurched toward her. “Not you. Down.” Another tried to crowd past in the wrong direction and caught the end of the Clima-Tact in the ribs hard enough to fold him over with a yelp. Nami shoved him aside with visible disgust and kept shouting orders at the wavering knights and the nobles too rattled to think for themselves.
At the center of it all, Malric backed one step toward the throne. He had more guards around him now, four at the dais and two more climbing in from the side passage with shields up, trying to build a wall between him and the room.
Zoro leveled him with a look. “You should have stepped down.”
Malric drew himself up beside the throne, fury held under polish. “If you are loyal to your king,” he said, voice carrying through the hall, “you will stop them.”
Zoro and Sanji drove for the dais together. Zoro took the center and met the next guard head-on, steel flashing once, twice, hard enough to beat the man’s defense open and send him reeling backward into the base of the throne steps. Sanji moved at his flank, fast where Zoro was direct, kicking one knight off balance before he could close and slamming another sideways into the carved rail with a crack that got lost in the noise. More of Malric’s men tried to tighten around the throne, but the room behind them was already turning against any neat defense.
Franky and Jinbe had the rear half of the hall in chaos. Usopp was picking targets from the edge and making every loyalist who tried to regroup regret it. Brook cut through the side line of guards clean and quick, while Robin kept men dropping where they stood with extra hands and snapped joints. Chopper darted in and out low, making full-grown knights trip, stumble, and swear. Nami held the room together with her Clima-Tact and her voice, keeping the terrified nobles and petitioners moving away from the crush and punishing any member of Malric’s inner circle stupid enough to lunge her way. Luffy was somewhere to the left laughing like this was the best morning he’d had in weeks.
By the time Zoro hit the first step of the dais, the Straw Hats had the room locked down around them, and Malric had nowhere left to go except back.
Zoro cut down the last knight between them and took the remaining steps at a measured pace, blood streaking his sword and dripping dark onto the stone. The noise in the throne room had shifted by then. Less battle now. More aftermath. Groans from the men who had gone down hard. The scrape of somebody trying to crawl out of the way. Heavy breathing. Armor settling.
Zoro stopped in front of Malric and leveled the bloody tip of his sword at him. “Yield.”
Malric’s eyes cut once across the throne room. Over the men who had failed him. Over the knights who had chosen not to move for him. Over the petitioners and clerks and lesser nobles pressed against the edges of the room, all of them witness now. No one came. No one rushed to save him. He was a man who lived on the strength of others, or on poison poured into a cup by his own hand.
The pockets of people left in the room crowded tighter into the corners and along the walls, keeping clear of the wreckage at the center. Knights who had backed Malric stood disarmed or bleeding or were felled on the floor. Those who had chosen not to join him stayed very still, watching how this ended.
Malric’s face still held fury, but it was useless to him now. “You are not the boy prince who left Rookstone all those years ago,” he said.
“No,” Zoro said, and it was the truth encased in the lie.
Malric’s fists tightened at his sides. For a second Zoro thought he might try one last stupid move and force the sword through him after all. Instead Malric reached up with stiff hands and lifted the crown from his head. Gold caught the light once before he flung it down. It hit the stone steps with a sharp metallic crack, bounced, and spun to a stop near the edge of the dais.
“May your reign be filled with strife and pestilence – King Hanaka Ichigo.”
A murmur moved through the room at once, uneven and stunned. One of the councillors dropped to a knee. Another followed half a beat later. Somewhere near the wall, a knight lowered his weapon and bowed his head.
Then Luffy’s fist shot in from nowhere and hit Malric square in the face.
One second Malric was standing there in defeat, still trying to hold onto dignity. The next, Luffy’s punch folded him backward into the throne with a crack that echoed off the stone. Malric hit the carved seat, then slid bonelessly to the floor. Out cold.
“Luffy!” Nami snapped. “He had already yielded!”
“Shishishi!”
