The Marleyan base is thick with silence, lamps flickering weakly over its grim occupants.

Historia sits curled on the couch, hood drawn low, arms wrapped around herself. She hasn’t spoken since Ymir died. No one has seen her face in years—except Reiner and Bertolt.

Pieck sits beside her, quiet but watchful.

Porco scowls from the window. “Why are we keeping her? Ymir’s gone. Without her, this girl’s nothing. A queen without a kingdom.”

Reiner crosses his arms. “She’s royal blood. That still means something.”

Porco scoffs. “So’s Zeke. What do we need two for?”

Zeke smirks from the corner. “Backup plans. Only royal blood can unlock the Founding Titan.” His gaze lingers on Historia’s hooded form.

Pieck’s eyes narrow. “She’s not an object.”

Porco sneers. “Neither was Marcel, but that didn’t stop Ymir from stealing his Titan.”

Silence. To them, Ymir had been just a thief, yet her death had shattered Historia.

Zeke shrugs. “If the Founding Titan ends up with our enemies, guess who they’ll need to use it?”

Colt, cleaning his rifle, mutters, “She could go back to Paradis. She’s their queen.”

Reiner shakes his head. “After we dragged her here? You think Eren will?”

Pieck sighs. “It wouldn’t be easy… but possible.”

Porco scoffs. “Possible? Or dumb? She’s here. They won’t want her. Better to use her while we can.”

Zeke smirks. “Exactly. Whether she wants to or not.”

Bertolt, shuffling cards, murmurs, “Maybe we should ask what she wants.”

Porco glares. “She hasn’t spoken since Ymir died. You think she knows?”

Pieck watches Historia, then reaches out, fingers brushing the edge of her hood. No one stops her. Slowly, she lifts it.

A sharp breath catches in her throat.

Golden hair frames a face untouched by war, too perfect, too unreal. Blue eyes, glassy yet striking, stare back—like a doll carved by the gods and abandoned to fate.

Pieck stares, then gently lowers the hood.

“Cute,” she murmurs.