Chapter Text
The steady hoofbeats echoed through the streets of the Kingdom, accompanied by chatter of its citizens. Children ran around from one side to another, their boots clicking with every step, stirring good-natured chaos among the people walking by.
Every now and then the well-known ‘clink, clink, clink’ of coins moving around the small market graced the ears of keen merchants, causing their lips to split into grins in hope to lure you in further. Marilyn avoided them, not wishing to buy anything that day—her collection of books was already ample enough. After all, it was common knowledge that once they managed to grab your attention, you wouldn’t walk away without spending at least a few chunks of precious gold or silver — perhaps a ‘fair’ trade if you weren’t in possession of one.
She swiftly stepped through the crowds, avoiding those in a hurry or standing in her way and looked around at the nearly impeccable place that Bahduria had become; sturdy limestone roads stretched throughout the city, their surfaces flawless, as if they had just been built. A neat row of buildings — houses as well as taverns and boutiques — lined the edges of the street, adding balance to the bustling market between them. If Marilyn deemed herself to look close enough, she could even spot the occasional planters of flowers and bushes near the marble walls.
The market was perched between the wealthier districts of Bahduria, a place that bore the marks of both affluence and practicality. Here, wealth was flaunted in the glimmer of gold and silver jewelry on the wrists of passing buyers, but reminders of struggle lingered—patches of uneven mortar, carts repaired with mismatched planks, and merchants shouting for attention to outdo their neighbours.
She sighed in content, allowing herself to enjoy the liveliness of her homeland for as long as possible. Her expression stayed blissful for a moment longer, until the faint sound of shouting and handmade drums grew louder, becoming harder to ignore with each passing second.
Marilyn scoffed. This is what she meant when she called Bahduria ‘almost perfect’. For nearly two autumns now, demonstrations have been erupting across the Kingdom, disrupting the peaceful daily lives of those who belonged here.
Perhaps ‘belong here’ is a bit of a stretch, Marilyn thought bitterly, looking for a secluded corner to observe the situation from. It was no easy task, seeing how the merchants filled nearly every nook and cranny with their stalls and products. I suppose some of them arrived here first—but that’s hardly relevant these days.
The people currently marching through the streets—now nearly empty, thanks to those who wisely moved things out of the way—were commonly known by Bahdurians as 'the people of the Dirat outskirts.' 'Dirat' meant nothing more than 'slums' in the Dahurian language, a simple description of the conditions in those parts of the city.
Naturally, this wasn’t what they called themselves, no. These people still claimed their independence, using names long forgotten by the world’s nations, names that had been in use long before the 'Alliance of Aņnâr' had been founded. Astay, Osmian, Tushmia… Hmph. Marilyn couldn’t recall the other names; the first two were only memorable because they were short and catchy. It wasn’t that she couldn’t have memorized them—she simply never saw the need. Von Karma’s mansion left little room for such things. Nations without borders or monarchies — to her, the idea was absurd.
How foolish. She huffed as she read one of the many signs, this one preaching "equality of rights" for everyone in the Kingdom. What more could they possibly want? Sir von Karma was right—they had all been blinded by greed. Marilyn repeated the words instilled in her by her guardian since the day he had kindly taken her in. With his guidance, she felt confident in the direction her life was heading; even on days when doubt crept in, moments like this served as reminders of the wise man who watched over her, firm in his beliefs, nurturing yet unyielding.
"These people have been stuck in time, Edgeworth," he told her, his chin lifted high, almost condescending. "Their only goal is to bring back the times of their glory, when they were wild and dangerous. All this—" The loud knock of his wooden cane against the floor used to startle her, earning her a dismissive gaze. The immense pride she felt when she finally stood tall despite the sudden sound, was a moment she'd never forget. Even now, as she recalled it, the memory felt as vivid as ever. If she focused hard enough, she swore she could still see the faintest sign of approval in his eyes. "Is nothing but a scheme—an attempt to take what is ours. We cannot allow something as profane as this to happen. Wouldn’t you agree, Marilyn?" Despite not being in Sir Von Karma's presence, she nodded sharply to herself.
With her guardian in mind, Marilyn's eyes wandered through the crowd of so-called “revolutionists,” searching for a face that might appear even slightly familiar. Another important lesson Marilyn had been expected to grasp from the very beginning was the importance of reputation among the aristocracy.
It had been thoroughly explained to her when she was still young, not yet acquainted with the proper way—one befitting a true noble, not a commoner pretending to be one—of regarding those around her and recognizing the benefits their “friendship” might provide. Those too simple-minded to grasp this sort of arrangement dared to call it “sad,” a sentiment she couldn’t share. Marilyn was perfectly content with her carefully chosen social circle and the cautiously maintained arm’s-length distance between herself and others. This made it easier, after all, to dismiss those who had chosen to betray their own blood.
Marilyn carefully scanned face after face, relieved to find no one she recognized. It would be a shame to deliver such unfortunate news—an unnecessary complication she was glad to avoid.
Yet, just as she allowed herself a moment of ease, her gaze caught on someone at the edge of the crowd. The face was familiar—not by name, but by sight.
She had never had the misfortune of coming face to face with her before—and thank the Lord for that, Marilyn thought, her gaze trailing after the woman with disdain. Even so, she could recognize her easily at any of the protests—only a fool wouldn’t.