Sanji lit a cigarette and surveyed the fallen. Franky barked out a laugh loud enough to shake the room. Usopp pointed and shouted something about righteous finishing blows. Chopper threw his hands up and started yelling about head trauma even though Malric fully deserved it. Jinbe’s mouth had gone broad with approval that he was too polite to say out loud. Brook laughed a dry yo-ho-ho into the wreck of the throne room.
Zoro looked down at the unconscious usurper king, then at the crown lying crooked on the stone between them. “Should’ve done this to begin with,” he said.
“And miss out on the fun?” Sanji kicked a sword from a twitching hand.
Zoro shot him a flat look, to which Sanji only smirked. “Pick up your crown, King Marimo.”
Zoro flicked blood from his katana, swiped the edge against his trousers, then sheathed it. He picked up the gold crown from the ground, eyed it dispassionately for a moment, then plunked it on his head.
When he turned, the room held for half a beat. Then everyone except the Straw Hats dropped – knees hitting stone, skirts sweeping down, heads bowing deep. After that, with cheeky grins, the Straw Hats followed suit one by one. Zoro saw Franky do it with a flourish, Usopp with obvious delight, Sanji with just enough mock formality to be insulting. Only Luffy stayed on his feet at the back of the throne room, grinning wide enough for the whole hall. Then he cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Sanji! We need a feast!”
Sanji took a drag on his cigarette and exhaled smoke with a sigh. “Duty calls.”
Zoro looked over at him. “Do I have to stay here wearing this stupid thing?”
Sanji smirked. “Heavy is the head who wears the crown.”
By the time the throne room had been cleared of the worst of the wreckage, Malric and the men who were loyal to him were no longer a court problem but a matter for the island to sort out. The usurper king was stripped of crown, weapon, and title and sent out under guard with his inner circle and the knights who had chosen him over Rookstone. The injured were seen to first. Then came dismissal. Positions revoked. Authority stripped. Whatever reckoning followed would belong to Rookstone and its people. The knights who had held back or turned once the room split were left standing in the strange quiet that came after a regime broke.
Sanji disappeared into the kitchens. Zoro only caught a flash of black and gold heading for the corridor before the room closed in around him.
That left Zoro with the part he wanted less than the fight. People filled the throne room and spilled into the halls beyond it, all of them looking toward the dais for what came next.
Zoro sat the throne long enough to end it. He took the crown, the title, and the claim everyone had watched him win, then told them the monarchy stopped there. Rookstone had already seen what too much power in one pair of hands could do. It would not get another chance to prove it. In its place came the council Eldric and the others had planned: nine seats, chosen by the people, held for fixed terms. No inheritance. No family line. No throne.
He named Daisuke temporary head as agreed, just until the council was appointed. The man looked like he would rather be back with his sheep. Eldric, Kiyoshi, Alrick, and Saburo all but vibrated with relief beneath the strain still holding them upright. Zoro sat in the middle of it and did what he had to do, which mostly meant not bolting while everyone kept trying to tell him things.
The feast started at mid-day. The banquet hall filled with people until it nearly burst at the seams. The kitchens turned out roasted meat, bread, fish, greens, potatoes, fruit, and enough drink to make the castle forget who had been in charge that morning. At some point the wine gave way to ale and stronger bottles from Malric’s private stores.
The crew settled into it the way they always did. Franky got loud. Brook found music. Jinbe enjoyed a good laugh. Usopp started retelling the fight in a version that had already stopped resembling reality. Chopper finally looked less like Zoro might drop dead between courses, though he still watched him too closely. Nami looked pleased. Robin looked like she had expected events to unfold this way.
Zoro lasted as long as he could at the center of it. People kept coming with thanks, pledges, questions, and the kind of looks that wanted him to mean more than he did. He ate, drank, nodded when needed, and let the noise roll over him while the room got hotter, louder, and more crowded.
By the time the feast started to wear thin at the edges, he was done. He’d had enough of people. The hall had gone soft with smoke, laughter, spilled drink, and candlelight. The island had its future. The Straw Hats had their feast. Zoro wanted out.
