By breakfast, Aki had discovered seventeen responsible uses for a second tail.
Four of them were actually responsible.
Three involved balancing plates.
One involved opening a door without getting up.
The remaining nine were currently banned from the Guardian Pavilion.
“This one,” Aki announced, “is unquestionably public service.”
They sat cross-legged at the end of a long records table while six turquoise versions of them worked around the room.
One sorted petitions.
One sharpened brushes.
One carried folded laundry.
One held a scroll open while a fifth copied addresses onto envelopes.
The sixth stood beside the window wearing a heroic cloak that did not exist.
“Guardian Aki surveys the peaceful capital,” it narrated.
The real Aki pointed at it.
“You are contributing morale.”
“I am contributing morale,” the copy agreed.
Tsukine entered.
She stopped in the doorway.
The illusion carrying laundry walked directly through her.
Tsukine looked down as three folded towels continued through her body and vanished into a wall.
Aki cleared their throat.
“That delivery route needs refinement.”
Tsukine surveyed the room.
The copies continued working.
None flickered.
None vanished when Aki turned away.
Yesterday, keeping even three projected Akis in existence had required nearly all of Aki’s concentration.
Today, six of them were busy making independent mistakes.
Tsukine picked up an envelope.
It had been addressed upside down.
She picked up another.
Also upside down.
A third was upside down and addressed to the Guardian Pavilion itself.
“You appear to have multiplied your judgment,” she said.
“Thank you.”
“That was not praise.”
Aki looked toward the address-writing copy.
“Why are you doing that?”
The copy looked offended.
“You showed me how.”
Aki checked the stack.
Every envelope was wrong in exactly the same way.
“Oh.”
Tsukine folded her hands.
“A stable mistake is still a mistake.”
Aki dismissed the copies.
Five vanished in little turquoise flashes.
The heroic one remained at the window.
“Guardian Aki accepts constructive—”
Aki snapped their fingers.
It disappeared.
Tsukine placed the upside-down envelopes in front of them.
“Again.”
Aki sagged dramatically over the table.
“My first morning as a two-tail, and already oppression.”
“Your first morning as a two-tail began with you attempting to butter toast using an illusion.”
“It looked extremely buttered.”
“The distinction matters.”
Aki began rewriting addresses.
Their new tail twitched behind them.
The other followed.
They had spent half the night waking whenever one moved.
Their body knew both tails belonged there.
The rest of Aki remained unconvinced.
They finished the first envelope.
Perfect.
The second.
Perfect.
On the third, the door opened.
Regent Seiran entered.
Aki sat up so quickly both tails knocked together.
Seiran appeared exactly as he had at the ceremony: dark robes immaculate, expression composed, no visible evidence that he had ever crawled beneath a parade float or ruined an envelope in his life.