Another official stepped forward, choosing his words with utmost care.

"The emperor received word of the interference only recently. He had hoped to speak on the matter once all the details were understood. His Majesty never intended disrespect. He is deeply concerned that his people's defensive measures have inadvertently hindered you."

The Harpy did not blink.

"And why," she asked slowly, "should we believe this was not deliberate? That your emperor does not have plans for us? Or intend to confine us?"

The courtyard fell silent again.

"Because," he said quietly, "His Majesty sent us to you unguarded. Because he speaks through us with complete transparency. And because if the empire wished to treat you as threats… no barrier crafted by human hands would be enough to stop you. His Majesty knows this. We all know this."

A long pause.

The Harpy's feathers ruffled in a contemplative manner.

"Then tell your emperor," she said at last, "that we will not tolerate being cut off again, intentionally or otherwise."

Her wings flared slightly, stirring the air in a sudden gust.

"And if your empire's "wards" react to us again… we will remove them ourselves."

The officials bowed deeply.

"We will relay your words to His Majesty," they promised.

An Apeling stepped forward then, breaking the tense stillness with a light, almost musical laugh. His presence was immediately distinct from the others, less imposing, more fluid, yet carrying an undertone of wildness. His features bore the unmistakable signs of the Cursed Lands: the mottled blue fur along his arms that shifted in hue, the faint purplish glow in his eyes, the ripple-like patterns that shimmered across his skin with every breath.

A member of the Ripple Clan.

He grinned broadly, sharp canines flashing as he spread his arms in a gesture that was part greeting, part performance.

"Let us ease the air a little," he said, his tail flicking with playful energy. "The emperor says we should not interfere with the empire's social norms, and that we are… how did he phrase it? Affecting the lifestyle of the people? Some positively, some negatively?" He chuckled.

The officials stiffened, unsure whether agreeing or apologizing would be safer.

"Our intention," the Apeling continued, pacing lightly before them, "was never to complicate the lives of your common folk. We merely wished to experience a cultural exchange. To learn. To mingle."

He paused abruptly, his expression tightening as though he had bitten into a thought too sharp to swallow. The struggle was clear on his face, an emotion unfamiliar to most godlings: restraint.

"But," he said slowly, deliberately, "seeing as our curiosity is… causing problems…"

He stopped again, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment and inhaling deeply, the glow across his skin rippling unevenly. The effort it took him to hold back was almost comical. A few godlings rolled their eyes, unimpressed by his theatrics.

Finally, he exhaled and straightened.

"We will cease our… exploratory interactions," he declared, though it sounded like each word physically pained him. "But in return, we would like the empire to indulge a few of our questions. To quench our curiosity about how your people live."

The officials exchanged wary glances. This seemed harmless on the surface, but these group godlings rarely asked questions without hidden weight. After a silent debate conducted through looks alone, the eldest official nodded.

"If the questions are within our authority to answer, we will do so."

The Apeling brightened immediately, as though he had been waiting for that exact line.

"Wonderful!" he chirped, turning dramatically to the other godlings. "See? Cooperation! Not so difficult!"

The Harpy only smacked her lips in annoyance. Another godling sighed. A third rubbed their temples.

Unperturbed, the Apeling faced the officials again.

"First question," he said, his tone suddenly more serious. "Why does the empire keep the supernatural world away from its common folk?"

Before anyone could respond, he pressed further:

"Your land is rich in ambient mana, far more than the average citizen realizes. The potential is everywhere. Yet your people live as if blindfolded. Why shield them from what permeates every grain of soil, every gust of wind, every drop of water?"

He leaned in slightly, eyes narrowing with genuine curiosity.

"Why deny them access to a world that already touches them? Why keep them away from surfaces begging to be scratched?"

The officials froze.

This question, this exact question was one the emperor himself dreaded having to answer. It touched the core philosophy of the empire, a policy rooted in history, plot, sacrifice, and a truth hidden from the vast majority of the population.

The eldest official swallowed carefully.

"Honored one," he began, choosing every word as though crossing a thin blade over ice, "the empire's policies regarding magic and the supernatural… are not meant to deny opportunity. They are meant to prevent calamity."