He no longer wore the crown, thankfully, but he’d been stuck in the chainmail and fancy clothes all day. He snagged an unopened bottle of hard liquor and did his best to disappear unnoticed.
He wandered the castle halls for a while as they twisted and turned on him, half-nodding as servants and remaining knights bowed when he passed. Eventually, a doublet-dressed servant cleared his throat and asked if his former majesty needed anything. That got him an escort to the prince’s chambers, where he wanted to be.
The servant lit the lamps and drew a bath, and Zoro began stripping out of the uncomfortable clothes. Dressed solely in trousers, he took the time to clean Kitetsu properly. Once satisfied, he resheathed the katana and took the bottle of alcohol with him to the hot bath.
The paned window in the bath chamber let in fading twilight, the sun having set in the distance. Steam rose from the bath, the scent of woodsy soap floating in the room. Zoro leaned back in the tub, broke the seal on the alcohol, and drank a hefty amount. The smooth burn ran down his throat and warmed his stomach. If this one ended up being poisoned, he’d be pissed.
The plan was for them to stick around another day, make sure things went smoothly before departing. It would also look strange if Ichigo left abruptly. But without a throne, the excuse could be made that he preferred his life at sea.
Zoro looked forward to leaving. Court intrigue was a pain in the ass.
He soaked for a while in the tub, alternating drinking and dozing. When he pruned enough, he got out, dried off, and wrapped a towel around his waist.
Leaving the bath chamber, he found Sanji sitting on the couch, sans armor and dressed casually in local trousers and a loose, deep red shirt. He had a glass of wine in one hand, a cigarette between his lips. Smoke hazed above his head. His gaze paused long enough on Zoro’s bare chest for Zoro to note it before he looked away.
“How are you feeling?” Sanji asked, fingers pinching his nose for a moment. A fire had been built in the hearth, casting an orange glow over the couch where he sat.
“Fine,” Zoro said, going to their bags. “Could use more booze.”
Sanji snorted softly. “Only you would drink alcohol after nearly dying from it.”
“Wasn’t the alcohol’s fault.”
Sanji took a drag on his cigarette. Zoro pulled on a pair of briefs, then tossed the towel aside. The fire crackled in the hearth. Zoro dropped down beside him and snagged his bottle of wine. He took a swig, made a face at the taste, but a drink was a drink.
He rested the bottle on his bare stomach, feet stretched toward the fire, soles warming in the heat. He leaned his head back against the couch and watched the flames move. “Think I did a pretty good job as a prince.”
“Pft. More like a princess needing repeated rescuing.” Sanji plucked the bottle from his hands.
“Hey.” Zoro twisted toward him, reaching to get it back.
Sanji had already set down his wine glass and lifted the bottle over the arm of the couch, just out of reach. His eyes were lit with amusement and something sharper underneath.
Zoro stopped there, caught by the look.
The room felt warmer all at once. Firelight laid gold over Sanji’s face and caught in his hair. The open throat of his deep red shirt showed the hollow at his collarbone in shadow. Zoro’s breath picked up before he could do anything about it.
Sanji stubbed out his cigarette and set the bottle aside. Then he drew in a breath and let it out slowly. “Mind if I try–”
“No,” Zoro cut in.
Sanji blinked.
Zoro felt heat climb his neck and did not look away. “Or yes. Whatever means you’re going to kiss me.”
For one second Sanji went very still. His throat worked once. His eyes dropped to Zoro’s mouth and stayed there long enough to make Zoro’s pulse kick.
Then he moved closer, one hand bracing on the couch behind Zoro, the other coming up to settle warm against his jaw. The first brush of his mouth was light, almost questioning. Then Zoro leaned into it, and the question went out of it. Sanji kissed him properly after that, deepening it with a low sound in his throat, mouth warm and tasting faintly of wine and smoke. Zoro’s hand found Sanji’s shirt and caught there, bunching the fabric at his side as the fire popped in the hearth and the rest of the room dropped away.