Raven-black hair, pinned up in a loose chignon, as if styled in haste, held in complete disarray. As if that weren’t shameful enough, she wore pants. Pants! Marilyn could hardly believe it. She couldn’t understand these women, above all, their reasons for such untoward behaviour for a lady.
What made her appearance even more… unique, to say the least, was something her mentor—and many others—frequently pointed out. Her complexion was darker than most women Marilyn had grown up around, certainly darker than her own. Some, particularly those with a disdain for people from the Dirat outskirts, described it as dirty, dingy, or worse—stringing together all manner of unflattering adjectives. Others, the so-called “fighters” who stood by her side or sympathized with her cause, spoke of it differently, calling it olive, sun-kissed, or tanned.
Marilyn wasn’t sure where she stood.
Fighters… she scoffed internally. I’ve not seen a single real fighter among these women—not one—and yet they dare to call themselves such. Foolish.
That was not what caught her attention every single time. No, she wasn’t as superficial as some thought. That woman was always at the front of every rebellion, screaming the loudest, her cheeks flushed with the passion and fierceness of her words. Marilyn would feel a shiver of—intimidation? No, that couldn’t be it. She wasn’t scared of her! Perhaps a form of distaste? Yes, that sounded better. A cold shiver of distaste ran up her spine each time their eyes met, the heat of her foolish, ridiculous determination to fight evident in every glare sent her way. Marilyn couldn’t understand what that woman could possibly gain from this, aside from shame and the taste of defeat.
Marilyn did not linger on the street for long; giving any more thought to such disgraceful behavior would be tantamount to letting their words poison her mind.
Phoenix Wright, commonly known by her moniker "Priya Âvren"—an upcoming change, it meant—encountered countless faces every day. It was only natural that she couldn’t memorize all of them. She hated to admit it, but most of the people passing by in town looked the same to her: similar hair, similar clothes, similar interests. They all seemed to move and talk as if they were one person. At least, that’s how it appeared compared to the Dirat outskirts. How could they give such an awful name to my home? Phoenix thought, pulling her hood further over her head. Who do they think they are, looking at us as if we’re… She stopped herself. There was no point in letting that thought distract her from why she was here.
It was the day of another protest. Once again under her leadership. The weight of preparations and the safety of all the protesters rested heavily on her shoulders, but the possibility of change made it worth the sleepless nights. It felt powerful, to have everyone follow her voice and find their own because of it.
Once again, standing on the makeshift stage, screaming her heart out until her throat felt raw, Phoenix watched the roaring crowd — women, children, and even some men lining the streets. It was a sea of color, a tangible wave of newfound hope for change. No matter their age, each person radiated with the ferocity of a better tomorrow, feeding into the cycle of resistance that had sustained them for nearly two years.
With the corner of her eye, she caught a splotch of burgundy, the rich colour impossible to miss against the sun-bleached roads. Phoenix smiled to herself — perhaps there was somebody she could recognise after all.
Marilyn Edgeworth-Von Karma, the eldest daughter of one of the Kingdom’s most influential figures, rarely missed any of the protests in the city — at least, not the ones Phoenix was leading. As tempting as the thought was, it was safer not to entertain it further. She still remembered their first encounter — the disdain that slowly morphed into disgust on Marilyn’s face as her eyes followed Phoenix’s every move, carefully observing. Despite not even knowing her, Marilyn’s gaze was filled with the kind of contempt reserved for a stray mutt caught rummaging near a tavern, the same way an owner might regard an unwanted nuisance.
She huffed a laugh, feeling the weight of the woman’s gaze on her. Not even the guards watched her with such intensity — especially not the officers scattered around the market since the march had begun.
It didn’t take long for their eyes to meet — steel clashing with amber and sapphire, a confrontation as familiar as any. Each time their gazes locked, it was like a battle had begun anew, an unspoken challenge that had become as much a tradition as their rivalry. There was no hesitation in Phoenix’s stare, no retreat in her spirit. She had never been one to shy away from such a test, and today was no different. With a subtle shift of her lips, she sent Marilyn a smile, one that was as much a challenge as a greeting, daring her to meet it head-on.
"Rid your blood of their deceit!" she shouted, pouring all the ferocity of her words toward Lady Edgeworth-Von Karma, hoping her voice would echo in her ears long after, as she stood face to face with her mentor.
As expected, Marilyn recoiled as if she'd been slapped, her face twisting into a grimace that would likely earn her a scornful glance and a reprimand. Satisfied by the way her pale cheeks flushed with anger, and how her elegant fingers gripped the fan, Phoenix whistled at the crowd around her. The cheer she received delighted her, especially when she noticed the burgundy flock flutter as Marilyn quickly turned her back to them.
Phoenix's eyes drifted upwards, following the straight-as-a-bow posture to the carefully groomed hair. Just as she was about to step out of the plaza, Marilyn glanced over her shoulder, likely checking if she was still being watched.
Phoenix bowed mockingly, eager to have the last word in this silent duel. But fate was cruel, and she was denied the satisfaction of seeing Lady Edgeworth-Von Karma's reaction—her face obscured by a passing stall.
Perhaps one day you'll find your own voice, she sighed, her grip tightening on the wooden sign until a blister threatened to break her skin. Instead of blindly preaching what they taught you.