His hands folded in front of him, knuckles slightly white.

"There is a long history, one buried in wounds and loss that taught the empire the necessity of boundaries. Mana, when freely touched by untrained hands, can reshape lives… and ruin them. Our laws were created to protect the populace from dangers they cannot comprehend."

He hesitated.

"And to prevent the past from repeating."

The Apeling cocked his head. "What past?"

The officials shifted uneasily. One of them mouthed silently, We cannot speak of that, but none dared vocalize it.

The eldest official bowed his head.

"That history is… restricted knowledge. Even many among the nobility are not permitted to know it. Only His Majesty holds the full truth."

The Apeling stared at him.

Then he broke into a broad, toothy grin.

"Oh? A secret so deep even you do not know it? Now that"he wiggled his fingers excitedly "that makes me very curious."

The officials felt their stomachs drop.

Before they could recover, the Apeling's grin sharpened.

"Let me guess about this hidden history." He tapped his chin, pacing lazily in a circle while the ripple patterns on his skin danced like disturbed water. "There must have been a time when such knowledge was not hidden. When mana and the supernatural flowed freely among your people."

He looked up with bright, knowing eyes.

"A time before the empire became what it is."

The officials stiffened, dread pooling in their lungs.

The Apeling continued, amusement dripping from every word:

"I'm imagining a great conflict, one that reshaped your land. A battle in which the empire emerged victorious. And afterward, after so many years, you inherited the culture, the order, the… restraint you have today."

He leaned in, expression almost affectionate.

"And afterward you thought: 'It is hard to rule when everyone is superpowered, isn't it?'"

He smirked, the final jab delivered with a playful flick of his tail.

The officials froze.

Not because he was wrong.

But because he was terrifyingly close to the truth.

The Harpy godling snorted with a mix of irritation and interest. A few of the others murmured, clearly intrigued by the Apeling's deduction.

The eldest official swallowed, throat tight.

"Honored one… we cannot confirm or deny your speculation. The matter is"

"Restricted, yes, yes," the Apeling cut in with a wave of his hand. "You've said that already. But your silence is as telling as any answer."

He narrowed his eyes with mischief, not malice, not yet, but close enough to make the officials sweat.

"You humans always think hiding stories will make them disappear."

His grin returned, wider than before.

"But secrets have weight. And eventually…" he tapped his temple lightly "…someone curious enough will dig them up."

The officials bowed so deeply their robes touched the ground.

"We beg that you refrain from pursuing these matters without His Majesty's guidance. The consequences could be"

"Dangerous?" the Apeling supplied cheerfully. "Unstable? Catastrophic?" He shrugged, entirely unfazed "How exciting."

The officials felt color drain from their faces.

He was enjoying this.

The Harpy stepped forward again, feathers bristling. "Ripple-clan," she said sharply, "stop toying with them. Your speculation is stirring unnecessary tension."

"What?" the Apeling tilted his head innocently. "I'm only trying to understand why this empire keeps its people in a pretty little cage."

"A cage that functions," the Harpy countered coldly.

"That depends on who you ask," the Apeling replied, smile fading into something more thoughtful, more troubling.

Then his eyes flicked back to the officials.

"In the eastern continent where we reside," he began, "there are two human kingdoms nearing the threshold of empirehood. Both allow free knowledge of mana and the supernatural. It is woven into daily life, common, normalized, unhidden."

He tapped his temple lightly.

"And despite that freedom, despite all that power readily at their fingertips, many among their people choose to live simple, ordinary human lives. They achieve on their own what your empire tries so desperately to enforce."

A quiet murmur rippled through the godlings. The officials stiffened.

The Apeling's tone shifted again, growing sharper.

"One of those kingdoms is militaristic. Every citizen, upon coming of age, undergoes mandatory training. Discipline, structure, clarity of purpose." He paused, watching the officials expression closely.

"And if I recall correctly… your empire has sent envoys to that kingdom, before we departed to your land, they were still there."

His smile widened.

"Who knows what they learned upon their return?"