Zoro found it hard to breathe, not because he did not know how to kiss, but because he had spent too long shoving this down. Wanting Sanji. Wanting this. Wanting nothing to do with the possible mess that came with either of those things. But Sanji was here now, kissing him, and Zoro wanted it, mess and all.
He shifted closer without thinking, turning enough on the couch to get at him better. Sanji’s thumb moved once along the edge of his jaw, rough and careful at the same time. He could feel Sanji leaning in harder now, the line of his body warm against Zoro’s side, the hand at his face steadying him as if this mattered enough to hold carefully.
Zoro let his mouth part under the kiss and felt Sanji take that invitation at once, becoming the kind of kiss that made his chest go tight. He chased it when Sanji drew back barely an inch, enough that Sanji made another low sound and came right back in. The fire cracked again. Zoro focused on the taste of smoke and wine and Sanji, and lost track of everything else.
When they finally broke apart, it was only far enough to breathe. Color sat high on Sanji’s cheeks. Zoro felt heat running through his own body, low and insistent. When he spoke, his voice came out rough. “You know, we’re not leaving right away, and the door has a lock.”
The corner of Sanji’s mouth curved slowly, as he drew Zoro back in. “For once, you’ve had a good idea.”
They stayed two more nights at the castle, which suited Zoro just fine. He made an appearance at meals, keeping up the ruse. After that he went back upstairs and dragged Sanji with him, or Sanji dragged him. Sanji took full advantage of the extra time and the lock on the door. Zoro let him. More than let him. By the end of the second night, the prince’s chamber had stopped feeling like borrowed space and started feeling like a place where Sanji’s hands, mouth, and voice could get him into trouble he had no interest in escaping.
Eventually Zoro started making the right noises about a prince who had returned only long enough to set his house in order and now meant to go back to sea. It fit the story, and was what Rookstone needed – a clean break, not a fake king haunting the castle halls any longer than necessary.
They returned to the borrowed ship, staged the departure properly, and let the town gather to watch. People lined the docks and the harbor road in enough numbers that the noise carried over the water: waving, cheering, calling blessings after a prince they would not see again. Zoro stood where he could be seen and endured it. Franky handled the sailing until the little craft had cleared the harbor and rounded far enough out of sight. Once the island could no longer watch them, he brought the borrowed ship around toward the stretch of coast where they had left the Mini Merry hidden. Nami, Robin, Jinbe, and Luffy were already back aboard the Sunny, anchored nearby and waiting.
The four men who had started all of it stood on the shore when they came in. Once they had shed the last of the borrowed knight gear, Eldric stepped forward and extended his thanks, formal and earnest in a way that made it clear he knew gratitude was not enough for what had happened. “Thank you for doing this for us. Rookstone owes you a debt of gratitude.”
“No debt,” Zoro said. “Just treat your people well.”
“Besides, Nami-sis said she’d already taken a nominal fee from the treasury,” Franky added.
After that they boarded the Mini Merry, crowding in for the short trip back to the Sunny. The ship turned into the wind under Jinbe’s expert hands and got them underway.
Zoro stood at the aft rail for a while, watching Rookstone shrink into distance. First the castle on the rise, then the roofs below it, then the green of the island itself softening against the sea haze. He smelled Sanji’s cigarette smoke before he heard the footsteps come around the deck. Sanji stepped up beside him and leaned his elbows on the rail. They stood quietly for a time while the wind moved through the rigging, the water fanned white behind them, and birds wheeled against the clear sky before turning back toward land.
Sanji flicked the spent cigarette over the rail. “Meet me in the storage room in an hour, princess.”
Heat licked up Zoro’s spine and he grinned as Sanji pushed off and headed toward the galley.
Zoro didn’t know what tomorrow would bring, or how living with a lover would change things, for the good or bad. But he never backed down from a challenge.
He pushed away from the rail as Rookstone faded from sight. He had enough time to drink the sealed liquor he’d taken from the castle before meeting Sanji.
End